‘Black Holes’ and Other Poetry by Beth Houston

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Black Holes

Some say the universe is full of holes
That suck in all that is. At warp-speed, gone.
One wonders where was space-time goes. Like souls,
perhaps, through portals to some wide-eyed dawn.
Or through a trap door dumped below death’s hell
No speck escapes, no world, no life, no droid
Or god or mystic mage that casts this spell
That populates the mechanistic void.
Some hope light’s washed-out ash at least sifts back
As junk recycled, slough repurposed, light
Reborn as infant stars pushed through a crack.
Here, even zero names a something, right?
If part of us escapes black’s undertow
We’ll never know. Or will we, do we, though?

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The Temple

The priest shoves past the blasted temple door
Behind which cinders camouflage the dead
Who last night bought his peace, his wine-soaked bread,
But now sought refuge from a raging war.
Which oligarch of church and state keeps score
With holy battle’s chalked up corpses fed
Jihad, Crusade, or Pogrom? Whose wars spread
Through fire, through blood-blessed sacrifice? All pour
Through mothers’ hands blind faith consumed with hate
That consecrates the kill. Each lie collides
With its competing sacred lie to sate
Deep greed that thrives on strapped-on suicides
Exploding altars to its foe’s estate,
Ensuring God’s eternal will abides.

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Beth Houston has taught writing at ten universities and colleges in California and Florida. She has published a couple hundred poems in dozens of literary journals. She edits the Extreme formal poetry anthologies. www.bethhouston.com