The Sun Rose

Every born life, a feeble pushing back,
Against air, and space, and shadows,
Every whelp invites talons and teeth,
And a bleeding of light again into black.

Yet the sun rose today,
Pulsing light into the fray.

In mortal memory, I know these shades,
Picked as carrion to the hellion beaks,
Feeding on flesh and hopes, and fears,
'Til all that is beautiful feebly fades.

Yet the sun rose today,
Dew sparkled in the rays.

Where hope when the ruin of days of war,
Are liturgy marking each birth, each love?
Innocent souls are consumed by the judged,
Reversing the reversal once promised in lore.

Yet the sun rose today,
A caress of color in the gray.

Every born life, a fragile pushing back,
Form and voice facing down Thanatos,
Every cub invites fellowship and love,
And a tending to life unto its tender lack.

Yes the sun rose today,
Rocking me in gentle sway.

The sun rose today.

One Life

In my living years, there came this time,
Where spring has faded like a memory,
Summer's blossoms withered like old skin,
When ever fell the leaves, fell the leaves,
And the augur bells faintly distant chimed.

One day, a stinging breeze in mine eyes pining,
A whispering air—'tis wisdom sweet sad song —
A solemn hymn: "Let goods and kindred go." (1) 
A learning to love as if nothing were my own,
A bending of the will, to autumnal days aligning. 

These stringent days swallow my threadbare soul,
And as the hours gyre the paths that I will take,
Shadows ebb and flow about my wicker frame,
Skin and breath — compass every grace and curse,
The cloth where lament and love make up the whole.

In these waning times, there will be gift of days,
When every kindness is free of fitful grasps.
Life — where love is given and not expected back.
A dying unto living, a journey to places never seen,
'Til broken hearts be overtaken in psalms of praise.
 
One life.





_________
1) From Martin Luther's hymn: A Mighty Fortress is Our God

Hush Nova

Nebular nursery ignite nascent stars,
All burning, burning, tiger bright,(1)
Fiery hunger ever yearns-takes flight,
Inspiring lovers and wagers of wars.

The stars burn bright in lovers eyes,
Scorching nests of sweet communion,
'Til stars and loves dissolve in disunion.
Once a candle lit, it but burns and dies.

Sun shatters —a fiery frore, a dying star —
The fires of hell burn cold like failing love —
Verily sorrowful, the plummeting dove —
Reborn  raven — plumage and pith as tar.

Conflagrant novas fade to inky black,
Singularity where light is locked away,
Soul's bleed silver in rot and in decay,
Love and light woefully fade into lack.

Star light, Star bright, First star,
Remembered and mourned,
In black sky, stone heart,
Cracks.



1. A line adapted from William Blakes: "The Tyger"

Missing

Streams of mists stratus, endless,
Reds, blues conned, from corneas,
Weight of clouds, smother soulless,
Chirps, warbles, silenced in apnea.


Cover of coolness, rage in presence,
Energies strike and leave for dead,
Colorless still, and void the absence,
Pea soup fog, seduced Sol, then fled.
 
Cloudless, sky-less, this empty canvas,
Nor warmth or cold, nor word or breath,
The stars, slaughtered in darkening novas,
Twilight fades, the god mourns Ashtoreth.


A stream, crimson, cupped, to lips, taken,
A stone soul, a name called to awaken.

December Sky

The darkness of  December's evening sky,
'Tis the perfect canvass for the hand of God,
Ethereal, tar-sands, taut across the heavens,
Swallows all in pitch, but will chose to laud,
One sweet sad portend, to make a spirit sigh.

And see the cloudy mist in the dark midnight,
Like a gassy film upon the swampy scum,
Back-lit as elusive Artemis, stalks the ages,
Then the curtain passes and hear the thrum,
Chords of soul's desire, plucked in lunar light.

Hosts of starry ghosts emerge the inky black,
Constellations clear their cadre for the advent,
Bright stars — the baby and angels in Gloria choir,
Boughs bend o'er skies like shepherd supplicants,
And I too, in quietness begin to feel my lack.

In the darkness of December's darkest hour,
The Brother to every son and daughter of man,
Born to us, the morning star, this Christmas morn,
Though the evil will pierce both foot and hand,
Fragile, yet brightly burns the love that will power,

Salvation.

Cool Breeze

Tapping windows like endless fingertips,
Drum, drumming rhythmic droplets,
Intimate, like a cool breath shiver,
Down the neck, down the spine,
Goosebump arms, legs in frosty nips,
Piercing garment, skin, and bone,
To taunt the nerves in dulling ache,
'Til limbs cradle in a shuffling dance,
And puffy breaths escape through lips,
Blue with Boreas breath.

Throngs

Bare arms waving, fingers extending,
Garments of rainbow tattered and blown,
Gnarly, knuckled, entangled, yet graceful,
A thicket of bramble, a coterie of crones,
Stray.

Pleading to grey sky for garments of green,
Endless fingers sinew and lattice the heavens,
Like pilgrims throng the path to a shrine,
Airily, this company coiffed in lichens,
Sway.


As their numbers extend in the failing light,
Endless frames with crackled skin of bark,
Seem to demur to the autumnal summons,
Bowing and blending in the shadowless dark,
Pray.