I am a kind word uttered and repeated
By the voice of Nature;
I am a star fallen from the
Blue tent upon the green carpet.
I am the daughter of the elements
With whom Winter conceived;
To whom Spring gave birth; I was
Reared in the lap of Summer and I
Slept in the bed of Autumn.


At dawn I unite with the breeze
To announce the coming of light;
At eventide I join the birds
In bidding the light farewell.


The plains are decorated with
My beautiful colors, and the air
Is scented with my fragrance.


As I embrace Slumber the eyes of
Night watch over me, and as I
Awaken I stare at the sun, which is
The only eye of the day.


I drink dew for wine, and hearken to
The voices of the birds, and dance
To the rhythmic swaying of the grass.


I am the lover's gift; I am the wedding wreath;
I am the memory of a moment of happiness;
I am the last gift of the living to the dead;
I am a part of joy and a part of sorrow.


But I look up high to see only the light,
And never look down to see my shadow.
This is wisdom which man must learn.

That evening of  glowing leaves
The sweating sky oozed red ,
Shimmered in the mirroring
Pools of rainbow swirls.

The crazed earth,
Blast blown,
Crumbled finely.

Filtered through
Fragile fingers,
Wafer-skinned.

Dust to dust

Rising,

Rising to colossus clouds.

Till the killing breeze blew.

© Marcus Lane 2010

Make me Silent, that I may eloquently converse with Thee.

I wandered through forests of incessant searchings, and arrived at the mystery door of Thy presence. On the doors of silence I knocked loudly with my persistent blows of faith, and the doors of space opened. There, on the altar of glorious visions, I beheld Thee, resting.

I stood, with restless eyes, waiting for Thee to speak. I heard not Thy creation-making voice. At last the spell of stillness stole upon me, and in whispers taught me the language of angels. With the lisping voice of new-born freedom, I tried to speak, and the lights of Thy temple assumed sudden brilliancy and wrote letters of light.

In my little chamber of quietness, I am always resting: I never speak but with the voice of my silence. Through my silence, eloquently converse with me.

From: Whispers from Eternity
A Book of Answered Prayers
1949 Edition

i shunned the camera
and he loved it
this was empowerment
i was in control

my shoulders were shelled
with scratchy gauze
that cascaded with wiry
precision over
my body

naked lightbulbs
a constellation of sorts
hung around
heating up slowly
pulling beads of
sweat from my
chest and
beneath my eyes

i fanned out the wings
in all
of their cheap grandeur
and braided endless curves
into the lens

i felt better with the price tags
lying around

his equipment cost

seventeen thousand
dollars

and his work was up
semiperminently
on some very important

walls

it didnt matter what came later
the empty conversation
between me and
the only lover i had ever bothered to
treat well


the jealousy i would feel
of all the
other girls who had
removed clothes
with wit
swaying in their
dragonette eyes
and danced before that
golden lens

peaceful and afraid
much like myself

afraid that their mother’s
would see the photos
or their boyfriends;
and that those sacred eyes
would linger
pining over imperfections
that had never been made
so clear

jealous because I was only one
in a dozen
supple hearts
who had been unwound
like a tick from
my very
own body

and placed
in a corner
to watch
from afar

She slides over
the hot upholstery
of her mother's car,
this schoolgirl of fifteen
who loves humming & swaying
with the radio.
Her entry into womanhood
will be like all the other girls'—
a cigarette and a joke,
as she strides up with the rest
to a brick factory
where she'll sew rag rugs
from textile strips of kelly green,
bright red, aqua.

When she enters,
and the millgate closes,
final as a slap,
there'll be silence.
She'll see fifteen high windows
cemented over to cut out light.
Inside, a constant, deafening noise
and warm air smelling of oil,
the shifts continuing on ...
All day she'll guide cloth along a line
of whirring needles, her arms & shoulders
rocking back & forth
with the machines—
200 porch size rugs behind her
before she can stop
to reach up, like her mother,
and pick the lint
out of her hair.