They scrawled across the concrete wall
"I believe in you" and "to yourself, be true".
They wrote in chalk,
the chalk was blue.
They wrote upon the river wall
"believe in yourself", "from your friends at the Society for Emotional Health"
They told me "You are beautiful"
O, they were stealthy.
But how shall I believe in me,
when I've no power o'er my soul,
that soul will last eternity,
but I can't tell it where to go.
And how in me could you believe,
when I can't even save my own,
think you I'll grant you some reprieve
for words that make a heart grow hollow?
Your sentiments will wash away with rain,
as just your chalk shall, too
but I have found a savior, Yes,
and he fails not to think of you.
But his words shall endure some more
and longer than the threads of chalk.
Such permanence and constancy
amount to more than just mere talk.
So trust in him, believe in him,
and you shall have your hearts desire,
for isn't what you want, indeed,
to lift yourself up from the mire?
But you can not, and chalk can not,
and pasty, broken sayings will fail.
But he extends his staff to you
to pull you up upon his trail
and he will light the way by night,
and grant you shade by day,
and he will give you life at last
when flesh is dead, and self is pale.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
House of Mirrors.
"Trust me", she said as she led
me down a padded path,
padded by moss, and loamy oak leaves,
down to the river side.
Down to a clearing, a circle of saplings,
ivy spiraling up their smooth trunks
leaves touching leaves of separate kinds,
looking like love, but only Time
knows that such closeness is poison.
It is not the closeness that is poison itself,
but the sort
of closeness which Time has beheld
which wraps itself around the tree,
leaves touching leaves,
choking the life from her, shading her canopy
until no sun can reach
the leaves of the tree.
Past the trees she leads me, closer to the river
the bank of which is up and black from silt
and old oak leaves, from rot
and there upon the river's edge a
Fairy Circle
as some call it, a ring of wild mushrooms there
how strange that they should form a ring...
What cause have mushrooms to display such humane
characteristic. Why the ring, of course, certainly must be thus,
that some poor creature perished there, and the mushrooms
gathered round its corpse to mourn, and mourners these remind the
Fenn of that which it has lost.
She has no care for discourse-her only recourse this: "Trust me".
And there from out of nowhere
or perhaps there all along, my senses being stealed away
by moss and trees and other natural things,
caused me to miss this erection of shimmering glass,
a circle of mirrors.
I am surrounded on all sides, save for the side of the river,
this cold, brown slug of a river.
She says to me, "Trust me".
But I say, "Let me out".
"They only way out, dear one, is the River".
This I see clearly. "You have had me, you temptress! I know
this river's name, it is not Jordan as one might suppose,
no, it is Styx".
"There is no other way out, dear one. Trust me, therefore, and come to me".
I despair, even unto life. For her charm is deceptive, her beauty is fleeting.
I know this. But compared to death, and with her my only choice, her
beauty begins to overcome me.
But I look up. There, above, is the branch of an oak tree,
a tall tree, rising to the sky, unhampered by the winding ivy
of the glen outside this Ring of Tricks, this
House of Mirrors.
And so I leap, and the branch catches in my hand, and the rough bark scrapes,
and she screams.
But the branch cracks, and breaks, and I fall hard to the ground!
And the branch lands square on my shoulder, crack, breaking it,
I know.
and she laughs.
Then I laugh, and through the pain, I lift the branch, and swing wide,
smashing one of the mirrors
and I step out into the clearing,
And I run.
me down a padded path,
padded by moss, and loamy oak leaves,
down to the river side.
Down to a clearing, a circle of saplings,
ivy spiraling up their smooth trunks
leaves touching leaves of separate kinds,
looking like love, but only Time
knows that such closeness is poison.
It is not the closeness that is poison itself,
but the sort
of closeness which Time has beheld
which wraps itself around the tree,
leaves touching leaves,
choking the life from her, shading her canopy
until no sun can reach
the leaves of the tree.
Past the trees she leads me, closer to the river
the bank of which is up and black from silt
and old oak leaves, from rot
and there upon the river's edge a
Fairy Circle
as some call it, a ring of wild mushrooms there
how strange that they should form a ring...
What cause have mushrooms to display such humane
characteristic. Why the ring, of course, certainly must be thus,
that some poor creature perished there, and the mushrooms
gathered round its corpse to mourn, and mourners these remind the
Fenn of that which it has lost.
She has no care for discourse-her only recourse this: "Trust me".
And there from out of nowhere
or perhaps there all along, my senses being stealed away
by moss and trees and other natural things,
caused me to miss this erection of shimmering glass,
a circle of mirrors.
I am surrounded on all sides, save for the side of the river,
this cold, brown slug of a river.
She says to me, "Trust me".
But I say, "Let me out".
"They only way out, dear one, is the River".
This I see clearly. "You have had me, you temptress! I know
this river's name, it is not Jordan as one might suppose,
no, it is Styx".
"There is no other way out, dear one. Trust me, therefore, and come to me".
I despair, even unto life. For her charm is deceptive, her beauty is fleeting.
I know this. But compared to death, and with her my only choice, her
beauty begins to overcome me.
But I look up. There, above, is the branch of an oak tree,
a tall tree, rising to the sky, unhampered by the winding ivy
of the glen outside this Ring of Tricks, this
House of Mirrors.
And so I leap, and the branch catches in my hand, and the rough bark scrapes,
and she screams.
But the branch cracks, and breaks, and I fall hard to the ground!
And the branch lands square on my shoulder, crack, breaking it,
I know.
and she laughs.
Then I laugh, and through the pain, I lift the branch, and swing wide,
smashing one of the mirrors
and I step out into the clearing,
And I run.
Monday, May 6, 2013
The Shepherd's Sheep
He goes about like
a prowling lion
But resist him,
and he will flee
Though oft your flight
seems his success,
Great One speaks twice
to establish firmly
resistance is futile
for the sheep
when found inside of
lion's jaws
But Shepherd has
great power and wields
a woven cord and
iron rod
Flee and run
and when you tire,
O sheep, despair
is not thy fate
for you will rest
and Shepherd will
not surely fail
to close the gate.
a prowling lion
But resist him,
and he will flee
Though oft your flight
seems his success,
Great One speaks twice
to establish firmly
resistance is futile
for the sheep
when found inside of
lion's jaws
But Shepherd has
great power and wields
a woven cord and
iron rod
Flee and run
and when you tire,
O sheep, despair
is not thy fate
for you will rest
and Shepherd will
not surely fail
to close the gate.
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