"garth" poems
Banished before thon barren plains,
Where treacherous tears abstain
Fare. Fair is the waste,
The impurity of deep, decrepit weeds.
And dage brings fruit then touched
Only by their ravens of rot.
May they paint thine tainted stave
In golden garth and lull the lark;
“Mine, Sweet babe,
Robbed of cradle
Readied for ritual.
Mine, Sweet babe,
Gore masked black
Within the crimson bath.”
Lacen their throats, the gullets that gloat!
Lest langes of thorns, wrap the bairn sworn.
Death breeds glore o’er luid nights
Beldam rise belles in wicked repel.
Round the funeral pyre.
Jul 19, 2021
Jul 19, 2021 at 1:38 PM UTC
The Key To Success
A leaf has many veins connected by the midrib, similar to the Corolla in flowers connected by the sepal,
A stem has many leaves, connected through it, even the roots in this design- fibrous or tap are in their own way special,
Many stalks form a branch, many branches form a tree but all connect at the base, the trunk,
This happens in every tree, but to rebirth has to separate some chunk,
The message being conveyed by nature is unity is the key to success in this world where every person is a different type of petal,
Land Of The Ganga
In this Garth, trees are never watered by a soul, but the river Ganges herself,
The trees even after sinking inwards into the ground, continue to bloom in themselves,
Filled with myriad species of undreamt trees and the rarest of all florets in the daintiest of bowers
The most prodigious banyan tree with about three hundred aerial roots is the main
attracter
A tree that stores water is one of the hundred phenomena in the Botanical Garden in the land of the Ganga itself
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
The monk stands
in the shadow
of the cloisters,
said Benedict,
his arms folded
beneath his black habit,
his features unsmiling,
his stare out at the garth
and the clock tower
over the way.
I watch him,
feeling the sun's warmth
where the shadows aren't;
the flowers in the flower beds
are in full bloom,
the afternoon air
throws birds into the sky
to set free and fly.
Other monks
gather in the garth
after the office of None;
Patrick wheels out the trolley
with tea, coffee and cake;
we stand and talk
in the brief recreational break;
white clouds drift by,
birds take wing above
in the afternoon sky.
One talks to me of his book
on the abbey, the history
from its origins in France
until exiled here.
There is the bell
for the end of the break
and on we go
to our occupations
in our rooms or church;
I attend the Latin class
with George and Gareth,
our novice master aids us
in our studies, we learn
the holy sounds
of the Latin phrase and chants.
I love the office of Compline:
the chanting in the half-dark,
the evening light
through high windows,
the utter separation
from the outer world
and our communion with God
in prayer and chant and song,
and our hymn to Sancta Maria,
and the final bell,
and the prayers on wing and air,
and I stand momentarily
silent there.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 6:13 AM UTC
Dawn breaks. Sliver of light
through shutters, wakes Sister
Blaise, stirs her from sleep.
Bell rings. Chimes loud.
She sits up, legs over the
side of the bed. Bare feet,
wooden floor. Coldness bites.
Rubs arms, legs. Crosses
herself with middle digit,
in nomine Patris. Bright light
through shutters slices into
floor. Prayer said she rises
from her bed. Thoughts race
through her head. Drab night
gown, grey, long. She walks
to the enamel bowl, pours
cold water, washes face and
neck and hands. Et Filii, et
Spiritus Sancti. Lets water
run through fingers. Wash
me whiter. The Christ on
the wall hangs there in His
silence. Picture of Christ on
her desk, hands out stretched.
She runs water through her
fingers, wet, cold. Wash me,
cleanse me. She dries her
hands on the old white towel,
rubbing dry fingers, hands,
face and neck. Uncle used to.
Pushes thoughts of him away,
they slip back in place, eel like.
Uncle used to touch. Bless me
Father. She folds the towel,
places it neatly at the foot
of her bed. She removes the
nightgown. Dresses in her habit.
White and black. Mother said
nothing. Silence and the turning
of the head. Finger pressed
against lips. Dressed, she sets
about her cell. Tidying, sorting,
bed making. Uncle used to touch
her. For I have sinned. She opens
the shutters, lets light in, opens
the windows, fresh air, birdsong,
slight breeze. Father used to beat.
