To a Friend

July 27, 2016

 

Golden disk of sun,

Radiant, copper fire, lost in milky clouds.

Red like change but at rest,

A bronze figurine,

sun-drenched sphinx,

floating peaceful

above every torrid twist and turn of time.

I love you, my sunlight,

my thing of beauty unmarred.

 

cat

‘SLEEPING CAT’ – Pen & Ink and Watercolour by Richard Marsh, source: Etsy.com

Advertisements

Raven

April 4, 2016

 

Once upon a time, a long, long time,

Winter loosed its callid grip.

Amidst the rising waters, whispered and stirred,

from their berth, flew a dark cloud.

It grew eyes, dragon feet,

and mind sharp as midnight hour.

It blossomed blacken plume,

a velt, knighten flower,

blackest rose of winter.

Eyes like the sun, tongue like the moon,

tail splayed in stars, wings, voiceless as time,

cries sonorous, “aawk, aawk, awake!”

wakes the dawn.

Grey wolf, bronzed man,

Yes, man of smoke and flame, follows.

The dark, svelt angel,

who heralds the vast, spirit worlds,

above the earth yet red in tooth and claw,

he bays, death’s hound, at the open wide gate

of the savage moon.

Friend, foe and mocking one,

his bill severs the night, flesh from bone and blood.

Eyes like jack-o-lanterns burning,

speak riddles, sing of truth and lies.

Is he life or death?

A celestial ferryman of souls,

or hungry ghost, swallowing lands,

fallen-one, given wings to mount the night

a disgraced Lancelot, guarding the wilds,

Memory of Odin, ever alight?

Who is he, of matter and spirit,

our hopes, dreams, kindness, cruelties, questionings and fright?

ra

 

The Changeling

April 4, 2016

 

Where moor dust and night shimmer collect,

on cloven grass below,

heaven and earth, and eldritch things,

begets a child.

But a wraith, a wisp, fairy-sprite,

cries the changeling.

Her dreams are unicorns, her sighs, crystal wings,

and her longings all wrapped up in the moon.

Do fox and sheep wait by her cradle,

quaking aspen, oak and elder tree?

Do not starry Orion and twinkling Ceres

lie at her whiten folds?

Come morning, the sow will roan

the cock chime and heifer low, earth telling of earthly things.

Yet fay-reeds will fan, the toadstools like folded lyres, sing,

the choir of crickets, damselfly and bog-rose

raise once more, its lonely antiphon.

Only things of heaven do things earthly dream,

of trollish feet, elven lips and angel wings,

doth cries the little changeling.

 

msd41_changeling

 

Summer Fair

April 4, 2016

 

 

On July 1st, I wore my first festival dress.

In snowy lace folded between shards of rose and ice,

like spring breaking free from winter.

My gloves, newly-riven snow or perhaps dove’s wings,

gilded with silver morning

dewy in youth and recklessness,

soon to be torn or ruined.

My shoes, black hooves, like a kid jumping on rocks

a green stream underneath.

My cloak, a cold phoenix, burning with ice,

aflame with the chill of expectant love.

Inlaid, gold lining, a tracery of heaven,

flitting like pollen or moth’s feet,

the handiwork of too much time.

I am a lily, new with moss,

queening her silver, gold and opal,

aflame and ashen, ancient and new

O whom do we owe,

a theme timeless as beauty itself.

 

431408_399182000099375_820036362_n

A Song alone

February 15, 2016

 

 

I once sang a song alone,

the strings of my throat avibe,

the plectrum of my heart in place.

No one listened, no one heard,

yet the very walls inclined.

I once chanted a psalm unwritten,

the zither of my spirit wrung tight,

The dusty air with sonor

left the antiphon unsaid, unvoiced.

I once composed a dirge,

the chord of my tongue in D-minor,

for no one

and they didn’t weep.

I once rejoined a wedding hymn,

the organ of my lungs billowed,

like the descant of royal flute

played by none

yet answered by spring’s bloom.

I once tuned the tympanym of my lips

to twirl,

dancing like heavenly spheres

lost in the blink of an angel’s eye.

Morning Prayer

February 25, 2015

Into the forest glistening, damp,
I traversed.
Rustling grass, my nave,
Arched canopy above, my vault,
white moths twinkling, my candles.
Oh blue warbler, my cantor in his forked loft!
Twigs and stones, my resting place
among things green, ancient, and alive.
Round and round, squirrels leap
in liturgy of chase and play
The spotted owl calls out an antiphon.
My nostrils inhale musky woods,
reminding me of something forgotten.
Here, time lies still,
hushed, savage and sacred.
Birds and beasts sing,
sing the morning-prayer with me!

blue

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

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.

memento-mori-by-dh-at-rylands-library1

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”.

An Ode to Chastity

October 6, 2012

O state of chastity!
Bold as the white lily,
come first spring
from an untouched well.
Reluctant dewfloss
beneath swelling summer,
which bids all green things to bear their fruits.

Thou art a young boy
tunefully singing
his hymnal psalm,
bent beneath the taskmaster,
blushing before maidens
finely wading in Paschal gowns.You are the whisp
of air that heralds morning.
Veiled thinly, more white
than moon-swaddled night,
keeping many secrets,
hidden away from aged, experienced minds.

Yet with virginal voice
you tell men’s’ ears
the matters of angels.
And unashamed of thy girt loins,
like a sheltered lamb,
you lay thyself happily on hidden altars.

 Picture of St. Aloysius Gonzaga