"paradigms" poems
Against the saturated
Horizon of dawn,
Loitering in the dark timbre
Of emerging consciousness -
Dissipating somnolence
And preemptive despair,
Tacitly adumbrate the
Yawning abyss.
Chastened by the cunning and
Lubricious nihilism,
Igniting fermented provocations,
Silent subterfuge; death,
By mirth - the inane;
Lament of the mundane.
Fallow paradigms, accretions of
The last gasp -
Evaporating empty liturgies
Of suspicion;
Charity and equanimity -
Lost in confinement,
Triumphant avarice bearing
Descendants
Of intransigence;
Wielding imperious
Schemes of orthodoxy.
Pollard fragments of
Silken tapestry,
Miasma draped depression
Abridging;
Conversely,
Permuted flurries of anxiety
Dislodge
The vestiges of meaning
That abide
In brazen equivocation.
Tributaries of dogma reach
Their confluence,
Watershed moment,
Numinous effusion
Streams naked epiphany,
The precarious vision -
A gesture of providence,
Certainty and contingency;
Gratuitously derivative, life
Equals choice.
Verdant branches of intention;
And opportunity the vine,
Live forward -
The pen, my voice,
Piquant conduit pouring,
Exuberant wine.
Footprints found in givenness
Underline,
Penumbrae of my soul;
Mirrored silhouettes,
Thoughts and words engender;
And in verse adorn
Fecund soil, Line after line,
The cosmos altered,
Continuum of permanence -
Artist’s art articulating
Essence of my imagination,
I proliferate, I design
Phrases unique,
Participation mystique.
Words creating world,
The apparatus of infinity
Heidegger, ontologically precise,
Language -
The house of Being,
Ineffable, Promethean
Literary devise -
Envisioning possibility,
And abundance to allow,
I occur
Inhabit
Manifest
Future phenomena
Experienced as now.
©2008 & ©2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
ponces! nancies! veritable egrets of men!
people pleasing anti-charismatic animals
philistines, every one of them,
everyone else
a curse upon their forebears and a curse upon their goings-on
terrible business, that
the world should be filled with boundary pushing eccentrics, that is progress!
a plague upon normalcy, a plague upon stagnancy
uninteresting, dying off, done
ugh!
greatness can not be expected of all but at least an attempt should be made
how else will we overcome, will we build our utopia?
what use is MY struggle when others are defeated in making a move past the remote
television is for swine
rots your brain and morals
I've swell morals, just look at them
my morals reach to the moon
my morals are so swell I should run the country
my morals aren't two millenia old scriptures written by the seers of goat-tenders
my morals are modern, they are sleek and well dictated, they represent the future
my morals defy the past, my morals create new paradigms
why, you could say my morals defy all of traditionalism
and a curse upon tradition!
who ever learned from the past
history is rife with naught but sufferance
forwards is the only direction
forwards is revealed only to me
my ideals aglow with the lumine of the future
they are entrenched in idealism
me and mine, we are ideal
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
Connecting,
tribes on the cusp--
the lost family...
merging thought patterns
of old & new paradigms
into a geometric shipibo song
singing in moonlit sky,
smoke gray mauve clouds
are painted into the frozen lake background.
We paint
a new paradise--
together
at the table
on a sacred indigo candlelit map map
for people to set sail
on their journey through the seas of skies of their minds
guiding familiar souls
to speak their treasure light again.
We are the Indigo Pilgrims,
soul brothers reunited
after the frozen season thaws,
pushing on toward the place
where mind-flowers commence their bloom
as herb and sage slowly burns throughout the day
as the smoke dotes across the landscape
like dancing hieroglyphic clouds.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
Phases of faces, captured moments and instances
I pass by, so swiftly, so fleetingly
Caught in the crossroads of paradigms and decisions
I stood paralyzed, terrified.
I meet intense eyes that bore through me, knowing me, knowing us
A smile as warm as the sun that has the power to melt me
Your presence is strong, comforting…strong, unsettling…strong, terrifying
You have me without even trying, you mesmerize me.