The Christ hanging from the cross
on the wall is silent. Nailed hands,
hands curled. She has kissed the
nailed feet. Now she stares at the
turned head, turned slightly to one
side, crown of thorns, wood carved.
Sister Clare is in the cloister. She
watches her walk. She stops. Looks
into the cloister Garth. Flowers
growing, neat rows, large bushes.
Mother said nothing. Beatings.
Lies told about Uncle he said.
Sent to bed, no supper. The sun
is warm, light on head. She walks
from the window and stands in
front of the crucifix. His hands
curled, nailed, old nails, pins.
Feet one on top of the other, nailed
in place. She kisses His feet.
Presses soft lips. Uncle used
to touch, said our secret, sin
to tell, little girl. She presses
lips to His feet. Mother weak,
said nothing, dying now, cancer,
pain, hurts. Father dead. Never
make old bones he said. Proved
right. She closes her eyes. Touches
His legs, runs finger along. Stiff,
cold, smooth. Uncle did; she never
told again. Father displeased, the
beating pleased. The bell rings again.
Echoes along cloister. She crosses
herself with middle digit. A bird sings.
Wind moves branches by window,
He calls, must leave, must go.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
The names I would give if I had 26 sons.
Abel
Benjamin
Conway
Darth
Evan (After my nephew)
Fabian
Garth
Hollis (My dad)
Joey (My brother)
Isaac (My grandfather)
Kent
Lemuel
Matthew
Nathaniel
Othniel
Paul
Quinton
Richard (My middle name)
Sandage (My grandmother’s maiden name)
Terry (My name)
Uzziah
Val
William (My great grandfather)
X (One of my favorite wrestlers was Doctor X)
Yale
Zacchaeus
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
It all started with an urge to go to the movie theater
PTA's "The Master"
It was a 35 minute walk to the nearest cinema in Brooklyn
Nighthawks is what it was called
1:10pm, 4:10pm, 6:10pm, 10:10pm, the show times
Since I woke up at 12:45am, 1:10pm was out of the question
4:10pm seemed plausible but when the clock rolled around I was still puttering around the house
I could putter no more by 6:00pm and flew the cooped up den
The air, brisk and crisp
Time fell back
Women's heels clap the sidewalk in applause
All for the autumn on a Sunday frozen in time
I arrive, show sold out
I walk across the Williamsburg bridge, why not?
First theater in Manhattan I see turned out to be live art
So I turned out and left
Manhattans alive while Brooklyn slumbers
I dart down Clinton St toward the old Avenues
November, I could go without the cold weather, but I love the seasons
Pumpkin lattes **** my wallet dry like lesions
Soon I'm walking down 2nd Av, feeling familiar with my surroundings
Funny, feeling familiar, in a city I thought I'd never know, (you'll never know if you don't go)
Got some dollar pizza on St Marks
Followed by a dollar falafel, which tasted awful, (now I know why it was a dollar)
I walked in circles around Union Square, in union with everyone there
Happy that my feet were to the street, where they belong
Freezing, frozen, frigid, shakin' in my britches
Wrapped around my neck a borrowed scarf
Bumping into people, "I'd like to get by now", like Garth
(keep moving, you'll find what you want to find)
In big bright neon light at Village Cinema
"The Master"
(In 70mm)
Huh, 70mm, "Cool", I thought
The theater, empty as a loners funeral
I was the only one there, red velvet lined seats
I missed Halloween
Maybe this is my treat
The world is beautiful
This city is mine,
All I had to do
Was leave my old one behind
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, Sister Maria, the refectorian, had said, Sister Teresa remembered walking passed the refectory, touching the wall with her fingers. God is my witness and guide, she translated, feeling the rough brick beneath her fingers. She stood; turned to look at the cloister garth. Sunlight played on the grass. Flowers added colour to borders and eyes, she thought, letting go of Maria's words as if they were balloons. Ache in limbs; a slowness in her movements. Age, she muttered inaudibly. The war had taken her cousin's sons in death. Two of them. Peter and Paul. Burma and D-day. Three years or more since. She brought hands together beneath the black serge of her habit. Flesh on flesh. Sister Clare had touched. Not over much, not over much. Papa would lift her high in his arms as a child, she mused, her memory jogged by the sunlight on the flowers. Higher and