"vaults" poems
The man of life upright, whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds and thoughts of vanity:
The man whose silent days in harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude, nor fortune discontent;
That man needs neither towers nor armor for defense,
Nor secret vaults to fly from thunder's violence:
He only can behold with unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep and terrors of the skies;
Thus scorning all the care that fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book, his wisdom heavenly things;
Good thoughts his only friends, his wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn and quiet pilgrimage.
13.7k
When letters wait
to pounce on a blank page
when thoughts crowd the mind
like frothing **** in a pond
I keep wondering
what poetry is to me
what poetry is to many
Is it not the language of the heart
with no intervention of gray matter
the unlocking of closed vaults
stirring the embers of love, hurt or pain
or giving a free rein to fancy
and flying on magic carpets
to lands forlorn
Sometimes it is
a glide into a sea of tranquillity
an escape from
the humdrum of the world
a flash of liberation
from assaults of pain
a sedative
to numb the turmoil
a sanctuary
for a burdened heart
a window
to look at the world through
a companion
when one is inconsolably alone
a candle flame
in a darkening world
a cloth line
to hang the ***** laundry
a water lily blooming
in the pool of tears
a shelter
in homelessness
sometimes it is a ladder
to climb up to Heavens
an angel on wings
with tidings of hope
peace in a world
braced for war
Poetry, if you are all these
let us fall at your feet
bless us in our art
may we splurge in fancy
and conjure up worlds from words!
our poems may not be light houses
but could be fireflies
on a starless night!
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
I walk alone, out in the vastness
of space, heavens vaults, darkness
leavened by the brilliance of
unknown galaxies, and the far off
light of distant stars.
I am alone. lost in this eternal
field, of dark and light, black
and white, and all between,
shining, eternal light, to shine
forever, and bathe heaven, radiant,
in its undying light.
I wander, lost. Am I a spirit,
to wander so, sad and lonely,
cut off from the roiling, chaotic,
masses of humanity, and set to
wander, adrift in a brilliant sea,
vivid colors clashing always,
with the ever present void of
infinity?
But why, if I am here, are not others?
Where are they? Is space so vast, am
I to wander endlessly, lost in the void of
eternity, to be at last at peace, but to have
none others to share it with, none to join me
in my wanderings, none to acompany me
in my eternal journey, none to make it "our"
instead?
And what of Katerina? What of her? Is she here
wandering also, lost and alone even as I am,
enduring the silence of space, alone unto eternity
and beyond?
Or is she some other place, doomed to
eternal pain, locked away, to scream
unheard, save by her tormentor, some
thing of darkness, created from
the blackness of infinity, immortal,
set to guard the way to heavens bliss
the angels dying, falling?
Or is this all, this vast infinity, souls
doomed to wander forever, never
meeting, never crossing, alone
in solitude, forever and for all
the infinite centuries of eternity,
alone?
I wander here, lost for countless
years, stars vanish in heat and
light, whilst I wander, spirit
cast off, set adrift to wander,
centuries come and go,
while I stop to listen for
some imagined sound,
some human voice,
heard but unheard,
the darkness eats my mind,
while light replaces it,
with thoughts of
eternity, solitude and
bliss, together forever,
I and eternity, set to tread
alone through space, from now
until the end of Time.
I am alone, and I wonder,
perhaps, I am not
alone, perhaps I do not wander,
but instead set my feet to the path
appointed me. For perhaps those
stars were not always stars,
those nebulae not always so,
gaseous and vast, but instead were
souls like me, journeying only
to meet their ends as light and
gas and rocky spheres?
Perhaps, I shall know,
perhaps I shall see,
later amidst eternity.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
That season again; familiar fragrances:
of flowers and of emotions.
On shortening evenings
graying skies paint the earth in shades of
anticipation; Snapshots,
joyous memories, of
distant years roll out of catherine wheels
and sparkle-pots, rare
treats and new clothes
for the year; rolling wheels of time, how
loves change, people's
priorities change, events
drive everyone further and farther away.
