Is it possible, to be walking worthily,
before our God, in a world that’s dying?
While we have some defined understanding
of the constraints that are placed on us,
are we making the effort or even trying?

Are we operating with humbled mindsets
of lowliness, meekness and long-suffering?
Have we grasped the full purpose and plans,
for our vocation within His eternal Kingdom?
Do our actions show that we’re endeavoring

to move beyond personal crusades and desires
to impress anyone, whose lives intersect ours?
Is there a unity of The Spirit, whereby we
can have serenity with everyone around us?
Are we being productive or just wasting hours?

Does our Christian lifestyle reflect the idea
of us having one Lord, one Faith and one Baptism?
Are those, within the Church or outside of it,
being edified by the way we conduct ourselves?
Or are we acting out… in spiritual vigilantism?
.
.
.
Author notes

Inspired by:
Eph 4:1-16

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.

Incipit Prohemium Secundi Libri.

Out of these blake wawes for to sayle,
O wind, O wind, the weder ginneth clere;
For in this see the boot hath swich travayle,
Of my conning, that unnethe I it stere:
This see clepe I the tempestous matere  
Of desespeyr that Troilus was inne:
But now of hope the calendes biginne.
O lady myn, that called art Cleo,
Thou be my speed fro this forth, and my muse,
To ryme wel this book, til I have do;  
Me nedeth here noon other art to use.
For-why to every lovere I me excuse,
That of no sentement I this endyte,
But out of Latin in my tonge it wryte.

Wherfore I nil have neither thank ne blame  
Of al this werk, but prey yow mekely,
Disblameth me if any word be lame,
For as myn auctor seyde, so seye I.
Eek though I speke of love unfelingly,
No wondre is, for it no-thing of newe is;  
A blind man can nat Iuggen wel in hewis.

Ye knowe eek, that in forme of speche is chaunge
With-inne a thousand yeer, and wordes tho
That hadden prys, now wonder nyce and straunge
Us thinketh hem; and yet they spake hem so,  
And spedde as wel in love as men now do;
Eek for to winne love in sondry ages,
In sondry londes, sondry ben usages.

And for-thy if it happe in any wyse,
That here be any lovere in this place  
That herkneth, as the storie wol devyse,
How Troilus com to his lady grace,
And thenketh, so nolde I nat love purchace,
Or wondreth on his speche or his doinge,
I noot; but it is me no wonderinge;  

For every wight which that to Rome went,
Halt nat o path, or alwey o manere;
Eek in som lond were al the gamen shent,
If that they ferde in love as men don here,
As thus, in open doing or in chere,  
In visitinge, in forme, or seyde hire sawes;
For-thy men seyn, ech contree hath his lawes.

Eek scarsly been ther in this place three
That han in love seid lyk and doon in al;
For to thy purpos this may lyken thee,  
And thee right nought, yet al is seyd or shal;
Eek som men grave in tree, som in stoon wal,
As it bitit; but sin I have begonne,
Myn auctor shal I folwen, if I conne.

Exclipit prohemium Secundi Libri.

Incipit Liber Secundus.

In May, that moder is of monthes glade,  
That fresshe floures, blewe, and whyte, and rede,
Ben quike agayn, that winter dede made,
And ful of bawme is fleting every mede;
Whan Phebus doth his brighte bemes sprede
Right in the whyte Bole, it so bitidde  
As I shal singe, on Mayes day the thridde,

That Pandarus, for al his wyse speche,
Felt eek his part of loves shottes kene,
That, coude he never so wel of loving preche,
It made his hewe a-day ful ofte grene;  
So shoop it, that hym fil that day a tene
In love, for which in wo to bedde he wente,
And made, er it was day, ful many a wente.

The swalwe Proigne, with a sorwful lay,
Whan morwe com, gan make hir waymentinge,  
Why she forshapen was; and ever lay
Pandare a-bedde, half in a slomeringe,
Til she so neigh him made hir chiteringe
How Tereus gan forth hir suster take,
That with the noyse of hir he gan a-wake;  

And gan to calle, and dresse him up to ryse,
Remembringe him his erand was to done
From Troilus, and eek his greet empryse;
And caste and knew in good plyt was the mone
To doon viage, and took his wey ful sone  
Un-to his neces paleys ther bi-syde;
Now Ianus, god of entree, thou him gyde!

