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About the Author
Alister Flik grew up in a fundamentalist Christian home in the Midwest with a healthy variety of crazy available to her, and her middle child syndrome hardly affects her at all anymore. At 18, she moved to the West Coast, got a tattoo, and now lives happily as a quirky theist amidst the Portland heathens she so dearly loves. Her idols are Joan of Arc (crazy or not), Flannery O'Connor, and Daria. Her favorite superhero is the perfect superhuman combination of Joan of Arc, Flannery O'Connor, and Daria dressed in a cape, armor, boots, and armed with wit and a pen. She is currently looking for someone to illustrate this into a comic book.
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Sonnets For What We Are; Not What We Can Be
Sonnets For What We Are; Not What We Can Be



"Worthy or Worth It?"

Words about fruit, and rags, and chaff, all end
in cleansing fire--blazing our human mud and baking bricks
that rest hard in Your hands.  I think of righteousness like this,
fitting a form, something built out of words
as old, as mythical, as Abraham.  A man in his story, trading life, a burnt
offering for covenant.  Unilaterally You.  So stories
end.  Or was there a lasting reason to numbering sand and stars?
Why give us stories if each will only be washed away?

Washed to where?  Where goes our dirt and all that sprouted in our cracks?
Once the smoke settles and the brick is clean, what will I be?
What sliver of soul is left after the sins erode?
And if You build me so thick before this erasure,

please tell me, why pray at all, preach, or forgive
if You never meant to save the life You told me to live?


"Thinking About the Consequences of Building Sand Castles in the Shadow of a Wave"

Dear God,
I'd rather not be another piece in a wall--
Baked brick wiped down to an odd inner white.
Some kindly imagine ending as Saint Emerson's Over-Soul
or Melville's Sea, this all in all; romantic names for bricks
in Your blank wall.  So, You could love us
equally.  Transcending--an infinite, happy grin
of tamed teeth, curling up to Heaven.

Please, no.  I've been sitting here, a few
years, forming a wry wisdom on life matters,
and I've come to enjoy textures,
like bitterness and bite; little bits of interest.

I must believe, being made in your image, my Lord,
that heavenly walls would make you holy bored.


"Our Objective Under Objectivity"

Does memory mean anything to your Heaven?
Are you removing our sins at the cost of our selves?
To simply strip the sin off the soul makes salvation
a bare asylum for whitewashed sheep--agape in praise--
white empty tombs of resurrected souls.  I'd rather
we be able to stand past, present, and possibility.  Perfection
keeping us whole, as each life was heavily worn.
Held together--loved as grace should even now allow.

And what memory but yours could hold all, while mine slips
and sinks in itself like a house held up by sand.
Only an infinite mind could save each subjective self
making even muttered half-thoughts imprint our lips, in and out of time.

Then when Life's off-meters end, we exist as more.
Let meaning and purpose meet in your memory, Lord.


AF


Last edited by Alister Flik on June 13, 2011, 4:07 pm
"I do not think, therefore I am a mustache."
-Sartre *Nausea*
 
Francis Meyrick

OK, so I read all three. That took....mmm... 5 minutes. Then I went back. Had another look at the symbolism. The images you introduce for the reader. Put my head on one side. Then t'other. Read it again. Chuckled. Had some toast. An hour-and-a-half later, I was still busy messing about, wandering through the labyrinths of the spatial and spiritual corridors you have created for me, the reader.

This is very skilful, mature, enjoyable stuff.

Humor. A little jab here. A little side swipe. Come on, God, you ain't that obtuse, are ya?

I think you should produce a booklet, probably use "Blurb" to create it.

"One hundred poems by an irreverent, pseudo serious, Mickey taking, yet also searching, fundamentalist Christian seeker".  

I enjoy your poetry. I especially like the way you introduce a symbol, and stick with it. It's not just a passing mention, and then no more, but you work with it. Play with it.

LaughingLaughing


We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
Posted on Tuesday, June 14, 2011 at 10:05:09

 
Alister Flik

That is great to know.  I'm glad I could help create such a response in the reader.  

I'll take your ideas into consideration.  I've been trying to decide what to do with these, because I think something needs to be done...they need to be something more than just those sonnets I wrote that sit on my computer.

Thanks, friend.


"I do not think, therefore I am a mustache."
-Sartre *Nausea*
Posted on Sunday, June 19, 2011 at 09:56:43

 
Francis Meyrick

Yeah... I downloaded Blurb a while ago, but I've done nothing with it.

As an example, the Tuna helicopter stories have had many downloads. And I've been asked many times for a book/manual. It's going to take an effort.  Writing 'em is more fun than tediously marketing/producing them.  But... I guess we should try...

Me?  Laziness.... bad,bad,bad.  


We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
Posted on Wednesday, August 17, 2011 at 21:09:03

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