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To My Knight

proposalOct. 6, 2016

My love, you are a comfort in this place

of godlessness, a knight among the thieves

of honor – noble victor, in your face

are remedies for much that in me grieves.

You are a wink of Christ, so dearly bought

by blood not ours, and in your arms I find

a shelter from the battles that I’ve fought,

where I can leave the loneliness behind.

You soothe my spirit, spur me on to seek

more love in Him who made us, loves us more

than we can love, and when I kiss your cheek

I glow with thoughts of all He has in store.

My darling, may I bless you in return

with deeper love than we could ever earn.

Renaissance

April 18, 2015
Passionate verses settle into prose
I’m paid to type prolifically and fast.
My fingers fly in Word, but my fear grows
that sentences so mechanical will not last.
Creation follows a rhythm of its own —
world shaped and filled in six whole nights and days,
beauty in light and firmament and stone
and stars that dot the sightless void of space.
I am of earth, as Adam, and, as Eve,
of bone and flesh — as both, of Word and Breath.
Father and Maker inspires in me to grieve
my lapse of wonder and saves me from its death.
I cry for Renaissance and find His pen
still authoring me, and I find art again.

Shakespeare’s Desperation

Feb. 2014

Shakespeare is still desperately fighting time,

line by line prolific in capturing one

sweet season – summer – pinning in inky rhyme

bright butterflies to study in the sun.

Like a challenger, he boasts his poems will live

to the world’s end, but libraries have burned.

So many writers’ beauties cease to give

their visions, by men’s same enemies overturned.

As he and all his lovers lie in dust,

and we suspect his words by others penned,

these plays and sonnets like undead fingers thrust

up from the grave, cry, “This is not the end!”

For few bards’ struggles have been so well rewarded –

moments of time that even time has hoarded.

Impatience – Between Advents

Dec. 28, 2012

How much more heartbreak must we all endure

before that Baby, grown into a Man

and baptized, comes again and makes us pure

as He is, as we were when we began?

How much more pain under another’s blows

must we bear even with this lightened yoke?

How long must weeds sprout where the sweet wheat grows,

the sickle silent while the good grains choke?

How many stars must burn out ’til the sky

rolls up like parchment and the dead awake

to look the great Death-Slayer in the eye?

When will His foot smash down to crush that snake?

O come, Emmanuel! Burn off the night

a last with sunrise – set this dark world right!

Language Barrier

I don’t know what to make of us.

I could drum up a passion if I chose,

pound the surface hard enough, long enough

until the core carried the beat’s inside echo.

Ah, the lighting up of your face when we met,

the covert second glance at my photo (in the strapless dress?),

the comfortable, stirring brush of you arm against mine,

the slight smell of your sweat in the light rain…

something could be.

And yet, your unassembled English cannot break my heart.

Conversation can only go as deep as vocabulary.

Shall we be ruled by language long before an ocean intervenes?

Are we doomed to “to,” “too,” and “two” —

doomed to return to one and one

so soon – how great the effort to be other-wise.

Bravo! Be brave. Speak. Laugh. Or let your lips

convey a meaning on some deeper level.

Bookends

June 25, 2012

Author of our great story, even so,

come as on the first day, speaking light

one sentence out of darkness. Spirit blow

the waters to their boundaries by Your might.

Order and recreate our broken earth.

Even baptism has only been a type

of that eye-twinkling, marvelous rebirth.

Call us by our new names! The time is ripe.

We rise from dust a second, glorious time,

never to lose Your breath of life again,

no more to mourn our bodies’ slow decline.

The books, the graves are open! Poise Your pen

to end the prologue. Start our Chapter One

on a clean page: “Behold, the new has come!”

Untitled Sonnet

April 29, 2012

If he asked me on a dinner date

and sat on the opposite side and held my gaze

for 60 seconds, would I still debate

my beauty as I do these lonely days?

Would these loud questions hush to silence if

he took my hand in his, studied my face

with gentleness? Would I relax the stiff,

uncertain muscles robbing me of grace?

Would it not matter so much our differences –

he the outdoorsman, I mosquito food?

Could we unite despite our preferences

over a stronger common love and good?

I think, if he gave me a chance, I could surprise

us both, let go this insecure disguise.