Whan he was come un-to his neces place,
'Wher is my lady?' to hir folk seyde he;
And they him tolde; and he forth in gan pace,  
And fond, two othere ladyes sete and she,
With-inne a paved parlour; and they three
Herden a mayden reden hem the geste
Of the Sege of Thebes, whyl hem leste.

Quod Pandarus, 'Ma dame, god yow see,  
With al your book and al the companye!'
'Ey, uncle myn, welcome y-wis,' quod she,
And up she roos, and by the hond in hye
She took him faste, and seyde, 'This night thrye,
To goode mote it turne, of yow I mette!'  
And with that word she doun on bench him sette.

'Ye, nece, ye shal fare wel the bet,
If god wole, al this yeer,' quod Pandarus;
'But I am sory that I have yow let
To herknen of your book ye preysen thus;  
For goddes love, what seith it? tel it us.
Is it of love? O, som good ye me lere!'
'Uncle,' quod she, 'your maistresse is not here!'

With that they gonnen laughe, and tho she seyde,
'This romaunce is of Thebes, that we rede;  
And we han herd how that king Laius deyde
Thurgh Edippus his sone, and al that dede;
And here we stenten at these lettres rede,
How the bisshop, as the book can telle,
Amphiorax, fil thurgh the ground to helle.'  

Quod Pandarus, 'Al this knowe I my-selve,
And al the assege of Thebes and the care;
For her-of been ther maked bokes twelve: --
But lat be this, and tel me how ye fare;
Do wey your barbe, and shew your face bare;  
Do wey your book, rys up, and lat us daunce,
And lat us don to May som observaunce.'

'A! God forbede!' quod she. 'Be ye mad?
Is that a widewes lyf, so god you save?
By god, ye maken me right sore a-drad,  
Ye ben so wilde, it semeth as ye rave!
It sete me wel bet ay in a cave
To bidde, and rede on holy seyntes lyves;
Lat maydens gon to daunce, and yonge wyves.'

'As ever thryve I,' quod this Pandarus,  
'Yet coude I telle a thing to doon you pleye.'
'Now, uncle dere,' quod she, 'tel it us
For goddes love; is than the assege aweye?
I am of Grekes so ferd that I deye.'
'Nay, nay,' quod he, 'as ever mote I thryve!  
It is a thing wel bet than swiche fyve.'

'Ye, holy god,' quod she, 'what thing is that?
What! Bet than swiche fyve? Ey, nay, y-wis!
For al this world ne can I reden what
It sholde been; som Iape, I trowe, is this;  
And but your-selven telle us what it is,
My wit is for to arede it al to lene;
As help me god, I noot nat what ye meene.'

'And I your borow, ne never shal, for me,
This thing be told to yow, as mote I thryve!'  
'And why so, uncle myn? Why so?' quod she.
'By god,' quod he, 'that wole I telle as blyve;
For prouder womman were ther noon on-lyve,
And ye it wiste, in al the toun of Troye;
I iape nought, as ever have I Ioye!'  

Tho gan she wondren more than biforn
A thousand fold, and doun hir eyen caste;
For never, sith the tyme that she was born,
To knowe thing desired she so faste;
And with a syk she seyde him at the laste,  
'Now, uncle myn, I nil yow nought displese,
Nor axen more, that may do yow disese.'

So after this, with many wordes glade,
And freendly tales, and with mery chere,
Of this and that they pleyde, and gunnen wade  
In many an unkouth glad and deep matere,
As freendes doon, whan they ben met y-fere;
Til she gan axen him how Ector ferde,
That was the tounes wal and Grekes yerde.

'Ful wel, I thanke it god,' quod Pandarus,  
'Save in his arm he hath a litel wounde;
And eek his fresshe brother Troilus,
The wyse worthy Ector the secounde,
In whom that ever vertu list abounde,
As alle trouthe and alle gentillesse,  
Wysdom, honour, fredom, and worthinesse.'

'In good feith, eem,' quod she, 'that lyketh me;
They faren wel, god save hem bothe two!
For trewely I holde it greet deyntee
A kinges sone in armes wel to do,  
And been of good condiciouns ther-to;
For greet power and moral vertu here
Is selde y-seye in o persone y-fere.'

