The Poetry Page
POETRY
PAGE
Lyrical
language to capture a moment, a thought, a feeling.
The
Recovery
Broken,
yes
But within
His palm
Fragments
of me
Both dark
and blonde
Dust and
dirt
Not me,
but mine
He gently
sifts
His child
to find
Intentional
Arrow on,
will of mine
Deeds accomplished
Are the
harness for Time
Directed
along saintly lines
A goal
in the chaos
Discipline
finds
Modern
Motivation
Spoken
like a true man
Spoken
like a fool
Standing
up for his own right
To be
the devil’s tool
“I insist!
I demand!
I will
not budge nor move
From doing
things my own way
And greasing
my own groove!”
Not for
God or principle
Not for
love of Truth
But in
quest for easy prey
In which
to sink a tooth
Careless
Feathers
fell from weathered nests
Snared
in thistles without duress
Lifeless
wings aren’t they all
On the
birds that let their feathers fall
Easter
Hymn
A scrub and arid world
Made moist by Jesu’s
veins
Seeps life into the
mounded graves
‘pon those He came to
save
Shine forth, o dawn In brighter rays Of an Easter sun!
This day raise up On shoulder high – Resurrection’s come!
A dim, enshadowed world
Made light by Jesu’s tomb
Lantern to once pallid
lives
Of whom He now glows
through
Shine forth, o dawn In brighter rays Of an Easter sun!
This day raise up On shoulder high – Resurrection’s come!
A vain and weary world
Re-made from Jesu’s
throne
To grow great in
endless bliss
And peace upon His own
Shine forth, o dawn In brighter rays Of an Easter sun!
This day raise up On shoulder high – Resurrection’s come!
Autumn, Mount Royal Cemetery
Birds must fly and
leave this place
When leaves no longer
play with light
And berries are gone,
once red, once ripe
And so the cheery
chatter fades at last
And the air antics all
have passed
Yet still I stand like
forgotten crops
The coming frost all
life stops
A brown cornstalk in a
field of stone
I’ve never felt so
quite alone
But before I turn my
cold feet back
To civil streets where
none do lack
I gaze upon the scattered
tombs
Of men and women yester-bloom
And wonder as I look
around
Can one be yet colder, ‘loner
underground?
Difference
Some dislike
clover
Kissed by
sun
Pinkened
weed
People-shunned
Improper
clasp of colour
In petal-less
hands
A manicurist
A pest
he brands
it
Concentric
receptors
Of an
impartial sun
Cross the
pattern
Of the
blade grass run
Whitened
wands
On a
pollinated poem
Distress
a stiff
Suburban
loam
“In the
diet
Of cattle,
rabbits, bees-
Locate your
home there
Rather,
kindly, pleeease!”
Bell Tower, Bandaged
Behind the scaffolding
Planks, poles and wires
Quarantined and caged
Like that disease-ridden
Hidden from sight –
Well no, not quite
For its appearance to
be shameful
In this age is
essential
For that displayed as
criminal –
Emblematic of community
And the transcendental –
Is a tower of stone
No longer higher
Than edifices of
commerce
And worldly desire
I see through the bars
Built be sellers and
buyers
Atop of a church
A once noble spire
Fissures of Men
What comfort comes
To see figures
Black on snow
To catch faint voices
I don’t know
To trace movement
When all is slow?
As together we ride
This glacier to the sea
A thousand fissures
Between them and me
F’arse
Summer’s bare bottom
Had nothing left to
show –
A crack, a mole, some
white skin -
But all of this you know
The Only One
You talk about the
children
You’re planning to
conceive
You talk about The Fall
Like you were standing
next to Eve
You talk about the
dance
Science has become
But I never hear you
talk
Like I’m the only One
You talk about
toboggans
And the steepness of
the ride
You talk about good
leather
Like you were diapered
in cowhide
You talk about the
Party
Under Mao Tse-Tung
But I never hear you
talk
Like I’m the only One
You talk about the
grapes
That are rotting in
your fridge
You talk about the Arno
Like you were standing
on its bridge
You talk about the doctor
That diagnosed you mom
But I never hear you
talk
Like I’m the only One
You talk about the
lipstick
Your first crush use to
use
You talk about bin Laden
Like you’re about to
blow a fuse
You talk about the
virus
That turns computers
into dung
But I never hear you
talk
Like I’m the only One
No, I never hear you
talk
Of Father, Spirit, Son
Sancti – fiction? faction?
Where now the blood
co-mingled
Of Saviour and the
saved?
Sighs out the breath of
God
No lungs for ribs to
cage
Another temple toppled
In the declining of this
age
Could I myself abandon
To God’s re-birthing
will
Cast off
self-preservation
And all my smallness
kill
So feet no longer wander
And hands no longer
grasp
At flesh’s form of ‘freedom’
Those intoxicating
traps?
O my soul’s redemption
How costly is the price!
Impress upon me, Father
I have been crucified with
Christ
Can I trust in this
exposure
The stripping of my
pride
The cleansing of His
judgment
To carve a new inside?
And so, the measurement
is taken
The tower’s cost
assessed
For a spirit to be
ordered
A soul must leave its
mess
‘Be ye holy, for I am
holy’
The Burning
Can candle drippings
Ever achieve their aim
Balling downwards
To escape the flame?
Fire and brilliance
Demand so much
Consume our substance
Yet insist we touch -
The wick
Our source
Our spine -
Sparked to life
That there may be glory
Though we die
To make such shine
To be a part
And thus be
Than to be apart
And fail to see
That this burning is
privilege
And all else
Just wax on the wane
Passion Poem
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