You bring me to my knees with a sigh,
you can crush me with a word.
You can bring me to bliss with a touch,
you can bring me to ecstasy with a kiss.
You command me with a whisper, I am drawn to you
You break down my china walls, one by one
You undress my layers of failed expectations
Of shattered dreams, and broken hearts
I stand before you, naked, vulnerable
I look away, not bearing for you to see
My helplessness, my hopelessness
All my imperfections, my fears, my desires.
You wipe my tears away, and kiss my bitterness away
And yet the fear descends on me…I’ve been here before
Fear of hurt, of betrayal, of disappointment
Fear that this is all an illusion…or perhaps just my delusion
And so I put on a smile, cool and composed
Hide behind my fast-paced life, run far away from you
Going so fast, so fast…so I won’t think, I won’t feel
Until I fall, exhausted, to sleep a dreamless sleep
I need the noise, the meaningless clanging
For in silence, the longing creeps in…
To be in your arms, just us and nothing else…
Nothing but warmth and the sound of our hearts beating.
So I welcome the numbness, welcome the pain
Punish myself for the choice I’ve made in my weakness
Someday I will find my happiness, someday I will find my strength
Somehow…I will find you again.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
Abstract:
And (why?) thus, is all I know so far.
the *question
which is never easy to ask
has an *answer which
is never easy to swallow
between introduction and conclusion
lies a happy marriage
of one jolly void and one fuzzy wish list
via (this) credibility and (that) validity
of all the methods jammed in a
rainbow of paradigms and databases
a qualitative doubt
vs a quantitative solution
critiqued to death
is not always a one way topic
but the only way forward
(to prove!)
I can smile but
I am not allowed to fear
nor like,
nor hate,
nor presume,
nor love my finding
although I desperately cling to
a forbidden bias
(reference this!)
passion is a dangerous domain
(I googled it)
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 2:15 PM UTC
Upon every arrival of every celestial birth,
There is only one common normality.
A susceptibility to an infinitesimal design,
A kink in the chain, the war of our mind.
This psychosomatic condition is no stranger,
A rendition of life’s existence.
Confinement exacerbated by poor health in the gut line,
Hormonal imbalances manipulated by addictive influences.
Paradigms shifting in front of awakening eyes,
Psychedelic truths hidden within the tides of time,
Confusion and conflict preventing expansion of evolutionary consciousness,
A cyclic pattern, the sadness in all our lives.
This idea is immortal and internal in the human genome,
The greatest subterfuge,
Amnesia
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
This is to all those misfits
To the Romeo car-washing in Inglewood inlets
To the Hippy selling crystals on the Venice boardwalk
The Magician swallowing 8-balls at the Huntington Beach peer
The Rapper selling CDs in the Ranch Market parking lot
The **** tatting in a makeshift garage
The Poet slinging chapbooks at cafes and rec centers…
Not androids pontificating from lecterns
But grimy roots burrowing deep
Seismic rumblings toppling down
Insured ivory towers
Smashing pilled-paradigms beneath Docs
Hustling and slinging
In the forbidden outshacks of civilization
In tents, over barbed-wire, beside shards
Desperate and burning
For neither Truth or Beauty
But for LIFE
They do not tap wrists
No, they thump chests
To feel it beat
To feel it rage
For fugitive fugues
For new eternities
They embrace
********** romance
Graveyard necromance
The holy hunger for change
Defying commercials and charts
Shivering and howling on streets
Waging guerrilla war
Liberating cubicled-hearts
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 8:20 PM UTC
AOK: Mathematics
By Rohan Baishya
Now listen up y'all imma give y'all a lecture
About how my intuition led to some dope conjectures.
But to verify these knowledge claims I'll need a proof,
No need to worry though, my logic's up through the roof.
I'll steal yo girl with my geometric paradigms.
Not to mention my bank balance is on a sharp incline.
Imma use derivatives to find the slope of that *****
Euclid used geometry, what a big loony.
Now Pythagoras used deduction to find the sides of triangles,
Now I can use induction to find the curves of this fine-angle.