'In good feith, that is sooth,' quod Pandarus;
'But, by my trouthe, the king hath sones tweye,  
That is to mene, Ector and Troilus,
That certainly, though that I sholde deye,
They been as voyde of vyces, dar I seye,
As any men that liveth under the sonne,
Hir might is wyde y-knowe, and what they conne.  

'Of Ector nedeth it nought for to telle:
In al this world ther nis a bettre knight
Than he, that is of worthinesse welle;
And he wel more vertu hath than might.
This knoweth many a wys and worthy wight.  
The same prys of Troilus I seye,
God help me so, I knowe not swiche tweye.'

'By god,' quod she, 'of Ector that is sooth;
Of Troilus the same thing trowe I;
For, dredelees, men tellen that he dooth  
In armes day by day so worthily,
And bereth him here at hoom so gentilly
To every wight, that al the prys hath he
Of hem that me were levest preysed be.'

'Ye sey right sooth, y-wis,' quod Pandarus;  
'For yesterday, who-so hadde with him been,
He might have wondred up-on Troilus;
For never yet so thikke a swarm of been
Ne fleigh, as Grekes fro him gonne fleen;
And thorugh the feld, in everi wightes ere,  
Ther nas no cry but "Troilus is there!"

'Now here, now there, he hunted hem so faste,
Ther nas but Grekes blood; and Troilus,
Now hem he hurte, and hem alle doun he caste;
Ay where he wente, it was arayed thus:  
He was hir deeth, and sheld and lyf for us;
That as that day ther dorste noon with-stonde,
Whyl that he held his blody swerd in honde.

'Therto he is the freendlieste man
Of grete estat, that ever I saw my lyve;  
And wher him list, best felawshipe can
To suche as him thinketh able for to thryve.'
And with that word tho Pandarus, as blyve,
He took his leve, and seyde, 'I wol go henne.'
'Nay, blame have I, myn uncle,' quod she thenne.  

'What eyleth yow to be thus wery sone,
And namelich of wommen? Wol ye so?
Nay, sitteth down; by god, I have to done
With yow, to speke of wisdom er ye go.'
And every wight that was a-boute hem tho,  
That herde that, gan fer a-wey to stonde,
Whyl they two hadde al that hem liste in honde.

Whan that hir tale al brought was to an ende,
Of hire estat and of hir governaunce,
Quod Pandarus, 'Now is it tyme I wende;  
But yet, I seye, aryseth, lat us daunce,
And cast your widwes habit to mischaunce:
What list yow thus your-self to disfigure,
Sith yow is tid thus fair an aventure?'

'A! Wel bithought! For love of god,' quod she,  
'Shal I not witen what ye mene of this?'
'No, this thing axeth layser,' tho quod he,
'And eek me wolde muche greve, y-wis,
If I it tolde, and ye it **** amis.
Yet were it bet my tonge for to stille  
Than seye a sooth that were ayeins your wille.

'For, nece, by the goddesse Minerve,
And Iuppiter, that maketh the thonder ringe,
And by the blisful Venus that I serve,
Ye been the womman in this world livinge,  
With-oute paramours, to my wittinge,
That I best love, and lothest am to greve,
And that ye witen wel your-self, I leve.'

'Y-wis, myn uncle,' quod she, 'grant mercy;
Your freendship have I founden ever yit;  
I am to no man holden trewely,
So muche as yow, and have so litel quit;
And, with the grace of god, emforth my wit,
As in my gilt I shal you never offende;
And if I have er this, I wol amende.  

'But, for the love of god, I yow beseche,
As ye ben he that I love most and triste,
Lat be to me your fremde manere speche,
And sey to me, your nece, what yow liste:'
And with that word hir uncle anoon hir kiste,  
And seyde, 'Gladly, leve nece dere,
Tak it for good that I shal seye yow here.'

With that she gan hir eiyen doun to caste,
And Pandarus to coghe gan a lyte,
And seyde, 'Nece, alwey, lo! To the laste,  
How-so it be that som men hem delyte
With subtil art hir tales for to endyte,
Yet for al that, in hir entencioun
Hir tale is al for som conclusioun.

'And sithen thende is every tales strengthe,  
And this matere is so bihovely,
What sholde I peynte or drawen it on lengthe
To yow, that been my freend so feithfully?'
And with that word he gan right inwardly
Biholden hir, and loken on hir face,  
And seyde, 'On suche a mirour goode grace!'

