Sunday, April 06, 2008

Some Poem Drafts

Minor stuff, very rough.


The slime of ages creeping
in my ears as I lay sleeping
smothers me with weeping
for the folly of my ways.

Viscous darkness dripping,
to fallen, error-slipping
volition's scale is tipping
in the narrative of my days.

The devil inside mocking
never ceases talking
and, tempting, never stopping,
resolve and reason frays.


And I asked,
What is the color
Of a cobordism at sunset
And were I really
A nonabelian cohomology
Where would I hide?

And she said,
Red, like two lovers
In free union, so close,
They together bound
Expanses of the world.

And in the subtle passing
Of the hemidemisemiquaver
In the music of the spheres,
When the gerbes pile up
And sing old songs
Of bringing in the sheaves
At a mathematician's funeral.

Ecclesiological Aphorisms

The human heart we know right well,
a bit of heaven, a bit of hell;
we are taught it in the psalter.

The Church must suffer death and lies
that Christian hearts may sympathize
with every sinner's falter.

They who pray by work and rest
find church all places east and west,
the earth itself their altar.

The Church that lives by faith and love
is ruled by none but God above;
no law can be its halter.

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