So listen up homie, you're a bore with your empiricism;
I can explain everything with this dank rationalism.
Now math ain't 'bout using memory to cram some equations,
It's all about getting that intense sensation
of using reason to season your supported argument
but sometimes to calculate my Lambo's rent.
But now imma be busy with my new calculator via Fed-ex
So listen up girls, no *** until I solve for x
In conclusion, math is the secret to success
If you believe in the numbers you'll be relieving your stress.
Word
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
Land-mark times of
uncertainty and imbalance, new
paradigms for hearts and minds,
flowers growing through stone cracks,
unconscious becoming conscious,
interconnectedness
between pieces of this cosmic puzzle, where
God means the Wisdom of simplicity in
human untapped depths of wisdom, fear
as a primal universal human reality
on the edge of extinction and breakthrough
power to change the outcome
the synchronization of the nature and the existence,
time of unspeakable intensity,
human awaking,
the higher and the deeper dimension of being,
Black Road or Xibalba Be,
energy shifts,
day in its sacred Zero point,
mass ejections shooting highly,
nuclear bulge of the Milky Way,
huge waves,
cosmic alarm clock ringing in human psyche,
time of change
leaving seeds for the future,
spiral evolution,
being in-between two important seconds
with minds founded in duality,
teetering between the
extremes of extinction and illumination...
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 8:23 PM UTC
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
First of these eight categories is math.
From axioms to logic it takes a very exact path.
Deals with conjecture and theorems; creating laws about the world.
Sometimes this complicated topic makes me want to hurl.
Next comes ethics with many complicated questions,
Using morals and values to give the proper suggestion.
Depends on people's views that differ by culture,
Questions from "Theft to save your family?" to "Killing a vulture?"
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
Up comes history dealing only with the past;
It is only concerned with evidence and the facts.
Studies government propaganda to the plight of the peasant.
Deals with any kind of knowledge from creation to the present.
Fourth on the list are the human sciences,
From many loaded questions to our stream of consciousness.
Observations to conclusions, free will to determinism,
Deals with our knowledge of the world from the atom to reductionist
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
Religious knowledge systems deal with people's beliefs;
Knowledge of God and the heavens to the world beneath.
From polytheism in Athens to life after death,
Knowledge coming from religion concerns us to our last breath.
The natural sciences, knowledge of the natural world,
Explaining how things work like biceps d'ring a curl.
Hypothesis, theories and all sorts of paradigms,
Knowledge so revolutionary that in the past it was a crime.
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
Indigenous knowledge systems, the customs of the tribe,
Using folklore and storytelling to spread ancestor's pride.
Knowledge or tradition and customs of the ancient nomads,
Anything about the indigenous from the good to the bad.
Last on the list, the final area of knowledge,
Is the arts, all the way from elementary to college.
Dealing with aesthetics, forgery, kitsch and catharsis;
Without this types of knowledge we'd be stuck in the darkness.
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
She has a luminescence about her
A way of outshining the neon and fluorescent
That cling to her curves as she dances beneath them
I stood there, in my second-hand persona,
wearing a mask of bravado, now whimsical with
its mouth agape, staring as she made love to the music.
I recollected myself,
remembered to breathe,
swallowed my heart,
and dared to move closer.
The rhythmic pulse of the music
threatened to crush me as my feet touched the floor-
my head still in the cloud generated by her heat,
that permeated every molecule of my body.
The closer I got, the harder it was to keep
from succumbing to the lack of air.
"Remember to breathe.
You're sweating.
Abort. NO.
Play it cool. You're cool."
I could have pieced together
A thousand words, pulled from the ether
and crafted into exactly-what-she-wanted-to-hear,
But she had taken my air.
My tongue wouldn't move with my lips
To form a simple hello.
I just stood there in my mask.
No longer whimsical.
Nearly desperate
and certain that I would die right there.
Then, in a move that writes love songs,
that creates sunsets and shifts paradigms,
SHE, this caramel-skinned goddess
Wove her warm, illuminated fingers into mine
And pulled me into that dance
That she was sharing only with the music.