Than thoughte he thus: 'If I my tale endyte
Ought hard, or make a proces any whyle,
She shal no savour han ther-in but lyte,
And trowe I wolde hir in my wil bigyle.  
For tendre wittes wenen al be wyle
Ther-as they can nat pleynly understonde;
For-thy hir wit to serven wol I fonde --'

And loked on hir in a besy wyse,
And she was war that he byheld hir so,  
And seyde, 'Lord! So faste ye me avyse!
Sey ye me never er now? What sey ye, no?'
'Yes, yes,' quod he, 'and bet wole er I go;
But, by my trouthe, I thoughte now if ye
Be fortunat, for now men shal it see.  

'For to every wight som goodly aventure
Som tyme is shape, if he it can receyven;
And if that he wol take of it no cure,
Whan that it commeth, but wilfully it weyven,
Lo, neither cas nor fortune him deceyven,  
But right his verray slouthe and wrecchednesse;
And swich a wight is for to blame, I gesse.

'Good aventure, O bele nece, have ye
Ful lightly founden, and ye conne it take;
And, for the love of god, and eek of me,  
Cacche it anoon, lest aventure slake.
What sholde I lenger proces of it make?
Yif me your hond, for in this world is noon,
If that yow list, a wight so wel begoon.

'And sith I speke of good entencioun,  
As I to yow have told wel here-biforn,
And love as wel your honour and renoun
As creature in al this world y-born;
By alle the othes that I have yow sworn,
And ye be wrooth therfore, or wene I lye,  
Ne shal I never seen yow eft with ye.

'Beth nought agast, ne quaketh nat; wher-to?
Ne chaungeth nat for fere so your hewe;
For hardely the werste of this is do;
And though my tale as now be to yow newe,  
Yet trist alwey, ye shal me finde trewe;
And were it thing that me thoughte unsittinge,
To yow nolde I no swiche tales bringe.'

'Now, my good eem, for goddes love, I preye,'
Quod she, 'com of, and tel me what it is;  
For bothe I am agast what ye wol seye,
And eek me longeth it to wite, y-wis.
For whether it be wel or be amis,
Say on, lat me not in this fere dwelle:'
'So wol I doon; now herkneth, I shal telle:  

'Now, nece myn, the kinges dere sone,
The goode, wyse, worthy, fresshe, and free,
Which alwey for to do wel is his wone,
The noble Troilus, so loveth thee,
That, bot ye helpe, it wol his bane be.  
Lo, here is al, what sholde I more seye?
Doth what yow list, to make him live or deye.

'But if ye lete him deye, I wol sterve;
Have her my trouthe, nece, I nil not lyen;
Al sholde I with this knyf my throte kerve --'  
With that the teres braste out of his yen,
And seyde, 'If that ye doon us bothe dyen,
Thus giltelees, than have ye fisshed faire;
What mende ye, though that we bothe apeyre?

'Allas! He which that is my lord so dere,  
That trewe man, that noble gentil knight,
That nought desireth but your freendly chere,
I see him deye, ther he goth up-right,
And hasteth him, with al his fulle might,
For to be slayn, if fortune wol assente;  
Allas! That god yow swich a beautee sente!

'If it be so that ye so cruel be,
That of his deeth yow liste nought to recche,
That is so trewe and worthy, as ye see,
No more than of a Iapere or a wrecche,  
If ye be swich, your beautee may not strecche
To make amendes of so cruel a dede;
Avysement is good bifore the nede.

'Wo worth the faire gemme vertulees!
Wo worth that herbe also that dooth no bote!  
Wo worth that beautee that is routhelees!
Wo worth that wight that tret ech under fote!
And ye, that been of beautee crop and rote,
If therwith-al in you ther be no routhe,
Than is it harm ye liven, by my trouthe!  

'And also thenk wel that this is no gaude;
For me were lever, thou and I and he
Were hanged, than I sholde been his baude,
As heyghe, as men mighte on us alle y-see:
I am thyn eem, the shame were to me,  
As wel as thee, if that I sholde assente,
Thorugh myn abet, that he thyn honour shente.

'Now understond, for I yow nought requere,
To binde yow to him thorugh no beheste,
But only that ye make him bettre chere  
Than ye han doon er this, and more feste,
So that his lyf be saved, at the leste;
This al and som, and playnly our entente;
God help me so, I never other mente.

