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:

-

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,

-

the touching of two lovers’ hands,

the rhyming of their wedding bands.

-

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.

The Smile at Calvary

I am planning on working on this later, but I thought I would post it now. It’s definitely a work in progress, but you can at least see the idea. If you have any recommendations on how to make it better, let me know.

———————————–

The people had gathered for some time,

when she passed by on her daily chore,

a water girl, of eight or nine.

of eight or nine, this water girl.
-

And seeing Him, just hanging there,

and blood dripping from the wood,

with voices stirring the hillish air,

pregnant with dark dust and soot,

-

she starred.

-

She starred at Him so long

that she placed her bucket on the ground,

and after a short moment she began,

crying tears without a sound.

-

The Man looked down, and saw her face.

and the ache within her eyes.

and a smile — which though bathed in pain,

was pure compassion in disguise.

-

He then stared off, where the hills led,

and at the nearby city gate,

and within a minute, he was dead –

and the little girl soon went her way.

-

And though some may say I lie,

or that I too strongly do implore,

there never was a smile,

which has ever meant more.

Ancient Semitic Text Decoded!

I translated this text last year in Dr. Suleimonova’s class. It was found in the old Semitic Museum on Divinity Avenue. Originally in ancient Semitic, it was translated from Persian. I hope you enjoy it. It took me much time…

Legend tells a tale of a sultan and his queen
put to words when Hebrew and Arab were one.
As time has passed, this dialect has decreased.
I am the last who speak this tongue.

So I, Abba, will translate this tale for you now,
and for those centuries yet in time’s womb.
May they speak Persian or know its sounds,
And so hear of this tale of love we knew.

And to honor the poet who penned these lines,
and the God who blessed the Sultan’s hands,
I will render this tale as it was – with no rhyme.
I trust you understand.

The Sultan ruled over a city, large and great,
when Damascus was but a camels’ resting place
by the sea and on the road to Tyre.
Of all of the possessions which the Sultan loved -
whether his garden filled with olive trees,
or the golden, alabaster studded chariots at his command,
whether the cedars standing like a wall to greet the silk traders from the East,
or the barbarians from the West he made till the sands,
it was the queen he loved most of all.

It was said in the garden near the pomegranate trees the Sultan kept a flower,
which he planted on the day they met.

About this the servants gossiped all the time (although this can still be considered true).

Every time the Sultan passed by it, (which he did often because he loved the color of its leaves), he would whisper a song he had written for her.

And this he would sing to her at night while the sun was setting in the garden.

The melody was set to butterfly wings.

The words, no one knows.

Much can be said about the general love he had for her,
but this alone can be considered the measure of his love:
That although he honored the Ancient God,
and prayed to Him each night,
he once considered believing in the Hindu creed,
upon hearing of the idea he may have lived before.

For he felt his love for her confirmed this -
and as if one of two points were true:
that either he had lived every life with her before,
and thus the love he felt was simply carried over,
or that he had lived no life with her before,
and that this life was meant from the beginning.

Once More

Sunsets glistening off the sands,
books read aloud to tender ears,
long drives underneath starry lands,
and a friendship born from many years,
Asia, Europe, and all the rest –
idyllic coasts which fly by and by,
steppes where horses roam unpent,
and roads for which I’d die,
ever filled me with a sense of awe –
and is if there was nothing left to do.
And I had thought I had seen it all -
Until I saw it all again with you.

I Stumbled Upon This Written On The Beach Today…

If we all trade life for love,
then for today I’ll take a kiss,
a symbol for all we’ve done –
and all the world has missed…

After this there was the beach,
and letters broken down by waves.
And I wandered off as in a dream,
wishing I had found the day.

Wife

Wife,

When I find you, I want to take pictures
of your arms, both left and right,
and place them in my wallet.

I hope this is all right.

It is in case I die away from you.
At which time, they may serve as charms.

Both will be placed, one by each side,
So I can die within your arms.

Her Soul

On the day You made my wife,
on the banks of the far, glassy sea,
did she spring forth from the tide,
or from hope, or sky, or beach?

Did I know that day I’d marry her?
Did I know what’d just been won?
Or was this secret kept ‘til the earth?

And did her smile light the sun?

And what color was her hair -
did you paint it like Your walls?
with a brush of gold – soft and fair?

Because all of this, I can’t recall.

The Dreamer’s Realm

Oh Sleep, thou son of Death,
who a thousand years ago unseen,
your father kissed and home left
with nothing but your dreams.

Who whispers to me in the dim,
poems of Love – from your shore –
which you’ve told to lovers and madmen
who have lived and died before.

Bring me to your father’s home,
to the land of songs never dreamed,
where words no lover has known,
sit locked in rhymes no man has seen.

For each day holds naught for me,
Save for dreams, and the thoughts thereof.
And I would give a life of sleep,
For an eternity of Love.

Valentine’s Day

Though I bring no honeymoon,
Nor day of Valentine observe,
Though I mark no time or tune,
Nor any anniversary preserve.

I write the love upon my heart,
I need no date to keep it true,
For those days come, then part.
And those days are much too few.