But memories awaken
from vaults in the heart;
Familiar fragrances, blessed resurrections
always chase
all the doubters away
Yes, this season again; blessed fragrances.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
My grandfather passed away on a dewy September morning;
About 17 years ago;
My grandmothers glass eyes still draw a picture of fright in front of me;
I remember as she sat silently for hours;
Cold , vulnerable;
As if she was robbed of her breath;
Since then she has sliced her life into two parts;
Before baba, after baba.
Yesterday as we sorted her cupboard;
Over hot chai;
I asked her about a saree;
" I think it was before baba" she says , like an unconditioned reflex , an involuntary knee ****
They don't teach you how to love like that anymore;
Love like this swallows dictionaries and renders meanings, meaningless;
It moves mountains and drowns rivers;
It spoons the hatred and vaults it.
My grandmother never went to school;
Even at 24 today, whenever I see her;
She presses a 500Rs note into my fist and asks me to buy something sweet for myself;
Last time she did that, she told me he taught her how to count money after they were married;
And to say words like "curd" and "rice";
Every year on his death anniversary;
She still cooks food for people;
With a metal rod holding the bones in her thighs;
And pressing the bleeding points of her psoriatic palms;
She keeps adding cards to her monument;
And remembers love;
Everyday;
In hushed muted tones;
In lemon pickles and measures of salt;
And in a way that stuns me the most;
Without even realising.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
Guns,
Long, steel guns,
Pointed from the war ships
In the name of the war god.
Straight, shining, polished guns,
Clambered over with jackies in white blouses,
Glory of tan faces, tousled hair, white teeth,
Laughing lithe jackies in white blouses,
Sitting on the guns singing war songs, war chanties.
Shovels,
Broad, iron shovels,
Scooping out oblong vaults,
Loosening turf and leveling sod.
I ask you
To witness--
The shovel is brother to the gun.
3.1k
I woke up and the sun is shining,
majestically emitting its golden glow.
In spite of this, it's a cold Scandinavian morning
and boy, the sun is putting up a real show.
So what's really going on here I asked,
why am I not yet sweating profusely?
Why am I not yet drenched in sweat and sunbaked,
Or is the arid heat being turned on slowly?
By birth, I was born a Liberian, a true African,
my umbilical cord was buried near the Equator.
My nationality is Norwegian, a Scandinavian
By virtue of the winter, I always feel like a visitor.
The African sun would shine until we hide or run
just to avoid the scorching heat and humidity.
The Scandinavian sun I feel shines and people have fun,
A factor to make me question the sun's true nationality.
So is it the same sun that rises at about 5 am in Ghana,
The one that shines brightly on the vaults of the Ashanti gold?
If it's the sun worshiped by Ancient Egypt, of the sun god Akana,
So why doesn't it burn away the snow and the extreme cold?
©️IB-Poetry
2/20/2018
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 4:03 AM UTC
Insects layered lilac pedals upon her skin
As if she was a nexus of nectar
As if her body were the chalice of youth
And all that dripped from her, made her a fountain
That flooded the halls of fatherly time
Leaving her ignorant of seconds, minutes, hours
So why do the insects dress her like the flowers?
Because to the ideal of a perfect plant, she is treason
For she never decays in any season
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is your thoughts, my upset energies, and nightly turbulence.
Sleep provokes night and life and darkness prevailing in us.
When we wake up we are gone as our night precedes dawn
It is always the other way, bottom up and spaces spread.
At times we hear the police van’s shrieks, in night’s iron grill.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is not always the stick beating the road in rhythmic silence
And olive-green overcoat with flapped pockets and heavy boots
And six months old large-sized memories of a Himalayan home
With black-lined large dove’s eyes flitting among coal fires
Their smoke towering over the pines in snow-bound peaks.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the turbulence we are speaking of, in the foggy sea we are
Or on the peaks where everything is bound in fuzzy snow
At the mountain passes where vehicles duly pass oiled by hot tea
Or in the mist-filled airports where aircrafts do not take off
Of politicians who decide mankind’s future in the apocalypse.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is my dreams as they were and the neighbor’s dreams
In the straw-roof, in the banyan trees with glints in their eyes
And much fine-powdered dust on their thick –coated leaves,
In lonely watchmen’s houses on the bleak stony spaces
And lonely watchmen keeping vigilant eyes on boulders
Strewn in brown spaces and scraggy bushes with strange lizards.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the towering tombs and the trees that enveloped them
The children playing cricket in flying bats and stone stumps
Outside the vaults where kings and queens lay dead for ages
Their cold breath felt on the broken glass of Time’s windows.
