Floating in Space by Leo Hartshorn (1998)

floating in space
I look back at the blue orb of earth
hanging in space like a marble
out of body
in a space suit of my imagination
soaring in the still blue moment
the earth but a mustard seed
practically unnoticed
a speck on the glasses of God
an inner voice
hums an ancient verse
I learned as a child
in bare feet
and naked innocence
it is a word
that creates worlds
births love
I hear
for God so loved the world…
tiny speck that it is

The death of a forgotten man: a poem from the early 70's

Flowing forms and figures pass uninterruptedly
through the mind of the old bearded man
His body has experience, his mind has too
He reaches for companionship
but only too often the tide does not reach the land
He is a man of the past and not of the new

Crashing to his chest comes a pain he cannot hold back
Time has taken from him what many years cannot replace
For this old man’s destiny is upon him
His cards have been stacked
The judgment day is upon his mind
and torment upon his face

On the day of the sunset the flowers flourished beneath his feet
The song of the white dove has fallen on his ear
before the tide reached the land
The darkness that now engulfs him is not that of defeat
It is just a resting of his weary soul that
was for so long in demand

Baptism: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

white cranes cut the silent sky
a crowd of robes huddle on the shore
the water laughs as it hits the rocks
thin reeds dance in the Jordan breeze

into the lapping waters steps a Galilean
wearing the smile of God
awaiting to be plunged beneath
the sin-soaked surface

I thought I saw a dove alighting
maybe it was just a passing crane
I thought I heard a voice from a cracked heaven
maybe it was just the giggling, gurgling waters
I thought I saw the child of God
maybe it was just my reflection
on the mirror of the baptismal waters

Sometimes Life Throws You a Curve Ball: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

Sometimes life throws you a curve ball
A fast one just hit me in the head
I’m still staggering from the blow
Disoriented, befuddled, reeling

This is not the first time I’ve been hit
Early on in my career I was playing the game
In my home stadium when a curve ball smacked me
And I was out of commission for three years

At one point I got tired of my old team, the SoBs
And decided to get a fresh start with a team called the Peacemakers
It didn’t take long for a curve ball to hit me right in the crotch
I still bend slightly when I walk

In ’96 I made a big move across the country
And played for a local team that fit like a stiff glove
I ended up leaving the team, which later disbanded
For the last seven years I have been coaching

Sometimes I wonder why the Umpire
Lets all these curve balls hit players and coaches
I’ve argued with him about the problem for decades
And have wondered sometimes if he’s really in charge of the game

As a coach you still have to watch out for curve balls
I’m getting older and they get harder to endure
This latest curve ball hit me hard between the eyes
I feel like it’s time to retire from baseball

Puzzle Peace: a poem for Good Friday by Leo Hartshorn

missing words
numbered bones
none broken
nothing spoken
except for
cross words
empty spaces
tortured faces
numbered
three down
one a cross

puzzled look
on one man
god forsaken
words mistaken
message penned
in red
f-o-r-g-i-v-e-n-e-s-s
spelled out
between
two across
one down

John Ball and the revolting peasants (1381 C.E.)- a poem by Leo Hartshorn

John Ball
the man had balls!
and I don't mean children
hedge priest
preacher to the peasants
a revolting lot
a lot revolting
his sharp tongue
cut away the pre-tenses
of the intense clerics
slicing the heart
of a divided body
politic of rich and poor


It is from our labour
that they get the means
to maintain their estates
said Ball
as he rolled over
the elite like a boulder
tumbling words
crushing walls
that class-ify people

When Adam delft
and Eve span
who was then the gentleman?
questioning the nobility
his communication
caused his ex-communication
forbidden to preach
he didn't give a rip
as he ripped apart
the heart of inequity

while peasants revolted
with fists and fighting
Ball wrecked kingdoms
with his revolting words
drawn and quartered
then beheaded
the mad priest of Kent
to his reward went...
the Master's Ball

