I'm still not so good at posting these every week, as implied by my last post, months ago. However, I had another installment of several. Really, I'd like to post them every week, as poetry binges can be exhausting to read, but we do what needs must.
Sunday Sonnet XIV
This is but the beginning of the nights
Which were never lonely till he came and
Went again. Yet with no end in sight,
It's worth the nights to fin'ly understand
That wer were never meant to be alone.
Like crim'nals fin'ly comprehending crime
Who'd not know mercy without horror done -
So I endure the drought for harvest time.
Even in our mortal ways of being
Whole, there is an echo of the feast to
Come, when marriage takes a truer meaning
And love is always fresher and more new.
So I'll love the night in all her terror
Because she shows the truth behind her error.
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Sunday Sonnet XV
Theres some forgotten Latin mys’try
Which I might humbly enter in to share
Yet reaching out t’interact with his’try
I find my grasping hands but clasp the air.
“It’s not about you.” They will interject
“We come to worship wholly through but one.”
Yet then behind the scenes I might suspect
My presence but a candle in the sun.
Yet burn we all a fire just the same.
And candles find their use when earth is turned
Away from light, like lovers in their shame.
And we receive the lack of faith we earned.
So come together as you break your bread
But know we do the same through song instead.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVI
WE are the broken, sickly world who beg
A doctor of our fellow invalids.
We see them hobble and request a leg,
Like parents leaning wholly on their kids.
For we fulfill love by its own destruction,
Creating Superman out of the ants
Who were not made for lonely production
But to hobble, where e’er the Master grants.
We might find moments wholeness exhaled
Like the air, then fall again through time and
Atmosphere, and all else we ever hailed
Before we turn, like seashells into sand.
So let me be a patient now, at last
And lead not forever towards the past.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVII
We’re building up our castles in the sand
With crushed up bones of shells from years before
Whose very fall’s the reason why they stand.
The final tide’s the glory of the shore.
Our beauty is no less for breaking down
With every wave that laps against our walls.
That foam which wounds us makes for us a crown
When bodies finally bend to ocean’s calls.
For there is something moving in the blue
That smooths us with a soft brutality
And something half forgotten but full true
Will make our very death a victory.
And so we’ll fall again, though we’re afraid
For we, like sand, unravel as we’re made.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVIII
“Lord, heal me of the pain,” we say with hearts
Still shattered, still ripping the binding from
Our wounds. Addicted to the poison darts
Until the poison’s all we have become.
For if we lost an arm it’d n’er grow back
(Though some might argue that perhaps it would)
And we’d define ourselves as handicap
(Though some might argue that perhaps it could).
And should it? Maybe some not distant day
When scars are a flash of decoration –
If they are there at all (I cannot say).
Though One let fingers trace His laceration.
So take not from me pain, but sorrows jive.
Which names the pain as proof that I survive.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XIX
And when you hear the voice of God speaking
Turn not your tearing tender heart to stone.
For though you’ve all you need you’re still seeking
Some small solution that might build those bones.
Be not as faithless as your fathers were
Demanding answers when they couldn’t see
The way. For He who makes a stone thirts cure
Fulfils his spoken word eventually.
Call not his voice imagination’s sway
And claim a doubt of God a doubt of self.
For magic does exist in wide array –
Physics, faith, hope and love – it’s called instead.
You’ll hear the ordination in your head
Call not the Word insanity instead.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XX
So He who bade us not sew mixed-seed fields
Still bade young Esther leave her native breed
And Ruth converted despite pagan yield,
So even Joseph bore a tainted seed.
So those who kick against a weighted yolk
May yet redeem a less-than righteous spouse.
For it was he who’d never marry spoke
The inconsistency, he with no house
To warm his feet, or soothe his sun-sore eyes.
And yet, young Esther might argue his case.
Necessity can still torment the wise
And even back bruised cattle keep some grace.
So Love is like the Irish with this rule
Who wills it break before He’s made a fool.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXI
There is a land that’s void of shopping malls
Where women balance water on their heads
Because the wild is the way, not call,
Their diamonds build the suburbs here, instead.
There is a place where straw and mud keep out
The rain, they say, though hunger still seeps through,
Yet there’s a wholesomeness in dirt. Without
A safety net, it’s God they look unto.
There is a land I’d like to meet, and stay
With for some time. My roots could grow along
The farms it holds in less time-centered days.
We travel far to find where we belong.
Yet lest I call fantasy ordination
I’ll wait until I’m asked to join the nation.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXII
I hope to see you ne’r again, for my
Sake and for yours. For old heart-strong grow weak
With strain and snap when played so out awrey.
Because I do not hope. I seek
To satisfy with longing, what longing
Cannot forget. This world is not our home,
So our hearts yet search for some belonging.
It’s chasing wind. Through vanity they roam.
And so I hope you’re warm, and well, and fed,
And find fulfillment in your journey.
I dare to hope you won’t have time ahead
To let your heart linger on memory.
For I could hurt afresh for all your woes
But past is near enough the way it goes.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXIII
Because I do not hope to turn again
To memories I’ve over worn in time.
Because I do not hope for foe or friend,
I linger on the or’gin of the rhyme.
Now fantasies have surpassed memory
And you no longer must needs to exist.
If you were ever more than words to me
Then is it man or myth that yet persists?
I do not hope for reconciliation
Because I do not hope, lest I despair.
And through I once grasped dreams of recreation
They over ran the truth behind my err’r.
But I’ve heard echos of a hope someday
When all my false idols will start decay.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
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