I ask that you, I and women play a game of kabaddi in the trees
When it is still not dark enough in the minarets in the west
And children are still hitting ***** visible in the green of the trees.
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 3:33 AM UTC
When will this suspicion
Go into remission?
Splitting like nuclear fission
Is their miserable mission
So they poke and ****
Claiming I'm a fraud
Thinking they're my god
Which seems kind of odd
Because they know so little
And I know so much
I play them like a fiddle
Then eat them for lunch
For when it comes to raging rhetoric
I prove myself to be the better *****
They turn suspicious
So I become vicious
And treat them like *******
Because all of their wishes
Are of being capable witches
So they can morph me into a frog
Maybe then I'll hope on their log
And live the limited life they want
But they'll always tease and taunt
So my sensitive secrets I'll flaunt
To disarm their negative notions
Yet that's a never ending ocean
We live in a world of suspicion
With a hatred ignition
We live in a world that's a prison
A world that's sad to envision
Where everyone's a guard
And everyone is charred
By the judge
Who throws sludge
At the fragile mirror
To make hatred clearer
We must break the lawyers' locks
And sell their suspicious stocks
For when we fear one another
We don't hear one another
Communication goes
Suspicion grows
That's the flow
While we sit in our vaults
Hoping that this halts
But it never stops
In a world of cops
A world that's continually turning
While suspicion keeps burning
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 4:47 AM UTC
It used to live on the hilltop
where a lone bell tolled
by the temple:
but the Deity is long gone
and the bell mourns
in the valley wind on empty
afternoons, now.
I went searching for it:
in late summer, the koel
would sunder open the vaults
of heaven and bring
some down for us mortals
haunted by death.
The koels are long gone now.
Peace,
peace.
Lady siting silent in the evening
staring vacant into the sky,
after a day of labour:
can you give some to me?
I thought it was in education.
But that is stored now, in
almirahs where moths
eat way what humidity cannot.
I thought it was in a position.
But they don't matter, now
a ladder ascending
to nowhere,
vanishing mid-air.
Old man, smiling past hope
that has broken like
your lost teeth:
can you give some to me?
I asked the urchin
playing in the ditch after the rains,
he said: 'follow me, I know where
it lives', and he led me to
a ***** pond lined with plastic
and all our civilization's refuse,
and jumped in.
I returned, disgusted.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
Through airy roads he wings his instant flight
To purer regions of celestial light;
Enlarg’d he sees unnumber’d systems roll,
Beneath him sees the universal whole,
Planets on planets run their destin’d round,
And circling wonders fill the vast profound.
Th’ ethereal now, and now th’ empyreal skies
With growing splendors strike his wond’ring eyes:
The angels view him with delight unknown,
Press his soft hand, and seat him on his throne;
Then smilling thus: “To this divine abode,
“The seat of saints, of seraphs, and of God,
“Thrice welcome thou.” The raptur’d babe replies,
“Thanks to my God, who snatch’d me to the skies,
“E’er vice triumphant had possess’d my heart,
“E’er yet the tempter had beguil d my heart,
“E’er yet on sin’s base actions I was bent,
“E’er yet I knew temptation’s dire intent;
“E’er yet the lash for horrid crimes I felt,
“E’er vanity had led my way to guilt,
“But, soon arriv’d at my celestial goal,
“Full glories rush on my expanding soul.”
Joyful he spoke: exulting cherubs round
Clapt their glad wings, the heav’nly vaults resound.
Say, parents, why this unavailing moan?
Why heave your pensive bosoms with the groan?
To Charles, the happy subject of my song,
A brighter world, and nobler strains belong.
Say would you tear him from the realms above
By thoughtless wishes, and prepost’rous love?
Doth his felicity increase your pain?
Or could you welcome to this world again
The heir of bliss? with a superior air
Methinks he answers with a smile severe,
“Thrones and dominions cannot tempt me there.”
But still you cry, “Can we the sigh borbear,
“And still and still must we not pour the tear?