'Lo, this request is not but skile, y-wis,  
Ne doute of reson, pardee, is ther noon.
I sette the worste that ye dredden this,
Men wolden wondren seen him come or goon:
Ther-ayeins answere I thus a-noon,
That every wight, but he be fool of kinde,  
Wol deme it love of freendship in his minde.

'What? Who wol deme, though he see a man
To temple go, that he the images eteth?
Thenk eek how wel and wy

O Intelligences moving the third heaven,
the reasons heed that from my heart come forth,
so new, it seems, that no one else should know.
The heaven set in motion by your worth,
beings in gentleness created even,
keeps my existence in its present woe,
so that to speak of what I feel and know
means to converse most worthily with you:
I beg you, then, to listen to me well.
Of something in me new I now will tell—
how grief and sadness this my soul subdue,
and how a contradiction from afar
speaks through the rays descending from your star.

A thought of loveliness seems now to be
life to my ailing heart: it used to fly
oft to the very presence of your Sire;
and there a glorious Lady sitting high
it also saw, who spoke so pleasingly,
my soul would say “Up there dwells my desire.”
Now one appears, which I in dread admire
a mighty lord that makes it flee away,
so mighty, terror from my heart outflows.
To me he brings a lady very close,
and “Who salvation seeks,” I hear him say,
“let him but gaze into this lady’s eyes,
if he can suffer agony of sighs.”

Such is the contradiction, it can slay
the humble thought that is still telling me
of a fair angel up in heaven crowned.
My soul bemoans its present misery,
saying, “Unhappy me! How fast away
went he, in whom I had some solace found!”
And of my eyes it says, with mournful sound,
“When was it such a lady pierced their sight?
Why did they fail to see me in her guise?
I said, ‘Oh, surely, in this lady’s eyes
the one must dwell who kills my peers with fright.’
To no avail I warned them (Oh, my dread!),
but look at her they did, and I fell dead.”

“Oh, no, not dead, you are bewildered much,
O my poor soul, so pained and grieving so,”
replies a loving spirit, kind and sweet,
“For the fair woman, that you feel and know,
has changed your life so quickly and so much,
you now are trembling in your vile defeat.
Look how humility and mercy meet
in one so wise and gentle in her height:
so call her Lady, as by now you must.
And you will see, if steadfast is your trust,
such lofty miracles, such full delight,
you’ll say, ‘O Love, true lord, do as you please:
here is your humble handmaid on her knees.’”

My song, I do believe that those are few
who can unravel your most hidden sense,
so intricate and mighty is your wit.
Therefore, if by some fate or circumstance
you stray and venture among people who
seem not completely to have fathomed it,
oh, then, I pray, console yourself a bit,
and say, O lovely latest song, to them,
“Notice, at least, how beautiful I am!”

Most glorious Lord of Lyfe! that, on this day,
Didst make Thy triumph over death and sin;
And, having harrowd hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win:
This joyous day, deare Lord, with joy begin;
And grant that we, for whom thou diddest dye,
Being with Thy deare blood clene washt from sin,
May live for ever in felicity!

And that Thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love Thee for the same againe;
And for Thy sake, that all lyke deare didst buy,
With love may one another entertayne!
  So let us love, deare Love, lyke as we ought,
  —Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

O Intelligences moving the third heaven,
the reasons heed that from my heart come forth,
so new, it seems, that no one else should know.
The heaven set in motion by your worth,
beings in gentleness created even,
keeps my existence in its present woe,
so that to speak of what I feel and know
means to converse most worthily with you:
I beg you, then, to listen to me well.
Of something in me new I now will tell—
how grief and sadness this my soul subdue,
and how a contradiction from afar
speaks through the rays descending from your star.

A thought of loveliness seems now to be
life to my ailing heart: it used to fly
oft to the very presence of your Sire;
and there a glorious Lady sitting high
it also saw, who spoke so pleasingly,
my soul would say “Up there dwells my desire.”
Now one appears, which I in dread admire
a mighty lord that makes it flee away,
so mighty, terror from my heart outflows.
To me he brings a lady very close,
and “Who salvation seeks,” I hear him say,
“let him but gaze into this lady’s eyes,
if he can suffer agony of sighs.”

