good poetry

good poetry makes my skin prickle--sometimes a slow build like falling in love, sometimes all of a sudden, like an orgasm.

good poetry makes my skin prickle--like an icy, loving hand caressing an inch from my skin.

good poetry makes my skin prickle--"not with a bang but a whimper," "like I've got diamonds at the meeting of my thighs," "my soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning."

good poetry makes my skin prickle--like the Holy Spirit is about, making trouble and laughing.

good poetry makes my skin prickle--like all the creation's truth is in those few words.

take forgiveness any way you can get it

Forgiveness
by Terence Winch

Father Cahir kept us holy.
He smoked cigars in the confessional.
He had a distracted air about him,
as though he wasn't sure what
he was supposed to do next.

I don't remember what he taught.
History, probably. It was his
liberal attitude as a confessor
that made him a legend.

No matter what you confessed to,
he always barked out the same penance:
"Three Hail Marys and a Good Act
of Contrition. Next!" So we tested
this leniency, confessing
to rape, murder, burglary.

Cahir paid no attention.
He knew we were a bunch
of high school punks.
Puffing his cigar,
he'd issue his standard
penance and absolve all sins,
real or imagined,
with godlike aloofness,
his vast indifference to
or total acceptance of the darkness
within the human soul
exactly how I hope the deity
regards us. Take forgiveness
any way you can get it.