higher. Poor Papa. The spidery writing unreadable in the end. She sniffed the air. Bell rang from church tower. Sext. She looked at the clock on the cloister-tower wall. Lowered her eyes to the grass. So many greens. Jude had lain with her once or was it more? She mused, turning away from cloister wall and the sight of grass and flowers. Thirty years since he died. Blown to pieces Papa had written. Black ink on white paper sheet. Flesh on flesh; kiss to lip and lip. She paused by church door; allowed younger nuns to pass; so young these days, she thought, bowing, nodding her head. Placing her stiff fingers in the stoup, she made cross from breast to breast. Smell of incense; scent of wood; bodies close; age and time. She walked to her place in the choir stall, bowed to Crucified tabernacled. Kneeled. Closed eyes. Murmured prayer. Heard the rustle of habits; clicking of rosaries; breathing close. Opened eyes. Sister Clare across the way. A nod and a smile, almost indiscernible to others, she thought, returning the same. Mother Abbess tapped wood on wood; chant began; fingers moved; sign of cross; mumbled words. Forty years of prayer and chant; same such of fingered rosaries; hard beds; dark night of soul and such. She sensed Papa lifting her high in thought at least; Mama's touch on cheek and head. Jude's kiss. Embrace of limbs and face. Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, she recalled: God my witness and guide. Closed eyes. Sighed. Sister Clare had cried; had whispered; witness and guide; witness this and guide, she murmured between chant, prayer, and the scent of incense on the air.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
I dreamt it snowed
Nectar and powdered sugar,
Dusting nature's lips.
I recall the kiss from her
Not-so-innocent curiosity,
Come-hither in her arched brow.
How the morning breeze
Grew wanton,
Lifting her nightdress,
Until naked she pirouetted about
The cloister garth.
I dreamt of flowering moonlight
And his potent stem,
Filling her
With stars and shivers,
As she burst, for goodness sake,
From all the little blissful parties
Drumming her garden wall.
I dreamt of fecundity
And funnel cakes,
Soft and sweet and round,
Her milk a spring,
Laden with gift of life.
Intuitive opaque areolae,
The shape of things to come,
The very ones from which
She'll nurse their young.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 6:52 PM UTC
The old monk
with Parkinson’s disease,
bug eyed
through thick lenses
spectacles,
his fingers
shaking the host,
is unable to find
the tongue
in sick monk’s
static mouth.
I weeded
the cloister Garth
flower bed,
back aching,
God
at my young
bent shoulder.
The youngest monk,
squat and black robed,
holds the ewer,
while the abbot
holds between
knobbly fingers,
the aspergillum,
to bless the monks
in the choir stalls,
after Compline,
before
the Angelus calls.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
Garth lay still in the gilded cage
Unable to move a thing,
The bars were merely spiders’ webs
Of a faery’s magicking.
He’d wandered into the Faery Ring
Where he’d seen the mushrooms spread,
And now was caught in a faery spell
With the rest of the living dead.
With Tom, the Candlestick Maker’s son
And a barrel of candlewax,
He’d dawdled home from the marketplace
And lay in the beckoning grass.
He woke to find he was tightly bound
With a faery up on his chest,
She said, ‘Lock him in the cage as well,
Along with all of the rest.’
And Madge, the maid with a milking pail
Who was sent to milk the cow,
She’d wandered off on her way; she thought,
She needed to feed the sow.
She woke to mushrooms, ten feet tall
All towering over her head,
The stalks were bars, set under the stars
And her limbs, they felt like lead.
While Tim the Tinker was there as well
With his knives and sharpening tools,
His grindstone lay in a pile of hay
And the bonds on him were cruel.
The beggar lay in his filthy rags
While the rich man muttered, ‘Shame!’
He’d soiled his boots and his Regency suit,
Was bound with his watch and chain.
They lie not far from the caravans
Of a gypsy camping ground,
So Faeries say: ‘Let’s take them away
Before they’re seen and found!’
But dancing into the faery ring
Is the Gypsy, Mavourneen,
Who stumbles over the gilded cage
And steps on the Faery Queen.
The top flies off from the gilded cage,
The webs of the bars are torn,
And Garth crawls over the mushroom heads
To swear, ‘I feel reborn!’