Not breathing again.
Keep moving.
Stop thinking.
Just be. Right now, just be.
So, I was. Dead to time and space,
alive to the moment and the music,
Her touch, the light and the curves.
She held to me as if she read my mind;
perhaps I wear my heart in my eyes.
Eyes that she seemed to pull my soul out of
To drown it in hers, as she danced
With me.
To me. Through me.
Beyond me.
But with me, as though I were the light and the music,
and she wasn't done making love.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 7:01 AM UTC
*Sacramental Elixir & Illuminated Blues,
Experimental Flauntings Of Her Midsummer Hues,
Radioactive Eyes & Her Fairytale Lies,
Seductive Abuses Across The New Divide,
Vivid Intersections In Her Phenomenal Rage,
Shatterproof Reflections Splattered Upstage,
Midnight Passions Of Her Perplexed Lust,
Starlight Rains Glittering Hybrid Dusts,
Transitional Paradigms & Engineered Moans,
Theatrical Concoctions In Her Symphonic Tones,
Flirtatious Illuminations Under The Darkest Light,
Stained Animations Igniting Kryptonite,
Palisades Of Her Collated Reflections,
Cascades Emitting Her Sedated Projections,
Contraband Infatuation Resonating Magnetic Love,
Raving Constellations Provocating Atomic Dove,
Divine Catharsis Of Her Cupid Amour Eternity,
Valentine Bliss Mystifying Her Restrained Insanity,
Charismatic Futility & ****** Binge,
Cinematic Tranquility Emanating From Her Bulletproof Sins,
Neon Subways & Fragile Foreplays,
Sensual Arrays Of Her Red-Light Decays.
- 03:53AM -*
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 6:30 PM UTC
You can't go far
Down on all fours,
Drooling and babbling
And hugging the floor.
I see you're stumbling
On your Jango legs,
You'll fall if not careful
On your new paradigms.
Now you're leaving
With stature and grace;
You pirouette, glide,
You've found your own pace.
You will return,
Of that I am sure,
With one of your own
To crawl on my floor.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
Your belongings (be)long to/for the materialist of Earth.
Your memories belong in the cradle of the hands of time.
Your talents belong in the rucksack of circumstance.
Your friends and family are shadows on the pavement
of the path you travelled.
Your lover belongs in the warmth of your heart.
Your bones belong with the typhoon of dust.
Your soul belongs in God's horcrux.
Your moments.
That's all that's ever yours.
Moments.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
My eyes are glazed over and my mouth is hanging open.
I sit here and feverishly type, gathering momentum
To swing the creative cavalry inside my mind forth
And to **** all that throws itself in front of my periphery,
So desperately catcalling my attention.
I live in a creative vacuum,
From the hum of the fan
And the slamming of the doors,
To the static from the TV set
And the voices. Those voices.
I feel there is a poem in me
Or a song,
That will claim the hearts of others
And tug on the hems of their peripheries
Just as these homely distractions do to me.
Until then I must write and write harrowingly.
I must disregard the rules set down by centuries of genius
And throw back the paradigms put forth
By every raised eyebrow and polite accolade.
I am only twenty-one and I have not yet felt the ache of age
But I can feel the atrophy bite in my bones,
Making me cower at this transient life
And again I find myself at a desk by the window
Feverish, so feverish.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
Some days the sky is a glass chalice we hold between our lips to take a sip
The palliative qualities divine in nature are seeping through the subtle splits on the surface of our palms
Fleeting textures suffuse through our quivering hands
Various hues illustrate the wrists as they coil upon the cadaverous structure
Outlining our internal scaffolding with diverse shades
Colours ricochet within our human receptacles
Our bodies are prisms allowing the light of the sun to shine
Beams break forth from the orifice that rests upon our undistinguished faces
Reminders of what is within splintering through every available opening
Wandering rays rendezvous at the core of the chest
Exploring uncharted paths on the geography of our physical selves
Transcendent roads vague to our periphery
Slowly defining their forms on the outskirts of our wearied retinas
Our illuminated minds, embodying the sun
candescent stones fortified by layers of bone meant to hold their fluorescence
Our organic beams of light, such tender arms, lingering in the punctured sky
are using the clouds as paintbrushes, pieced together bits of mosaic already at their disposal
Our backs resting on abstract clay with shifting pastels, whispering clarity into our cartilage
leftover laments torn apart to bits with the newfound realization that we are whole.
