Sonnet

O!                                                      

Holy is the God of riven flesh

who gathered to His Name an hallowed tithe

ere setting in the felling of His scythe,

enfolding Adam’s severed get to thresh.

How faithful is the Lord of spattered blood –

the life thereof enduing oath with breath –

unto the purchased merit of His death,

on which the witness-stone is firmly stood.

And sovereign Wisdom makes the guarantee

of utt’rance from sincere and callow nerve;

consumes the curse of faithlessness deserved,

blows blessing o’er a child’s audacity.

So three unbreaking strands perform a cord.

So broken man is bound by living Word.

~

“I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it calls itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to use -- silence, exile, and cunning.” ― James Joyce

Sonnet

Bid me not: Speak! My blessings? Few remain,

though imprecations clamour at the hour.

One Word already answers rebels’ glower,

and I will not feed malcontent disdain.

No. I was made to speak, if not be heard.

What difference, then, to sermonize the sea?

Testify to a mountain? Teach a tree

to parse on its own tattooed skin a Word?

No. Ear and tongue alike for glory serve.

So, wants my grey betwixt surpassing wit –

an iron spur, a gleaming silver bit

to lead, by dint of deeds, where each deserve.

No. Horse and chariot prove a faithless tool.

As I must speak, I will do as Your fool.

~

On Grieving

Give Sorrow meat commensurate to all

the grace allowed by hospitality.

Her plate with Maror garnish liberally,

lest she devour your coffers in her gall.

And dance with her; one turn around the floor

to minor key and awkward step. Forfend

that she should name the song; hers does not end

ere tears are spent and hearts left mean and poor.

Pour her a measured glass of heady wine.

Come! Toast her misbegotten dreams and health!

I’ll buy the bottle, drink the rest myself;

Her visitation’s bill, in part, make mine.

Tomorrow let her speed her noisome way.

Content may have her room and, welcome, stay.

~

12.18.18

Written on the occasion of a pair of deaths close to friends.

sonnet

The worst of it is how you blithely flit

upon the moistened corner of my eye;

unbidden swing on lilt of thoughtless sigh,

jig windily from ghastly braided wit.

The worst of it is in the madd’ning itch –

red runnels ragged-torn mayn’t exhume

your disquiet from sallow, nerveless tomb.

False life makes jest of hope with every twitch.

The worst of it is startling from your breast

to echoes of my name; their pleading chains

encumb’ring day by haunted nights’ remains –

cold iron lies your lordly eyes attest.

The worst of it; the sweetness of your breath

would charm, but for the honest reek of death.

~