This is an except from a book of poetry I compiled from poems I’ve written over many years. I originally posted the book in it’s entirety but that was a bit daunting of a read. So I’ve resigned to post one at a time. Here is A Plea To Ancient In Embers, bite sized. Do enjoy and please let me know your thoughts.
Love. Just Love.
When I was a baby
I felt your sweet caress.
I’d never heard of maybe
and knew not of distress.
The warmth of you pervade me
like a gentle lullaby
of the hand that tried to save me
and wipe the tears I’d cry.
Your autumn cooled my heartbeat
in smearing, fading hue
and each white flake on snowy feet
reminded me of you.
But snow, like embers, fall and fade
to bleed at rose’s feet,
and who can see the marvels made
when Persephone walks the street
to shatter years of icy glass,
pierce infant snow with blades of grass,
bleeding winter’s swaddling green,
and ripping blue from cloudy seem,
until the pattern was a boy,
ravaged by his naked dream,
tossed by Eros like a toy,
living like a dying scream,
laboring in child birth,
and bleeding in it’s strife,
pushing hard for all he’s worth
then crowning him with life.
But the crown has blossomed thorn
and everyone he’s showed
has raised him highest in their scorn,
nailed him to the crossroad.
Ever standing in the strife
of the path I wish to trod
of living now or choosing life
in finding me or God.
The book that tells us who he is
was written by our hand
but that the words were ours or his
is hard to understand.
I feel Promethean tissues came
when spring ransacked my soul.
It walks the earth with my good name
and seeks to be made whole.
All I wish to do is live
and be like mortal man.
I fear this wish God won’t forgive,
it’s not part of his plan.
Trudge the earth in mortal skin
to find the place we can begin
to recompense the world our strife
and ask forgive for living life.
Why did Adam take this seed
and bury it in blood
to grow a man with any need
for blossoming in mud?
Can this Hyacinth become a tree
where golden apples hide,
or shall I simply crimson be
to mark the place Ive died?
Can I live unchained by word,
of script they wrote to free,
or shall my dream songs be unheard
that I may holy be?
What I am I am and so
now what then shall I be,
blessed and cursed to always know
I’m bound to be set free?
Winter comes and always will
to greet me at the door
but when the spring’s at windowsill
my heart is on the floor.
The tissue of my heart is spent
wiping little tears
that come from friends in deep lament
of winter wonder years.
Knowing just enough to know
I’ll always be confused.
Coming just enough to go
’till every tissue’s used.
But life’s not lived for answers,
it’s a quest of questions asked,
and spreading like a cancer,
each one comes from each one’s past.
My question is:
“Can we survive
and truly be called one alive
if we seek to truly thrive
in a place where none may strive
to seek the living truth?
For every truth that ever sung
was sung from some imperfect tongue
that sprayed it’s venom where it hung
that rung in ears of all our young,
wounding every youth.
How can it then ever be
to survive and be set free
of the words washed over me
like sour foam from off the sea,
salt for wounds as soothe?
When my heart cannot deny
the seeming presence of an eye,
looming like a starry spy
to watch with hunger in the sky
with seeming thought and couth.
Perhaps the secrets come with age,
years to settle youthful rage,
to halt the wrestling rustling page,
this fitful fray, this play on stage,
director in a curtained booth.
For two thousand years we all have fought
A war against our self and God,
of blinded faith and bitter thought.
I stand in aw and think its odd.
And even God said long ago,
in his curtained booth above,
that man himself will never know,
so all I ask you do is love.
Who, heaven bent, can even tell
what certain path may lead to hell?
Though they know and read “The Word”
who may say they’ve really heard
all the secrets hidden there?
How many truths they know are lie?
How many of them really care
if what they speak cause men to die?
Is that the whole or just a part?
Who really hears God’s beating heart?
And yet I feel it beats with mine.
Well, maybe just to feel is fine.”
Well, if someone is really there,
then I hope they hear my prayer:
That we do what we understand,
when the world may come to shove,
to do the things we know we can,
for God, you see, they’ve said, is love.
Don’t populate the world with hate,
the ministry of men.
The ways of God uncomplicate
and too the ways of sin.
Run from dens where scarring sleeps,
leave the place where inner weeps
and just today allow your heart
the room to play the smallest part
to sooth the world of hurt with love,
find the strength to lift above
the length of space in pain we hide
to break away and look inside.
Find the courage to see clear
in past the things we feign and fear.
The world of pain we must forgive
to see it plain what is to live.
In this, though little time you’ve spent,
if you can learn but one thing of,
the greatest thing God ever meant,
inside we know
is love, just