Were I to gather
the rarest of woods,
matchsticks in multitude,
and vintage amber lac,
I would set to the building of that Strad,
its secrets laid bare by an angel.
And in its voice would be your intonations.
And in its resonance, the beat of your living heart.
***
Photo: Eastman Strings
A stranger that I know
lies deeply in leafy mold.
We speak by mumbles in opportune nights.
He is always looking away
to some mystery
true and precious,
but I cannot follow his eye.
He surprises me on inopportune days-
pulling those strings,
a pretense of wings,
unknowable things.
With slow regard
I watch the lengthening of fingernails.
~Grow out. Grow out~
~Take with you the sour pain,
this aura’s pollution~
Clipper you to the quick,
I will,
in foolish absolution.
[Image: https://pixabay.com/users/saulhm-31267/ ]
“FOR THE LOST”
In fog’s night,
there’s a shimmer.
A hint of hearth and home.
A muted invitation
to one who walks alone.
Far away from native shore
and succor of the soul.
Harbouring a longing for
the things that make us whole.
Fishing for remembrances
of paintings in the mind,
but finding only semblances
in images unkind.
And now they come, in elder times,
these showings of a land.
So often gleaned from ancient rhymes
that lead us by the hand.
As if to say this life of yours
is wanting for its bed,
so be untroubled, free of chores,
and rest your weary head.
how has it come to this pass
has it all been for love unrequited
or that yours has never been seen
all that you have reached for
all the rare moments of joy
every dream, hope, yearning
dashed
your vessel is frail, dry, and hollow
say not goodnight yet
close not the door
gentle one
there is no solace in darkness
there is at least one who loves you
do not fear
dear one
lay your head to rest
upon the downy pillow of expectation
and let your spirit be soothed
by the hand upon your brow
and the other, holding yours.
We awake from the blessed sleep
after death’s embrace.
Here, in Heaven’s womb,
we lie, we look.
Our breath upon each other
a perfume.
We hear, in gentleness,
a sighing soothing swell of song.
We smell grass, fresh after a rain.
We stand, with lightness of mind.
We see, on the green hillside,
a throng in white.
Some turn and beckon.
Into each others eyes we smile,
then run, without flagging,
hand in hand
into a welcome of open arms.
There is lilting laughter.
then a hush of anticipation.
from the horizon’s haze we hear
the Overtures,
sung by the sinless Seraphim.
We journey long, without tiring,
for we know what awaits
at the End of Ends.
Aremyfeetofftheground 