Ein Klein Nachtmusik

February 15, 2016

 

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At last, falls the curtain,

still, dread velvet weaves the quiet,

a flurry of feathers, ancient tracks,

Aqua regia and wheaten witches’ moons.

How can I connect

the sacred and profane, the lofty and lowly,

the many strands of soundless symphony?

Do the trees answer life and death,

motherhood and loss?

Do lunar phases mark love’s mood

both tragic and elated?

Can the eloquent calligraphy of frost

record seasons, longings and sighs?

Is she Diana who births the night,

or Nyx spreading her inky cloak?

Is it the she-wolf, wraith or sprite

who strikes the danse macabre entwined?

Is this the lesser time of God,

or the penance to repair what’s lost?

Of snow and ashes, would I be remiss,

of that noiseless time when destroying angels pass.

In the lightless underworld,

do owls hymn thee?

When fearsome things tramp afoot,

does the unknown, unseen, unremembered cry?

There is appointed the time to awake

and to die.

After every day surely comes night

on rodent feet

singing the unsung requiem

taps on a graveyard bugle,

Nunc dimittis in velvet black

because the white of dawn may wake them.

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Eventide

April 7, 2014

Why for, we seek immortality and dreams?

Is time numbered by hours seated at a window wishing,

days spent counting coins,

months reaping and gathering?

By years rapt in love’s fires,

within age’s wintry night?

 

The sower toils golden fields, eyes vigilant

yet tends his father’s grave.

Children skip over gardens adance,

yet behold the eagle’s distant flight.

Friars pray in cloisters adorned,

yet sing evening’s requiem.

 

Death seizes and respects not.

Its day sure as resting sun.

Sure as the gnat circles in midday,

As lambs in darkness follow only their herder.

This silent visitor, the faceless judge,

beckons both doors of young and old.

 

Whilst plagued beggars shiver,

and consumption claims kings,

Weavers and merchants wail,

as virgins travail.

Men, all of men,

shall languish.

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De Profundis

July 14, 2013

I plummeted down,

that labyrinthine way,

where deep calls upon deep.

There, I wrestled the waves,

the murk-laden crests, drowning sweeps, fell sands.

Besot, my soul,

laid waste everything in me

like blackest lead.

Tears beyond count,

loud lamentation aspersed, feeds the salty swirl.

Aphrodite, her foamy tomb,

so fair, verdant, livid,

made naught.

Sirens trumpet-call,

taunting love never-met, never meant to be,

Hades open-mawed,

the old devestatrix,

welcome waits.

Oh that I might sink into oblivion!

Buried in sweet pain,

sweetest might forget, ere sharpest to fight.

Dare I stay,

where no solace, dark mist can depart,

no hope alights, no love echo?

 

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Psalm of Lament

March 24, 2013

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Psalm of Lament.

 

Why, my Lord must this hurt?

 

Because my child, this world is thorns…

 

Was I ever a fair child?

Injured from my youth, tossed away, maimed.

After the long tunnel of darkness, I entered the light

where the Lord’s children are maimed.

 

I said:

Lord did thou rescue me from sin, my own self-inflicted death,

so I may become as a dog despised?

 

They once hated me because I was lost, sick, cursed.

Now they conspire against me, my family,

because I am found, healed, blessed.

 

Lord, I trusted you…

The shell of my former soul, left behind like dross

sunken on the bottom of an iron-smelt.

Rising, a phoenix, I cried out to the world.

Instead, they ignored me, clipped my wings, cast me away.

 

“One of them” mocked and defiled…your child.

Lord, look at your own, beloved firstborn,

there cut, bleeding…esteemed not.

 

Was he the fairest of the fair?

He who cried: Why God hast thou forsaken?

Because my child, the next world is a Kingdom…

 

I said:

Hope in you still, my Lord…

for your lead rod is perfect, laden in gold.

 

Take me from these thorns.

Lick my wounds; count the bones that were crushed,

and lift me from this dark vale.

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March 9, 2012

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The swarthy angel perched

upon my bedside

raven wings ashroud,

whispered to me in that dead tongue

of devils and priests:

Veni, veni, venias

ne me mori facias.

A forgotten song

serenade for the dead

sung beneath archways,

where I sought my beloved.

in antiquity’s chill.

Roses glow

like blood-drops sprung out of the earth.

Their thorns outstretched

rebuking hands

leave a silent pin-prick

against my flesh,

telling me

my love lies here not

not within this dark place.

Once more clarion,

I hear the haunting psalm

its shadowy linger

resounding the fretful antiphon

of bygone years lost:

Veni, veni, venias

ne me mori facias.

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February 9, 2012

Dawn-light from on high breaks. In its lofty dome, first-creation stretches hands over a sea of cloudy blue. From that place, I first knew you, chosen and despised, scapegoat for their sins. Yet, I uttered no thing when they drove three nails through your royal garb and said,

“For this you’ll die.”

I watched them gather stones to slay you for the crime of blasphemy but seeking liberty from the lordly, barbed word, I acted not. Complacency became my shelter while you suffered and prayed for the suffering, praying world.

I was not like you…

I preached and brought love in my own way and needed no other. I was young, a whole life to live, and you were old, your life given away. How I cherished myself when no one cherished you!

From dust rising, brushing off the phoenix’s feathers, I at last spoke,

“He does no wrong, leave.” But surely, you were more wrong and corrupt than the rest of us? Surely, you polished iniquities into gold, wore them on your finger?

Silent, I stood…

Between that world and the abyss, saw heaven; that shining tower built from ivory stone, whitewashed alabaster. Warding the gates was the most beautiful, purest creature, the Shepherd of souls, Christ the Lord. He said:

“Look, behold my manservant!”

You again. I pleaded to enter in, but from your hands clutched, dangled the keys. Slandered, tormented and mocked, you blessed the great emptiness. My wrath could not overcome earth and your honor, missed it. I begged a martyr to open heaven and he thanked me for letting him die.

Memento Mori

June 12, 2011

“…for dust you are, and to dust shall you return.”

– Genesis 3:19

You will die, just as he did.
Today it was his turn; tomorrow it will be yours.”

–         – Sirach 38:22

             Behold life is but a season.

            There lay only one certain course before mankind and tis, death.

            All robur and fortune hover elusive from birth- but death welcomes with open hands.

            Its day sure as the falling dusk, sure as the falcon’s eye intent on prey,

sure as lambs at night follow the herder’s voice.

            This silent, most silent visitor

becks from doors of young and old.

           Men. Like figs, they wither, like young shoots,

which blossom then curl beneath frost.

         Whilst be-plagued beggars quake

and consumption claims kings,

          Weavers and merchants and the

comeliest maidens doth travail.

             Men, all of men, they languish.

            Even the sun awakes and is entombed behind hills.

            Death be the unkind judge of mans’

appointed stay.

            Tis our destiny: the dust.

            The great powers shall not always reign,

 yet know, death shall ever remain.