Wisdom

It is time to wake up. Everything is alive, as we must also be. It is far too easy to submit to the hot sleep of summer, and forget that there is so much to be accomplished. It is a sad life that comes to its end, to find that nothing has been accomplished, but this is the constant complaint of America. The wasted life; the lost time. Why is there so little greatness in the world? We are to blame. To achieve, we must first try. We love to dream, but dreaming is emptiness. Do, and if doing does not succeed, then do again and again, until you find the thing that you are meant to do.

Wisdom

O God, to whom has wisdom been revealed?
Not I, who can contain it, but the little ones, the flowers of the field,

who number out their momentary days

in melodies of soft, unspoken praise,

and ever yield.

Frailty of the Bone

This poem is a little late, but forgive me; it was a very full weekend. Poems about poetry seem to be somewhat of a theme with me, these days, so I pray it's not too boring. As a final note, I was having a certain amount of difficulty coming up with a title, but Pixie Rainwater happened by, and suggested I use the one you see now, so my thanks goes out to her. I dare not post a titleless poem.


Frailty of the Bone

Words work their lively spell upon the leaf
when patience exercises empty time,
and seems the muse shall never know the grief
of inspiration ended in a rhyme;

of agonizing hours worn away
to bare a single sentence from the stone,
or dim desire lost within decay,
and broken, with the frailty of bone.

For this is not the burden; this a fraud,
a fever dream of fair, unfounded ease,
that carelessly erects a grand facade
to elevate the abject from his knees,

while all the words that fall, as autumn rain,
so sweet and sorry to the open eye,
do find their founding in unwanted pain
and spring to life from graves, wherein we lie.

Summer Storm

Last week, I found myself, quite unexpectedly, in the midst of a wonderful thunderstorm. It had been sunny only moments before, then, suddenly, the sky darkened and thick rain began to fall. The heart of the storm never got all that close, but there were some dazzling strokes of lightning and long, rolling bouts of thunder. A good storm is a lovely thing, and ought not to be enjoyed from indoors!

Summer Storm

Deep-throated, a threatening cloud

overshadows the sky.

Clothed in wet, windy shroud,

it intones a reply

in a voice, gruff and loud,

to the summering crowd:

Not a soul will stay dry!

Poor Poetry

Is it really true? The school year is... done. Of course, it doesn't seem quite real, yet, and I'm not sure what I'll do with all my new-found time. The first thing that needs to happen, however, is a kayaking trip through the beautiful lakes and rivers of Southwest Washington. Three days is the current plan. Three days of sun and water and trees, and not another soul to be seen. What better way to begin the break? And, on an entirely separate note, a poem about poetry for your enjoyment. The hardest part of writing, by far, is not the endless succession of blank pages, nor the pain of cutting huge chunks of text, nor the ache that settles into your back when hunched over a little laptop for hours on end, but the knowledge that you will be judged by what you create. It took me a long time to get over that fear, and I still struggle with it, but I have realized that it is not about proving yourself to others. You need only write for two: yourself and God. Beyond that, it doesn't matter a whit what other people think.


Poor Poetry

If words were half as high as any star,
or half as deep, again, as any sea...
And yet, no more, nor less, than what they are,
and half of what they hope themselves to be;

a listless tremble on the lip and ear,
no reliquary left upon their death,
except the thought that one, alone, will hear,
descended to the heart upon a breath,

and if I could enclose my secret self
within those words that I so poorly speak,
then I could cover them with love and wealth,
but I am all too wavering and weak,

so I surrender them unto the swords,
to pardon or condemn as they see fit.
I have no more, nor less, to give than words,
and so I give them meekly, and submit.