The faeries weep as they carry their Queen
In death, to their Faery Dell,
There’s mushrooms still in that Faery Ring,
But now, Toadstools as well!
David Lewis Paget
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
Get the spirit of science, robot
The painting eating kissing teaching Park
Silver & legs to the canticle is from the
contribution to the diaphragm; A bunch of free
of sand, & the prophet, & brought him
to w/ in her ******* the language of the rabble?
in Latin, however, the knowledge of the ability
of the power of the gods in the track club cops
care; looking for wood of the table itself
But in the mirror on the bed Forty-plastic letters
Lakes turning away from the center of the top;
buried by the beginning of the new ****
he fell to listen to the voice from the NGO's
When flies were dancing w/ burning eyes,
so gun-sight & both its nature equipment
will be cut off at the knees; Remember my story
It is written in back of the dragon that loves Glory;
the corporate life it can be the best of smoke
To have the mind of a pretext for their home
to paradise, to change of teeth, & begin:
Earth to need a cool blond child to read
holding flames, understand abstract;
Glory to the bottom lay the empty gun's
skinny ****
He caught wind Bob Christian, Adios,
broken vigilance sought by Einstein
J's daughters' simulated bounce
The skin until the end of Bettie
Then, the mysteries of the House of leather
Garth inspired state Ephraim was held & Kissed
Mad floors language barrier as at 5, high blood
Adoni'jah's six villages; A fool also be used
for developing a speech, mindful of the message
& the heat from the sun, the stranger spoke
of P. & Woolf lived for sports Friday & walked through
the wilderness, he began to to ask for, to put him
with garments and blessed is he, Love was
a weapon in the shadows but the hot drink is
To receive a ghost; The light open in the middle
Wide took it to a table in the Libyan day to day,
1 for the first time; He turned the sea into the right side
of the enemy; claiming pretty mountains; number
of years of starvation; half of the Jews: but the real
point early in the morning is 1 Fowler Robert Kiyosaki,
consort to the Queen of Drugs
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
I wish I lived in Wayne’s World,
where Wayne and Garth are real.
I wish I had Cassandra’s curls,
and her *** appeal.
I wish I dated Jason Dean,
and coloured him impressed.
I wish I had the killer gene,
but never ever confess.
I wish I went to Ashfield Hospital,
and looked a little on edge.
Explored shutter island in the spittle,
and made the Marshall pledge.
I wish I lived with Yeats,
or in the lonely moated grange,
I wish I danced on table tops,
my body for money, fair exchange.
I wish reality didn’t exist,
or better yet just me,
all those opportunities would be missed,
and at peace I’d finally be.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 3:58 PM UTC
The peasant monk
walks slow
through the cloister
carrying a bucket
gripped in his
peasant hand
- red knuckles,
head bowed-
I **** the beds
around the cloister garth
-she had me
between her thighs
and the excitement
within her eyes-
Dom Leo
tall and slim
waits outside
the refectory door
to say farewell
before he leaves
for Rome
the following day
-She ****** me dry
in her bed
gazing eye to eye.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 2:15 AM UTC
We gathered on the grass
of the garth
surrounded by
the cloister's low wall,
there was a trolley
with a tea urn
and cups and saucers
and sugar and milk
or a jug of French coffee,
the clock tower
chimed a quarter,
a monk sipped tea
and spoke in French to another,
I sipped tea
and Dom Kenneth
passed me some cake
on a plate,
you can kiss me
wherever you like
she said and so I did,
birds sang from
the tree in the garth,
I ate cake watching
the French peasant monk
pour himself
some black coffee,
exspéctans exspectávi Dóminum,
et inténdit mihi
Dom Henry said,
Hugh stood talking to George
about what I knew not
and cared not a jot,
she allowed me
to undress her
my hands shook
with excitement,
I waited for the Lord
and He heard me
Dom Henry said,
I put the plate on the trolley
and sipped my tea
watching Gareth discuss
Wittgenstein with an Austrian monk,
the abbot sipped coffee
conversing with the monk
with the cissy girl haircut
who showed me how
to pick apples,
take me, she whispered,
here and now,
the bell tower tolled
and the monks dispersed
placing cups and plates
on the trolley,
the peasant monk
pushed the trolley
back to the refectory,
head lowered, eyes downcast,
conversing with God no doubt,
spank me as foreplay,
she uttered soft,
I walked the cloister,
smell of blossoms,
the bell tolled,
bird song,
Dom James said
about learning Latin,
search the high road,
Dom Henry said,
avoid
the lower path
to sin.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 2:28 AM UTC
it's like walking into a garth,
overwhelmed by the blossoms.
