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.