The Poet’s Task

My dear,

Please ask me not to write for you,

whether by poem or by tune.

Dare me not to write ten rhymes,

or lay them out in some design.

-

Please beg me not to draw some rune,

or recite a poem, which once I knew,

Implore me not to find a pen,

to mark upon eight lines again.

-

For poets are a lonely sort,

and words are ever love’s last resort,

But there are words, we cannot say,

which are lived once, and then away:

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A smile, a touch, — a glance of free,

a resting of the head to sleep,

a breath drawn in, while others move,

in stillness, where, true love is proved,

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the touching of two lovers’ hands,

the rhyming of their wedding bands.

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As fingers rhyme when they are clasped,

so poems, when they all began,

were meant to be much more like that.

Religion

Here I am with my memories.

the only religion I do need,

save your letters as a holy book,

and your tears spilled as an ink.

I see our church as the world…

the mountain pass – our steeple, tall,

a fallen oak – our lectern board.

the rolling grass – our pews and stalls.

The ocean calm – our choir book,

our seven sacraments are stars,

our benediction is a loving look,

sealed with the crossing of your arms.

Our whispers are our orisons,

your warm embrace, my confession booth,

a sermon is a long paean

sung with love from me – to you.

And so, I’ll send these words away,

as missionaries, so all the world can know,

the beauty of the love You made,

and the religion that I know.