A SOLSTICE SONG

O my Sol—in my one and humble stand,
no finer hand has played my body than thine.
No other could be so catholic in giving,
so regal in simplicity, so munificent in nurture.

Humility, endow me. Smooth your alien salve
on the grieving house of man. Bleed we outrageous souls
who long for neither left nor right, but to balance both extremes.
Ego, release me. Spare your hobbled prey
the clearer sense to disregard the senses.
Thy highest aspiration is solely Self:  the ignominious ****
of all that garners, squirms, or gleams.
Vengeance, survive me. Butcher without qualm
that naked beast who squanders ****** eyes,
who wanders mist to shadow, pincers poised,
throughout the heaving veils and ****** truths
our minds construe as dreams.

O my Sol—cauldron of the heavens, shepherd of my eye,
muse to mark that cherished pulse that resurrects my spine—

Condemn to thine inferno all who desecrate this well!
**** into thy leaping flares each poison man has sown:

Burn out this stone!

O my Sol—lure of my vein, lamb in my wound,
cure to treat my fleet and tender vine;
for this gift of life I thank thee twice:  
once, when first I held thy goodly eye,
once again, with tinder, when I die.





Copyright 2019
contact Ron Sanders at:

ronsandersartofprose(at)yahoo(dot)com