“Our only hope, more dear than vital breath,
“Twelve moons revolv’d, becomes the prey of death;
“Delightful infant, nightly visions give
“Thee to our arms, and we with joy receive,
“We fain would clasp the Phantom to our breast,
“The Phantom flies, and leaves the soul unblest.”
To yon bright regions let your faith ascend,
Prepare to join your dearest infant friend
In pleasures without measure, without end.
2.5k
Every morning at 9
She puts on the
banker's disguise
puts her poetry
in a sacred jar
next to the ashes
of
her husband
her dad
her mom.
She's a river of currents
behind the smile
darkly ******
phantasims
fly and flower
She not only carries
the keys to the vaults,
but also
the keys to wisdom
sublime
She can see right through you
when
she wants to
She can read your mind
Smilies
Metaphors
Haikus
Rap
Manifestations
of
all that makes us human,
These are the currents she rides
while
she
files
e-mails
signs
floats loans
defaults
default swaps
The whole time
she's got on
John Prine's illegal smile
She's watching secret movies
inside
she's alive.
It took many years
to learn to hide
the images
the colors
thought dreams
which flow inside -
while in meetings
behind her eyes
flows
the poetry
from herself, she cannot hide.
The commute ends
The day ends
She unscrews the sacred jar
pen to paper
the currency of poetry
resurrected
she comes alive,
All disguises
hide.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
The briny tears have dried
The sounding knells are stilled
The grieving crowd, dispersed
The parting pain, allayed
Benumbed lie the dead
Beneath the marble vaults
Bereft of power and prowess
Benighted and beaten.
The sun shall never cast its glorious rays
The stars shall never their brilliance shed
The breeze never shall bring tidings new
The showers shall no more drench them through
A thoughtful friend sometimes seen around
A fervent prayer at times chanted aloud
A plaited wreath, rarely laid over
A trite rite, randomly carried out
There’s none left to mourn or weep
Nor anyone to sing, sigh or sob
Leaving the dead to rot in the closure of graves
To life’s alluring charms, the dear depart.
Cold as clay the dead lie so still
To be feasted on by maggots and the worms
Life with all its glory – defunct
Its fever and fret too – extinct.
How in vain we run after wealth
The power and position we deem so great
Shall come to naught within Time’s gloomy vault
Yet we run and yet we straggle behind.
In vain ends our travail for might
Inglorious is our quest after fame
Transient turn the riches, we garner
Short lived is their gleam and glitter.
Oh Lord! Lead us not into illusory charms
Deliver us of our avarice to hoard
For all that is born and made
‘Must consign to death and come to dust.’
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 6:29 AM UTC
I join with you today.
the nation
in whose symbolic shadow we stand,
seared in the withering flames of injustice.
daybreak on a lonely island
in the midst of a vast ocean of material
architects -
wrote the sacred obligation:
give the people a bad check -
“insufficient funds.”
the bank of justice is bankrupt
in the great vaults of opportunity, of
the fierce urgency of now.
whirlwinds shake the foundations of my people.
by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred,
high plane of dignity - degenerate.
veterans of creative suffering! unearned suffering!
sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression
not judged by the color of their skin, but
by the content of their banks!
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
Ares' Feast
Martian Symbols of Conquest
‘Sleep in Chambers and Vaults deep;
Flame of Torch disturbs their rest.
Swing your Scythe - thy Harvest reap!
Well do mighty Blades recall
Flesh they’ve rent from Bones of Men.
Must we hear Valkyries call
‘Fore the Swords will sleep again?
Fathers fall before the Blades,
Son-like Swains set in the West,
Valkyries shriek and shepherd Shades –
Victims of Sword’s Lust for Flesh.
Aeons pass and still they feast –
Ares and his iron-wing’d beasts.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
His light house amidst
his mystic fog, signals belated
in triumphant decore,
Enamoured with ancient joy
of his blue green dreams
I chant.
“His rod and his staff
comfort me and all surrounding
gore departs.
I breathe in gasping
about my true love.
as he spots my battered
vessel into the wind sailing.
Ecstasy twinkles his teary eye
in the magic water dancing glare,
of our mystical full moon light.
