3 Poems

Prelude: I posted on my Facebook a request for topics. I received 3--none of which the sort I hoped for, but for fun, I attempted short little poems just the same. Here they are:

The Weather

It's raining,
The days are long,
I'm feigning,
I'm ever strong,
When the storms,
Rage through days,
How to be warm,
Without warm rays,
How to speak,
of the storms,
of the rain,
of the cold,
Within.

Worm

Lowly worm,
See him squirm,
Slick as oil,
Eating soil,
Loves to call,
In a rainfall,
And in the sod,
A twist, a nod,
and gone,
Belowly.

IPOD

What a world within,
Seeping through buds,
Such a silly grin,
As he nods and scuds.
An electric haze,
Frayed nerve and bone,
An absent gaze,
'Til deaf as stone.
Thanks for sharing!

Plato's Cave Within A Cave

A world of rock weeping water,
Limited light glistens on stone,
Longings for that which is other,
Resonates through flesh and bone.
Yet here we stare,
Our lives threadbare.
Plato's cave.

Ever the fires in the equations,
Kindle in lives and galaxies,
Yet manikin-marketer's persuasions,
Ever beholden to the orthopraxy,
Words without sight,
The day is the night.
Plato's cave.

As the blind speak of elephants!
What is grass, what is green?
Frail knowledge never recants,
Wispy certainties never seen.
Life without form,
In fiction adorned,
Plato's cave.

And lo, the philosopher's quest,
A path oft hailed in hemlock,
Neither quite reaches the crest,
Nor finds the keys to unlock,
Souls in shackles,
Locked in manacles,
Plato's cave.

Seraphs, Saints bring a salve,
And shepherd into the real,
Of past darkness absolved,
Awakened walk free and feel,
Upon the grass,
A holy mass,
Outside,
Plato's cave.

Flourish

It was not the springtime of a life,
It was not yet the height of swelter,
The time blossoms broken in strife,
And a burgeoning helter skelter,
When angels light and dark were rife,
And the storms gathered without shelter,
We touched.

In the sacrament of married love,
A universe of dermis and follicle,
Germinates a gift ever to belove,
Compassions in a widening circle,
Travail, the time oft dreamed of,
In blood cries, the holiest shackles,
We birthed.

Tissues and limbs, unfold in a dance,
Even as the summer of life blusters,
And every celebrated moment we glance,
In the wounds are darkened and blistered,
As foals in freedom play and prance,
To years resigned, the future we inter,
We mourned.

And ere autumn with dwindling light,
Call our bodies to a season of wilt,
Even as cubs face their season of sprite,
Will the dreams remain buried in silt?
Or yet may we hope and reset our sight,
As creatures untouched by the guilt.
Heal,
Will we?

And as the garden grows in season,
The flower blossoms when it wills,
And the heart has its own reason,
Though the dark infects with chills,
Yet we breathe: Kyrie Eleison
And await the ending of all ills.
To see,
To live,
To flourish.

night

The orb will tilt in space,
The fire sinks o'er the line,
Now Lune begins her chase,
In hues of autumn wine,
The sky absorbs the taste,
Summons our souls to pine.

Sun blazes into night,
Shadows bleed 'ere they blend,
As endless specks of light,
Black sky in beauty rend,
With angel tones of white,
Heavens heal as they portend.

The darkness deepens still,
Beasts call as called by moon,
Some to flee, some to kill,
Some moan in midnight swoon,
And in the darkened chill,
Bug and bird, weep and croon.

And 'ere the watches fail,
With eastern skies aglow,
And as the darkness ails,
The morning will bestow,
Aurora soft and pale,
In healing, warming glow.