Such is the contradiction, it can slay
the humble thought that is still telling me
of a fair angel up in heaven crowned.
My soul bemoans its present misery,
saying, “Unhappy me! How fast away
went he, in whom I had some solace found!”
And of my eyes it says, with mournful sound,
“When was it such a lady pierced their sight?
Why did they fail to see me in her guise?
I said, ‘Oh, surely, in this lady’s eyes
the one must dwell who kills my peers with fright.’
To no avail I warned them (Oh, my dread!),
but look at her they did, and I fell dead.”

“Oh, no, not dead, you are bewildered much,
O my poor soul, so pained and grieving so,”
replies a loving spirit, kind and sweet,
“For the fair woman, that you feel and know,
has changed your life so quickly and so much,
you now are trembling in your vile defeat.
Look how humility and mercy meet
in one so wise and gentle in her height:
so call her Lady, as by now you must.
And you will see, if steadfast is your trust,
such lofty miracles, such full delight,
you’ll say, ‘O Love, true lord, do as you please:
here is your humble handmaid on her knees.’”

My song, I do believe that those are few
who can unravel your most hidden sense,
so intricate and mighty is your wit.
Therefore, if by some fate or circumstance
you stray and venture among people who
seem not completely to have fathomed it,
oh, then, I pray, console yourself a bit,
and say, O lovely latest song, to them,
“Notice, at least, how beautiful I am!”

Though I am bold and young at heart,
Tempered by the varied winds,
I must not forget
What I gleaned from your eyes
As you peered into mine

I saw you.
The taste of lime and dim light
Fetter as I took you away from the crowd
From strangers to lovers,
We came and went,
Our fondness disheveled covers

Subtext, riddles through course encounters
I lay alone those nights and reminisced
The touch I sought was yours

Periodic formal dinners
Gave way to more late nights as
Friends followed the informal
And soon, no secret

I see our friends come and go,
But we, we never leave.
On crowded sunlit beaches
With the rest
We step on rocky sand

I take you for granted
Juggling careers,
Dreams we dreamt since we were kids
It all falls short of machinations
But that which stays had no division

Rarely speaking
Those words which grow ill with repetition
As we grow together in flore

Now dim lights keep the flowers by your bedside table
Subtle patter of branches against a doctor’s window
Is all I hear against the swell of loss

I see me old, but still young at heart,
Weakened by the varied winds,
And I never forgot
What I gleaned from your eyes
As you peered into mine

What I know is I’d love you
Worthily through life
And, as life leaves, preserve it
I see it in your eyes

He lay within a warm, soft world
Of motion. Colors bloomed and fled,
Maroon and turquoise, saffron, red,
Wave upon wave that broke and whirled
To vanish in the grey-green gloom,
Perspectiveless and shadowy.
A bulging world that had no walls,
A flowing world, most like the sea,
Compassing all infinity
Within a shapeless, ebbing room,
An endless tide that swells and falls . . .
He slept and woke and slept again.
As a veil drops Time dropped away;
Space grew a toy for children's play,
Sleep bolted fast the gates of Sense --
He lay in naked impotence;
Like a drenched moth that creeps and crawls
Heavily up brown, light-baked walls,
To fall in wreck, her task undone,
Yet somehow striving toward the sun.
So, as he slept, his hands clenched tighter,
Shut in the old way of the fighter,
His feet curled up to grip the ground,
His muscles tautened for a bound;
And though he felt, and felt alone,
Strange brightness stirred him to the bone,
Cravings to rise -- till deeper sleep
Buried the hope, the call, the leap;
A wind puffed out his mind's faint spark.
He was absorbed into the dark.
He woke again and felt a surge
Within him, a mysterious urge
That grew one hungry flame of passion;
The whole world altered shape and fashion.
Deceived, befooled, bereft and torn,
He scourged the heavens with his scorn,
Lifting a bitter voice to cry
Against the eternal treachery --
Till, suddenly, he found the breast,
And ceased, and all things were at rest,
The earth grew one warm languid sea
And he a wave. Joy, tingling, crept
Throughout him. He was quenched and slept.

So, while the moon made broad her ring,
He slept and cried and was a king.
So, worthily, he acted o'er
The endless miracle once more.
Facing immense adventures daily,
He strove still onward, weeping, gaily,
Conquered or fled from them, but grew
As soil-starved, rough pine-saplings do.
Till, one day, crawling seemed suspect.
He gripped the air and stood *****
And splendid. With immortal rage
He entered on man's heritage!

