Love poem (Untitled)

July 31, 2014

How mortal eyes behold dawn-light
the manner he beholds me.
Be I fragile as a torn feather,
a snowflake whose crystals have touched warmth.
Mind the river swelling its flood-banks,
giving bounty so green.

….A river perpetually flowing.
Mind the fox pup playing
laving paw-prints so deep in spring mud
where bushes bloom.
…Happiness ever yours.

 

garden of eden

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Non Serviam

September 10, 2013

Non Serviam.

 

You left the altar standing empty, full of dust,

so you could string fair women like pearls with fine verse,

so you could pluck the pleasures of life.

Yet you sing no poems and life gives no pleasure.

 

The work of His hands, you turned for ambition,

wordly treasures by the work of your hands gained.

Yet you lifted a cup of lowly ashes

saying: “Behold, my pain”

 

Like a shepherd, you sought your sheep,

but nay, found only your lonely self

You left, young lover, to find love,

but nay, only sadness.

 

Through fields afar and adrift,

you wandered when the angelus tolled.

Your heels buried by earthen sod,

you dared not.

 

The moors became your home.

The trumpeting lark’s strophe, your Gospel.

Dancing maid upon the meade,

your courage lost.

 

Your vows of merrymaking

lay dying, scattered amongst mere swine,

whose scraps you eat as bread,

in mournful mirth.

 

After love’s distant reaches, you embarked,

yet farthest removed from love.

You leave heaven’s share for heaven,

a requiem for pious souls.

 

Come eventide, angels plea in earnest,

that prodigal lips make bold to praise.

And shall your resounding hymn be one of: “Peccavi

–          or “Non Serviam”?

 

 

* Non Serviam, is Latin for: “I will not serve”. Peccavi, is Latin for “I have sinned”.

Untitled

March 9, 2012

Untitled.

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.