Like unearthed clairvoyance, we survey the translucent waters before us
peering into the stillness our bodies disrupt like the pillars of beautiful dissonance they are
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
Promise me, Maiden. Promise me you care
Promise me his Hand is Well-Strung and Fed
Promise that Dad's Serving Letter is there
And I Promise that my Fealty is set
If these Turning Events will make me Strong
And become the Hunchback allied to you
The Borgia Venom melts; It won't be long
For Sorrow to accept the Better Truth
Riddles apart I am Serious in Theme
About your Magic Craft I can't Compete
Hearts cry with laughter; His Smile justly seen
With Shifting Paradigms he is Complete.
Secrets Unshared, it is better as known
For a Child like me to know if he's grown.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
I want nothing and all
I want throatchase and falls.
I want spiteful endears,
And ricochet tears.
I want colliders with nothing to lose.
I want crashes indebts,
And bombadier pets.
I want cleft incoherence,
And bookies for parents.
I want you to know how to choose.
I want pratfalls regarded,
And paradigms parted.
I want sickly verbatim,
And writings circadian.
I want you,
I want you,
I want you.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 11:04 PM UTC
they moved as they always have
with stumbling scraping steps
that gradually become less confused
my first memory was their eyes
pale, strangely large, filled with hunger, searching
and their hair floating wild in the night
echoing their desperate movements
now I see them emerging from the fogs of memory
their waving hands long fingered
with nails like claws
turning their heads from side to side seeking
stumbling down the darkened passages
tortured
when they found the moon
they scorned it
rejected the pale ghost of the sun
they wanted nothing less than the great furnaces of the skies
Aldebaran, Deneb, Altair, Rigel, Alpha-Centari
but they searched in tunnels far from the freedom of the night
leading to false paradigms and delusional discoveries
where they expected unrefuted clarity
they exposed schemes and lies
still they searched until their strength was almost done
until, at the penultimate door
in terror, they found themselves.
From the Illustrated Zombies 2010
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 3:34 AM UTC
The rain falls against the Face
Each drop like a tiny bomb
-SPLAAAAAAASH
-KABOOOOOOM
Its features made smooth by its school of thought
- Dum Dum Dum
they strike and insist
never miss
Blasts of kettle drums mingled
with the Staccato
All sounds brought forth from the
Technicolor Heartbeat
The clouds watch Face as it pours
-Anything to make us pure again
What cure is there
-Purify
-Pacify
-Rely on social norms We know what you need
Media never had it quite right
There was no fight
only Acquiescence
The slow acceptance
Eyes can be fooled and these clouds are
-Not convinced
The fractured Block inside the Face
offers no place for peace
for minds
Thoughts race behind the clouds
and fall behind the march
-Hey wait up
-NO LIE DOWN
It only rains when they lead the parade
and this charade is growing tired
Block is slowly
picking up the pieces
-Reconstruction
A better tomorrow
A new today
Clouds watch the world on stage
A play that never stops
Actors get off and paradigms shift
enough to crumble any mountain
and drain any sea
So the clouds rain
painlessly to each passerby
even though they get wet.
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 8:31 PM UTC
a facsimile of happiness
a continuous depression filled with interludes
of sunsets shimmering off loving eyes
neither logic nor morality warm beds
so we keel over, head long into midnight streets
groping for lips to kiss
ears to listen
hands to caress
******* to obliterate
for Newton's apple to drop
or Buddha's lotus to blossom
for Gabriel's sword to rip chests open
some are enslaved to absolute subjectivity
a tattered rag flapping on the wind
they are forever drowning drowning drowning
dooming any who dive in to save
they can not step back and observe the play
they are the play: the king, the jester, the soldier
the longing maiden, bitter spinstress, sword-smith's daughter
the prideful hero or stubborn villain
the country bumpkin chopping wood
the raving madman in the wilderness
oblivious to the back-drop or matrices
the paradigms of passion
the translucent chemical pulleys
the perpetual violations of history
******* them
even in the womb
the birth of an idea is the most wondrous phenomenon
the booming I AM forever resounding
it is a big-bang of metaphysical splendor
it is the unity of art-science-religion
the holy trinity of being
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
I went on a fishing trip and all I got was a bunch of worms.
