Thought
I sat upon the wayside, lost in thought
of longest years and great ideas and loves,
of hopes and hearts in darkness caught,
of mighty topics handled with kid gloves
by men who never think save on their meals,
by minds that know no truths but only feel,
who never have the paths of Wisdom sought.
Through all my many days of glowering cloud --
the days are many, though the years be few --
of this I was most often proud,
that I knew and saw more than others do;
but minds are mirrors wavy and unwise,
prone to malice, mischievous with lies.
When I see the world, why trust my sight as true?
Or perhaps it is, but in a subtle way;
for many are the threads that God can spin
upon the loom of life, and in bright day
one pure white refracts through many men,
yet never less the white will play on face
of crystal planes, before it turns to race
to dazzle mind and eye with plural ray.
A rabbit stole the sun; it, fearless, rose
and snatched a piece away, a shattered shard
that broke into the stars that nightly glow.
Perhaps a god inspired the lonely bard
who told that tale, that we might come to see
that rays of light refract through you and me
to be caught again by none but pure of heart.
For truth, they say, is simple, one, and whole;
it stays as it ever stays, unbroken and most pure.
When the titan for our sake the glory stole,
it shattered, for only God could this endure
to wear as gem and dress; as flint on steel,
the sparks flew out to set our minds to reel,
the fire of the Logos lodged in earthen souls.
Yet as I sit upon the wayside here and think,
the fire always flickers; for what am I,
presuming from that Hippocrene to drink
which lacks its full effect until we die,
but a thief within the garden, stealing pears,
and plucking those great things as none should dare;
and what is this but an all-engulfing pride?
And yet--and yet the flame still mounts on high.
What the titan has unlocked none can return;
none who speak it can undo that question, "Why?"
And as the pitch once flamed must henceforth burn,
so must I, now heated, lit, and god-inspired,
be self-taught; for learning is desire
from the One. To the One it must return.
Protreptic for Prothalamion
Trip the tongue on love, keep the time;
bear up your broken soul, and bear in mind
that every poem passes, but when it's passed
the spirit's light remains, for love will last.
Love is legend's match; it lies in wait
for worthy men and wise with hearts of faith
who drink the deepest cup with droughts that sate
and yet create a thirst that grows more great.
So bring your bright-lit joys and ring the bells;
let will be wed to love, which makes all well.
Already Sorry
Sun shines high in bluebird sky,
grass springs up at our feet;
your hair like gold streams in the cold,
like your lips, so honey-sweet,
and your eyes so startling blue
that I'm already sorry for loving you.
Your words in my ears banish all fears,
rejoicing resurges inside
with force and ache no man can take,
as heart bursts open with pride
at a world so painfully new
that I'm already sorry for loving you.