Empty as a Blank Wall: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

empty

as a blank wall
as stone silence
screaming of nothingness

alone

a sea of strange faces
sideways glances
unfamiliar patterns

depressed

throwing fists at the sky
staring at blank walls
feeding on sadness for dinner

hopeless

dreams slip through cracks
around the corner another corner
frozen possibilities for winter

lost

floating in a dark universe
cut loose from moorings
without an oar or compass

empty

as a blank wall

Saturday: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

silence
cold gray stone
tomb of death
womb without breath sustaining
draining a mother's tears
a traitor fears
eleven hide
the world outside
oblivious
to the song
now muted
and still

god is dead
or so they said
it rings truth
stings the soul
a cry echoes
from a piece of splintered wood
it does no good
life pouring out
upon parched earth
the devil laughs at rebirth
hell's jaws open wide
god outside
suspended
ended

dark within
solitary
crimson-stained
angels flown
hope unknown
to women praying
by candlelight
for one sealed in stone
alone
silence drones
saturday

Slow the Passing Trees: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

In a boat down a fast-moving creek,
it feels like trees on the bank
are rushing by. What seems to be
changing around us is rather
the speed of our craft
leaving this world---Sufi mystic Jalaluddin Rumi

O Life, slow down the speed of
passing trees and months and years.

In the wake of the boat I see
a child running with abandon in the lemon orchards,
a youth playing wildly on the drums,
a young adult studiously reading books,
a man seriously preaching in a small church,
a middle aged adult sadly packing to move,
an older man wistfully watching his grandson play.

O Life, slow the passing trees,
the speed of the boat
that is leaving this world.

My Soul at Sunset: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

dull as a worn pencil
my spirit this morning

tired as a miner at day's end
my body this noonday

blank as a sheet of paper
my mind this afternoon

dim as a burned out wick
my soul this evening

the yellow orb treks across
the dome of sky
marking my moods

I end the day in shadows
like the landscape at sunset

Driving by a Burned Out House

this morning I drove by the house
where a fire was set
the windows were shut
like blind eyes with running mascara
from a flood of tears
on the doorstep was a pile
of stuffed animals
toys for the children
engulfed in the flames of anger
offered by neighbors saddened
by the soot and sorrow and silence

a boyfriend, with "friend" being questionable,
released from prison for crimes of violence
came back to stalk and spew forth anger
from a strangled childhood
he lit a fire for a mother
and her sleeping children
a fire that would not burn away
the wood around his heart
the scales on his vision
but rather consumed
the sleeping occupants
of the house
leaving only
soot and ashes
and blind eyes

One guy outside the ark: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

The waters wear away the stones; the torrents wash away the soil of the earth; so you destroy the hopes of mortals.---Job 14:19


a sour stream runs through my life
it rushes through the canyons of my days
wearing my body thin, tearing up my roots
who can fight against the torrents of God,
against the headwaters of Yahweh's foul flood?

I am not Noah, nor one of his relatives
I am just a poor guy who missed getting into the ark
before the door slammed shut with a loud bang
the blood drained from my face
as the slow drip of water fell from the sky

The water is beginning to rise
and the boat begins to creak
I feel the wetness on my feet
I cry out and bang my fists bloody on the ark door
the water rises to my ankles, then my legs

my voice is going hoarse from the screaming
my knees are now covered in the mud and debris
It's up to my waist, my chest, now my neck
the churning waters try to pull me under

I stand on my tip toes and look up into the gray sky
shouting to the Noah-god as the water reaches my mouth
I gurgle to the heavens, "please open the door for me...
there is still room in the ark for one more...
open the door before I............