I opened every single can in an attempt to keep what I had earned.
Tiresome days. Brightly lit nights.
Beer-Battered and braised on the menu tonight.
Brains splattered and bruised in the venue tonight.
You bring the torches, and I'll supply the mob.
We'll rob this town of all it's got,
Ransack every single plot,
So that tomorrow's day will show no light.
Observe the unheard
With their leaves all unturned.
Sharply carved and crudely drawn.
No plan of attack is the best defense, after all.
Things are lookin up to me , so I'm climbing over walls.
When my head hangs low another brick slips and falls.
Push and shove,
War of Tugs,
Smiling mean mugs.
Contrary to popular contradictions,
Irony just packed its paradigms into cardboard paradoxes.
Breathing heavily as I pack my life into a handful of moving boxes,
I'm starting to remember what my floor looks like when it's not covered by useless possessions and countless pairs of boxers.
That is to say, I'm grounded on this unfounded belief.
Hail to the thief.
My pen flows endlessly
As I pretend to be
The boy I used to see
Before this evolutionary split
Brought me to the grave of unspoken revolutionaries.
I halfway wish you never met me.
That that hallway conversation never came to be.
That I could live out these days with a less poignant memory of agony.
But I remember all that I've learned
And that I'm not moving out, I'm moving on
To somewhere I can finally earn my own keep.
I'll be around sometimes, but I'm currently unavailable,
So please leave a message after the beep...
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
I seek beauty in rhyme and tense,
The dreams that colors earn-
The roots of my aesthetic sense
Are things I have yet to learn.
To find a hope in reversing thoughts
Means shifting paradigms is a pleasure;
Beliefs striving, fighting and fought
With metaphor in equal measure.
Then! A trick, a shift we weather,
A path down which we fall-
And then you see, its not just me,
Somehow we end up together.
For we sought beauty with rhyme and tense;
Those dreams of they who yearn,
So in defense of aesthetic sense
To those metaphors I will return.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
Aged to perfection.
if tongue were possessed,
the stories it would tell.
Fighting life's cruelties,
with elitist disregard.
Unjust paradigms,
swept under the rug.
Misleading confessions,
of love not truly overcome.
Damsels left in distress,
while prince charming clears his glass.
Like Alice through the rabbit hole,
living in a dream.
Drink up.
Shrink down.
Forget all.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
The Gardener’s Roses
by Michael R. Burch
Mary Magdalene, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, “Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.”
I too have come to the cave;
within: strange, half-glimpsed forms
and ghostly paradigms of things.
Here, nothing warms
this lightening moment of the dawn,
pale tendrils spreading east.
And I, of all who followed Him,
by far the least . . .
The women take no note of me;
I do not recognize
the men in white, the gardener,
these unfamiliar skies . . .
Faint scent of roses, then—a touch!
I turn, and I see: You.
My Lord, why do You tarry here:
Another waits, Whose love is true?
Although My Father waits, and bliss;
though angels call—ecstatic crew!—
I gathered roses for a Friend.
I waited here, for You.
NOTE: I do not believe in Jesus as a “sacrifice” to a primitive “god” who demands the blood of innocents in order to “forgive” sins of his own making through a ghoulish "atonement." But I will not completely discount the hope that love can transcend death, although, like Thomas, I will have to see it to believe it. Keywords/Tags: Jesus, Christ, cave, grave, tomb, gardener, roses, angels, resurrection, Mary, Magdalene, love, heaven
Mar 21, 2020
Mar 21, 2020 at 5:44 AM UTC