For too long I've traveled
jeweled triumphant
yet unable to reach
his promised treasure vaults.
To the greed of legions on
treacherous paths all alone I wept,
through enemy's territories,
but all those from me have fled.
I roamed alone yester woods
I reach his safe private harbour
his peaceful shores.
As trustworthy jeweled queen
regardless of grave loss.
Willfully he reveals his home key
to come open up his door
as photographic memories
on new calming waters
get anchored deep.
At last I shall rest in love
on my bittersweet bed of roses
red, and flowers wild;
white sad lilies on hand,
saluting my beloved glories
recaptured and retained.
Enduring rhythmic ways
with courage, heart
brain and hope and off my
survival modes into éasier dwelling
into my grave but neither there
I shall trod alone no more.
~~~~~~
By Karijinbba
All rights.
Mar 29, 2022
Mar 29, 2022 at 7:53 PM UTC
*Don't wait till I'm tired to encourage me,I won't move on
Don't wait till I'm crippled to tell me about miracles,I won't believe
Don't wait till I'm frozen to warm me,I won't appreciate
Don't wait until I've stepped the trap to caution me, it won't help
Don't wait till I'm shattered to tell me I can be whole, I won't listen
Don't wait for me to yawn to give me food, I won't eat it
Don't wait until the treasures are depleted to tell me if I dig I'll find
its useless to tell me passion will drive me insane after I'm out of my mind
Don't wait till I'm famous to praise my pieces, aren't you seeing them now?
Don't wait until the Antelope has turned tail to hand me the bow
Don't wait for the birds to fly off the tree to hand me the catapult
Don't wait for me to step on the live wire to lecture me about vaults
Don't wait for me to slip and fall to tell me the place is slippery when wet
Don't wait until you've wronged me to preach "forgive and forget"
Don't wait until I'm in flames to tell me not to play with fire, bury my ashes
Don't try shutting stables after they're gone, instead run after those Horses
Don't wait until I'm soaked to give me an umbrella,I won't accept
Don't wait for the storms to wreck me to show me how to sail
who can listen to instructions while battling waves and hail
Don't wait until the snake has stricken to tell me about the venoms
for a dying man has no time and ears for caution then on
Don't wait for the war to devastate and ruin to preach peace
bombs would have deafened or the machetes cut me piece by piece
Don't wait for me to plunge to ask me if I've worn a ******
like a kidnapper freeing hostages prior demanding for ransom
Don't wait until I've dived into the Sea to ask whether I can swim
Don't wait for the end of days to find out whether I believes in Him
Don't wait until I'm bleeding to tell me about the beauty of scars
or until a clear night to praise the beauty of stars
Don't wait until I'm malnourished to bring me aid
until I'm dead and gone to praise the words I said
Don't wait for my life to flood to dredge the silt
that wouldn't be kindness, that would either be mockery or guilt
Don't wait for me to find someone to feelings for me admit
Don't wait to offer a helping hand when I'm totally deadbeat
why wait to raise a wall when you can fill the crevice
you have something to do, to instill, to say, to caution, to give
do it now while I smile, while I'm strong, while I live
Don't speak about the adulterations after I've drunk from the chalice*
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 3:49 AM UTC
My brother is very lazy.
Every day he drives me crazy.
I love him to bits I'll have you know,
I'll defend him stoutly against any foe.
I've never seen a man so stubborn,
His wife must find him hard to govern.
I still love him, for all his faults,
There's nothing like him
In any bank vaults.
Paul Butters
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 2:29 AM UTC
few new words, here.
just the punk scene-
feral, free.
and the accompanying
knowledge that
others battle the tide, too,
mouths as salty with sea water.
others
giving to become,
dancing in the trenches,
transported beyond classroom cubicles
by the music of
celestial fabrics,
of me,
of me meeting you,
of whispers from the lips of
God.
we all set up shop there,
use intermittent sunlight
to grow and sell our bluebells,
our quirky flower children.
we all capture
the poetry of moments,
all maroons
in cozy sanctuaries
rich
with the music of
intuition, of
loss of pride, and
old book smells.
How Much Time
do i need for me,
really?
i want to sleep nights on Central Park benches.
i want to buy a bookstore.
i want to feel a horse between my thighs.
i want to drape myself in Moroccan silks.
