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Showing posts from August, 2011

I Am

'Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.'
Matt. 25:45

I am
The baby
Wailing in the night.
I am
The old man
Quivering in fright.


   I am blue eyes
   Welling with tears.
   I am brown eyes
   Haunted by fears.


I am
The woman
Begging for her bread.
I am
The sick boy
Tossing on his bed.

   I am hopeless.
   I am a slave.
   I am weeping
   At a new grave.

I am
The young girl
Crying out in pain.
I am
The outcast
Huddled in the rain.

   I am hungry.
   I am in fear.
   I am hunted,
   As death draws near.




Fairy Rover

I have a moon to light the way,
Mist enshrouds my going,
The silver stars, as beacons bright,
Guide me with their glowing.

A-roving I will go tonight,
Take no heed of morning.
My feet will seek out hidden ways
'Til the dawn's pale warning.

Then, as night-shadows creep away,
And morning lifts her head,
I'll steal back to my secret place
And take me to my bed.



An Appeal

Scorn not the bard,
For though her words stumble, They spring from the depths Of an over-full heart. Scorn not the bard As she craves your indulgence To lend a kind ear To her rudely penned art. Her wording is clumsy, Her pen is ungraceful. Her rhyming is flawed, She has no novel thought.  She sits in the shadow Of those who are greater, She sits and is humble, Pretending to naught. Scorn not her song, And you'll plumb for a moment, The depths of her heart, Be it mournful or gay. You'll look for an instant
Into her soul's workings,
Though rudely expressed
In the lines of her lay.
Perhaps it may be
That in heart all are equals-
Their works to be judged
By the soul that shines through.
So scorn not the bard,
Or her humble poems
Though lacking in polish,
Their heart-core is true.

Burial

A fresh-turned mound.
My sorrow buried deep.
I've lain this last
Sad memory to sleep.
The past behind,
The future lies before.
Rest now, oh pain,
And trouble me no more.

Liberation

My life slips through my fingers
Like sand grains from the shore.
Empty, worthless, fleeting,
I'll hold to it no more.
The dark world rushes past me,
A phantom of the night,
I am no longer heedful -
My eyes are on the Light.
My feet take up the journey,
My shoulder bears the cross,
For now my eyes are open,
I've found the gain in loss.



Lament

The hand of the bard has withered,
The pen has been laid aside.
The door to Faery is closing,
And dreamer's dreams have died.
Music has fallen silent,
And magic is gone from our shores.
Genuis is wrapped in mourning
As she paces the corridors.
Paces the hallways of legend,
Where man, in inspired prime,
Twisted the gossamer webbings
Of story and song and rhyme.

Grey is the rain on the tombstones,
Mingling with my tears,
As I lament the passing
Of more enlightened years.
Heavy the heart inside me,
For the lovelier things have fled,
Leaving me to a harsher world
And a place amongst the dead.


Memories

To all the people with whom I have made memories worth holding on to.

Hold fast the memories
For time goes winging past
And days and years
Will fly away
And fade to grey.

Hold fast the memories
And, holding, make them last
To light the dark,
And keep at bay
Sad thoughts with gay.