there's nothing better than this
making my heart whole blooms.
yet it's like an autumnal equinox,
there's a time to whither and die.
albeit leaves fall on the ground,
but I bet it'll be remembered.
I feel not blithe nor blue
whilst entering the whole new chapter,
'cause it won't be the same like before.
it makes me to wonder,
how blue will be defined after?
Jul 24, 2021
Jul 24, 2021 at 9:06 AM UTC
Amidst a melancholy darkness, all is silent, all is still. Mimicking the nature of my soul at this precise instant...
A river flows within me dancing to the beat of a lonesome drum, waltzing me into a million realms of true disbelief where my thoughts linger eternally. I play the role of a mere onlooker to the sheer terror that ensues within the darkest chasms of my imagination...
Despite the sonnet of insanity playing alongside my unconsciousness, a drum still calls, a sweet psithurism flows through the branches of memory and a serpentine red river continues to flow mortally like clockwork...
Salty drops of rain embrace the names engraved in stone as beautifully decorated couples dance atop their ancient beds.
You see, their rivers stopped flowing at the final beat of their fateful drums, imprisoning them to a non-existent world where memories are no longer created. For now, they're dancing; while they await the final judgement.
A holy holy flash of light strikes the center of my still pounding drum, all the wine has been drunk and the last cigarette smoked, rivers are a flowin'. I awaken breathless, to an empty, white chamber. I know I am home. Without a pulse.
-Garth Lebowski
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
She was this silver moon
alight her seldom seen swing
or virtually then
as time in a bottle
and in this antiquity
on Saturday night
she grew the orchard
by the cloverleaf
when her bridge opened wide
and she felt so granted
that it was her ambiance or garth
near a point then
she went combing a ride
the bus did go that way
and her muggy wantonness
burst inside her chest every moment
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 9:10 AM UTC
Afternoon sun touched the cloister garth. The office of None had just completed. Sister Teresa walked slowly down the cloister from the church, letting her failing eyesight search for the opening to the garth. Heard the clink of cups on saucers; the chatter of voices; nearby the smell of the flowers in the flowerbeds. Her white stick tapped against the wall as she walked; her arthritic hand gripped it painfully. Felt the sun's rays on her face; the slight breeze touch her habit like as saucy child. Remembered a summer long ago before she entered the convent. The green of grass in her memory and a kiss. Who's kiss? She searched her memory like one seeking through an old chest. Jude. Yes, Jude. Smiled. Felt opening in the wall; turned into the garth. She remembered vaguely his face; felt the grass beneath her feet. Someone touched her arm with their hand. One of the sisters spoke. Not Sister Clare. Dead now. Most of them were she knew. She listened to the tone of the voice; her eyes failed her again. Sister Mark. Her mind grasped the image that fitted the voice. She smiled. Sister Mark had led her by the arm and asked about tea and cake. Tea, yes, no cake, she said. Mama had a similar voice. Mama had said not to let them touch. Not men; not to be trusted. Or was that papa? She couldn't remember. Take it easy, Mother Abbess had told her; take things steady. Fifty years since she came that summer. She recalled the heat of that summer. The cloister's smell of bread and incense. Papa's face when she left home that day; the tears in his eyes; the awkward smile on his lips. No one came now. All dead and buried. Clare in the convent cemetery next to the wall; mole holes along by the gravestone. That had been an adventure in the art of love. A secret known only to God and them. Mea culpa, she whispered. Sister Mark handed a cup and saucer; soft hand touched hers; sweet voice spoke of the weather and the smell of the flowers. Sighed. Breathed in the air. Sipped tea. Cup rattled in the saucer. Stood here once and spoke to all; now few speak; only the kind and brave. Sister Mark spoke of the new novices and of the freshness about them. Sister Teresa looked about her; a vague scan of images; of faces in white and their youthful giggles and chatter. She had been as such once. She, her loves, and her memories. The bell tolled from the cloister clock; voices stilled. The breeze calmed. The sun eased off and hid behind a cloud. Someone took her cup and saucer and placed a hand on her arm. Not to touch, not over much. Mama had said. One of the dead. The God blessed dead. She walked back along the cloister, the hand still on her arm; flesh on flesh. Not to touch, not over much, a soft voice whispered of long ago.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 9:00 AM UTC