Simple Solutions,
i'd like you to meet
Bureaucratic Barricades.
is there real need
for the two sides
to every coin
buried in bank vaults
and sock drawers?
but vessels to be
filled.
i want to reform the public education system.
i want to become a nun.
i want to be in the darkness with you.
i want to see unicorns.
just being (t)here,
lost in idealism
and the lines on my palms.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 7:00 PM UTC
A rook, a rook
Flew from the sky
And landed on a tree.
Spoke to the snake
That lie there:
"Snake, what do you see?
"I rise above,
I fly high,
Know all the human breed.
Seen kings and queens,
Even a princess-child
And all the warrior's deeds."
"Rook, oh rook",
Hissed the snake.
"You are so naîve.
You see strength
And beauty, too,
But they lie just as they breathe."
"Snake, oh snake,
What do you say?!
That is not true!
It's merry a life;
That I do know
I watched from high blue."
"Rook, oh rook,
You flew too high,
I know what they've got;
To ****** deceive,
Fight and ****
Their tales are full of blood."
"Snake, oh snake,
You must lie,
I haven't seen such thing.
But let me tell
Of what I saw
Of wars and weddings.
There was a man,
Vain and full of greed,
So proud and so old.
Would never spare a coin,
But as a beggar he saw,
He gave him a coin of gold."
"Rook, oh rook,
I saw it too,
But that was not the end;
The beggar him stalked,
To his home,
And with a dagger in he went."
"Snake, oh snake
Let me tell
Another one:
Of a wedding so bright,
Of a king and his queen,
He kissed her and gave her the crown."
"Rook, oh rook,
Don't believe all you see!
Didn't you hear the queen cry?
The marriage was forced,
Their bond forged,
And she jumped down her tower high."
"Snake, oh snake,
I've seen battles grand,
Where heroes and legends fought.
The earth shattered,
The elements they've torn,
And flames from the sky they brought."
"Rook, oh rook,
That was no battle fair,
Just unglorious assault.
They died like flies,
All of them,
And were buried in nameless vaults."
"Snake, oh snake,
Listen close,
As I tell you of heartens blaze;
Once I saw two lovers,
Kissing under moonlight,
At a lake that mirrored their grace."
"Rook, oh rook,
That I saw as well.
They soon had broken up.
The next day,
She was found dead,
He murdered her out of love."
"Snake, oh snake,
If you speak true,
Then all I knew was wrong!
But then, dear snake
Wouldn't they be
Nothing but spoiled flesh and bone???"
"Oh, but that's it,
Rook, oh rook,
The inhuman, human lot.
They are alive,
And vivid they breathe,
And yet
They
Rot."
Jan 31, 2022
Jan 31, 2022 at 12:11 PM UTC
Could I find you. I'd be home.
Your presence softens, wanes.
Blue light only through trees.
In clouded mirrors behind me.
Could I return to that still frame,
I'd return your eager, loving kiss.
Had I ever known what I'd wanted
When it still mattered,
I wouldn't write this.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 3:58 AM UTC
You who have lifted up your sunburned face,
Long-told of peasant warmth and the forest tableaux.
Barefoot, you brought the book of hours upon dusty roads,
Ungoverned, little flower from Jeanne to Lourdes to Lisieux.
Our Lady, osculum pacis, the kiss of peace in wood and stone.
Burned out to those dusty eyes,
Now-empty look of rosework from the forest-fall of sunlight.
Medieval prayer, earthly-dim to its rafters of oak,
Come un-cinctured in ashen cloud of amice and alb,
And the murine blackness of plague-like smoke.
Birds that sit blinking at the winged fossil of intrados,
Pipe air through your own ribbed vaults, organum pulse.
Let the city rise in your vining voices—and hold the note.
The great ***** intones from the runs and pedal stops,
Along the turbid streets of the rue de la Cité to the empire of catacombs.
Beside his candle, the monk in sadness knows
All loveliness of heaven except his own.
Our Lady, every sunset is your faded candle hour of peace, for us to know.
Holy Father, so passes worldly glory,
Over the roofs of Paris like fire-scorned and leaden wings.
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 1:47 PM UTC