God is in the midst of the city: Psalm 46:5

where buildings kiss the cobalt sky
and cars squeeze through concrete canyons
and the homeless sleep on park benches
and grey suits scramble for appointments
God is present

where a few blocks separate rich from poor
and handguns don't separate men from boys
and murals splash the building walls with color
and freeways feed downtown like veins to the heart
God is present

where youth struggle to make it out of the projects
and flowers grow up through the cracks in the sidewalk
and cathedrals echo with their empty pews
and a mother prays as she sends her child off to school
God is present....still

A Day is Coming: a poem and illustration by Leo Hartshorn

a day is coming

when wars will cease
nations will rejoice
hope will spring forth

a day is coming

when death will be no more
pain will be healed
tears will be dried

a day is coming

when love will reign supreme
joy will overflow
peace will fill the earth

a day is coming

when the old will feel young
the young will be wise
and the wise will be heard

a day is coming

when guns will become shovels
tanks become merry-go-rounds
and the soldier and peacemaker will ride together

a day is coming…

Insubstantial: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

Light streams
through my lazy window
shafts of white
residue of incense smoke
mixed with sunshine
As real as
the wooden legs
that hold up my desk
or the jacket draped over
my morning shoulders

But I cannot put weight
upon smoke or light
or wear them to town
as insubstantial clothing

These luminous intruders
into my atmosphere
are just there to
spotlight
the glittering specks of dust
floating in the frail air

I can only hold these
luminous objects
in the palm of
my insubstantial mind
and give them the momentary
flesh
of ink on paper
before they pass away
like my desk
my coat
my mind
my self

Creation through Aspiration: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

solitary clay corpse lies on its face
damp mud flung on an orb in space
solitude's request
from potter's fingers at rest
without quivering tongue
from gasping lung

O Holy Aspirator, take deep breath
exhale life on this creature of earth
fill this vessel with wind
come, ascend
the windy peaks of Hebron's height
bring back a blast of might

valley of clay bones on desert floor
stark white fingers poke through the dusty drawer
O Son of Humanity, what do you see?
death and misery
what silent voices echo in desert lair
from bone and hair?

'tis the laughter of motherland ground to dust
prophesy to the wind if you must
Adam's fallen children wait to dance
if perchance
that be a gust of wind over there
that caused the quiver of a hair

An Eye for an Eye: a poem and illustration by Leo Hartshorn

an eye for and eye
a tooth for a tooth
violence leads to violence
it's the God's honest truth

your the apple of mine
said the stepfather to the child
and the secret kept for years
has made the young man wild

The neighbors didn't bat one
and I don't mean a ball
when the man beat his wife
and the police were never called

for your two only
said the general to his assistant
showing pictures of the torture
of one who was resistant

pull the wool over ours
is what our leaders did
when they couldn't find the WMDs
and claimed that they were hid

a speck in someone else's
but you may not see
that you have one inside your own
that's bigger than a tree

the window of the soul
so people say
unless the shades are drawn
and the landlord's gone away

The Breeze of the Spirit: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

come, holy wind
blow air on desert still dry bone
rattle skeleton song
dance toward home
windchimes sing
hear it?
the breeze of the spirit

lonely church
with praying hands
sits silent within
waiting room
waiting womb
stainglass tomb
sleepy arms stretch
toward the fifth wind
o, daughters and sons
of the elusive wind's firstborn
come, be born again

hear the sight
unfurl spirit sail
spread eagle wing and tail
prepare for flight
listen, hear it?
the breeze of the spirit

A Speck on the Glasses of God: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

floating in space
I look back at the blue orb of earth
hanging in space like a marble
out of body
in a space suit of my imagination
soaring in the still blue moment
the earth but a mustard seed
practically unnoticed
a speck on the glasses of God

an inner voice
hums an ancient verse
I learned as a child
in bare feet
and naked innocence
it is a word
that creates sacred space
births eco-passion
I hear
for God so loved the world…
tiny speck that it is

Winter Meditation: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

snow lies on the ground
like a soft cotton blanket
you hate to walk through it
and disturb its pristine beauty
with offending foot prints

I sit listening
to a guitar winterlude
notes float like snowflakes
upon my ears
the silence outside
could crack the ice

the cold cotton blanket
causes me to dream
of a frozen past
wrapped in winter’s stillness
of a Dickens Christmas
and carriages and candles
of old Victorian houses
and wassail waiting
of chilled travelers
coming to the house
to warm themselves
while I dream
beneath the blanket
of silence