Poem of William Hermanns

                         Vibrations

I feel your hands.
They vibrate all the filth you ever thought,
and now you are old.
You carry all this load you ever wrought,
a wrinkled blight
into a dawnless night.

I feel your fate.
How long your heartbeat pulsed invited ghosts
to feed each body cell
with greed and lust, and soon they'll be your hosts,
What a crimson elation,
they carry your vibration.

Your grey-haired longings
still dance through sleepless nights and sometimes try
to rub from ego hands the wrinkled stains
and pray, "Repentance be my alibi.
O God, do not erase my name,
my flesh feels guilt and shame."

Poor soul that thinks, "I will have fun till grey.
Christ died for me, I'm saved. To him I'll pray."

What can God do? Change laws so you'll be free?
No energy is lost: Your thoughts will draw
a cosmic Circle, gathering their likeness,
come back with seven more ghosts. That is the law.

Would Jesus say to you, "Be clean," or say,
"You call me Lord, so I will use the measures
you used for others to mete out to you.
Laugh now, soon tears will flood your earthly treasures."

You made your alms the barter for your guilt,
but "love your brother for he is like you,"
that was not in the cards of life you played.
Your next life must digest all you did chew

this life. Speak. What happened to your conscience?
What sort of secret guests did you attract?
"Choose you today whom you will serve."
With the spiritual underworld you made a pact.

What is your fate? Your prayers don't grow feet
to stamp out fires of lust. Your prayers don't grow
a pair of wings to carry you to heaven
because you did good works below.

You can't use prayers as a lightning-rod
conducting guilt, amassed by your free will.
into oblivion. Poorer you've made the poor.
No love is gathered from the ego-mill,

but money is. When you were sick and low,
paid you a visit to your inner cell
where your soul lingers, longing for your light?
Man's ego current flows one way to hell.

No greater blasphemy than bribing God
with gifts while these same patrons change our land
with to a plutonic apocalypse.
What mockery is such a praying hand!

Poor Church which blesses with the cross them, too,
she'll find herself in silent partnership
with power patrons, who beat up the Word:
"Thou shalt not kill" with their big money whip.

They, too, get old. They, too, lift wrinkled hands
to pray and calm the fear-seething emotions
poked hot by guilt. Does God accept those prayers?
The devil does and brews quick soothing lotions.

No fate so cruel than spiritual bankruptcy.
Salvation has no fists nor is it sexed.
Vibrations you unfolded on this plane
will join their likeness on the next.

                                    William Hermanns      [P316]