Ecce enim in
iniquitáte generátus sum,
et in peccáto concépit
me mater mea,
and the cloister
smelt of incense,
the mulberry tree sheltered us
at teatime on the garth,
the theologian monk
slipped his tea as anyone else
speaking of Aquinas,
I sipped tea gazing
at the Hugh drawn-faced
mouthing his tea,
furrow browed,
Gerald spoke of Wittgenstein
over his cup of brew,
you can have me
she said any which way
you please,
rain in the distance,
dark clouds,
biscuits on plates
on the trolley,
the French monk took one
and ate it
with such delicacy,
I fingered the rosary
in my pocket,
the silver Christ
smooth on fingertips,
she flower like,
blossoming before me,
I was born in sin as all are,
the bell chimed a quarter
from the clock tower,
we sipped beneath
the mulberry tree,
ate biscuits,
sipped dark tea.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 4:14 AM UTC
The concert was
July 27, 1980
I attended the concert with
My good friend Garth
but sadly Garth and Johnny have
passed on
someone else has the other shoe
but I really don't know who
I do remember July 27, 1980
I didn't steal the shoe,
it was given to me.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 5:38 AM UTC
Garth Brookes rocks
as we
in turn
here gently sway...
his voice
your eyes
the rhythmic beat
as two hearts
become
one.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
I walked down the drive
from the abbey
to stand near the road
and listened to the traffic
pass by before the office
of Compline began,
obcidi,
moonlight in the dark sky
and stars sprinkled like sugar,
smell of incense
in the church
after Mass overwhelming,
a monk with a black patch
over one eye like a pirate
stood facing me in the choir
book in hand
head lowered,
begin doing
what is necessary
then what is possible
and suddenly
you are doing
the impossible
Francis said,
Dieu est ici
the French monk said
pointing a bony finger
towards his chest
as we trod up the drive
from our weekly walk,
Gott ist überall
an Austrain monk said
not just in the heart and soul,
George hoed the abbey gardens
and said the sun is so hot
it's like a desert out here
and it was
and we were thirsty,
Hugh thin and gaunt said
to be a saint one must do
the ordinary extraordinary well
which he never did
or so seemed,
give the apples a twist
so the monk said
do not pull them off
and I watched his fingers
touch and twist,
and she lay there naked
as the day she was born
and asked me
to shaft her
so I did
and her husband
was driving on a long haul,
wise men talk
because they have
something to say
fools because
they have to
say something
Gareth said quoting Plato,
the abbot tapped
his small hammer
on his bench
and the meal was over
and the reader stopped
mid sentence
reading from the book
and the refectory
was in silence
before prayers were said,
I lay with her
and she mouthed me whole,
cercare di essere salvati
the Italian monk said
to me as I weeded
the flowerbeds
in the cloister garth,
try and be saved
listen to the word,
some days I wished
to take flight and begone
like some wild
flapping wings bird.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 3:21 AM UTC
Before the office of Sext,
before lunch,
I had time
in my cell
to have private prayers
or meditation
and stood at the window
and gazed out,
the sky blue,
white clouds,
the abbey visible
from where I stood,
a monk walked across
the garth of grass,
hands hidden
in the huge pockets,
where would you
want me?
She said,
she lay there
semi-clothed,
arms outstretched,
a bell from the clock tower
chimed three quarters,
without us God will not,
Dom Joseph had said
during the novice's talk session,
without God we cannot,
birds sat on the roof
of the clock tower,
black and proud,
I ran a finger slowly
along her inner thigh,
she giggled,
dribbled,
I closed my eyes,
soon be Sext,
Latin,
short prayers,
then lunch, food,
I lay beside her
parting her hairs.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 3:51 AM UTC