557

She hideth Her the last—
And is the first, to rise—
Her Night doth hardly recompense
The Closing of Her eyes—

She doth Her Purple Work—
And putteth Her away
In low Apartments in the Sod -
As worthily as We.

To imitate her life
As impotent would be
As make of Our imperfect Mints,
The Julep—of the Bee—

i find it scary that people
who claim sanity
and drink coffee puffy-eyed
at 5a.m.
are the relative answer to
make those, drinking whiskey
at 7 minutes to midnight,
as being insane...*

forthrightly to obscure and to make make words archaic
would never make sense in geometry...
or what's the archaic standard
diacritical model of: yeß, prime minißter!
when you don't apply orthodox diacritical syllable
incision you'll make nonsense adjustments:
for a trill (or rolling)
we range from "r" alveolar "trill"
    and ʙ / v in Cyrillic (acute w)
           into bilabial?
я-Alice... uvular?
                  voiceless epiglottal trill,
or n, or ...  or surd?
                     you really have to word it
or over-word it when a few punctuation
marks aren't ascribed to phonetic units
that letters are:
rather than phonetic equivalents of ethanol
as attaches of carbohydrates
to be later stressed in the discussion:
which never took place...
    i'm still baffled by the conesus that
someone drinking coffee at 5a.m. is considered
sane compared with someone drinking whiskey
at five-past midnight...
the former is sane because in his state he will
embrace the state and craft a future plan for
making change... and the latter will
have to inherit the estate of the asylum
and craft a future plan that says: you, will,
not, be, able, to, congest, this, world,
with, your, dreams; even, if, your, dreams,
are, equatable, with, demeaning, ambitions,
to overcome, the stereotypes,
                 for they speak the drooling R...
when others hark or trill it...
                            and they say: power
exacted from an "ambiguity" of what's necessarily
stressed when a word is cut apart into
syllables, which cannot be further exposed to be
under-the-scalpel of letters having "punctuation"
marks (diacritical marks)...
as some might say, i'm colourblind given
the medium i use that's dichromatic sentenced to
be polarised by that, which is in between...
council-flat tenants complaining to the builders that
their kitchens don't represent Kuwait hotels
in Newham... or how to address post-colonialism
in how to represent modernity and moderation
and a disfranchise of ethnicity being the original
model for exploitation...
             i remember a time in England when
it was a happy place to be... prior to 2004...
          talk in Poland? mongrels amid stern
nationalism that represses homegrown terrorism,
given the historicity of Pole and Turk...
        and someone in the Philippines is to
address the question of justifiable censorship?
the Englishman is overtly prudish,
or let us say: overtly too polite...
   the Englishman is towing politeness when
he's actually towing a rotting corpse of a titan
he once was...
there was no chance to teach people
diacritical syllable punctuation, hence that
pseudo-science of leveraging a simple diacritical
representation into a dynamic of a Rosetta stone...
what could ʢ ever represent other than
a voiced episteme gluttony without a drill to
concede a need to repeat summer follows spring?
yes, after 2004, my status of a minority was left
blemished by those who i account for as my
"brethren", but, who have dragged me down,
to worthily accept a quote from Isaiah,
to some obscure circumstance of having an ethnicity
to begin with, and so unlearn my use of English
into a hostile psychological stance that simply said:
globalisation, and war against all and none:
within a framework of none? myself.
now i'm jealous of a snoopy-eyed garcon
and i know he's not jealous of me...
but i am jealous of the idea that capitalism actually
implants in the garcon's hope the idea of
a "state" pension... there are no states within
globalisation... the other "Japanese" time-bomb
in western society is not old age... it's pensions:
pray to god you don't reach old age...
the productivity of an expendable billion of Chinese
means you are entrusted with a brief hiatus
from work, and an slight existential bewilderment:
before jumping into the yawning lava pit of Etna.

Let the Archmage of the East
Fight the Archdemons of Hell
Vanquish the Power of the Beast
By the might of Divine Spell!

Oh Divine Thunder, bend down the Power of Pride
Brought upon by Archdemon Lucifer
Pride, descend like a subsiding tide
So we can live our life better

Let the Archmage of the East
Fight the Archdemons of Hell
Vanquish the Power of the Beast
By the might of Divine Spell!

Oh Divine Ice, freeze the Power of Greed
Brought upon by Archdemon Mammon
Greed, petrify like a futile seed
So abuses & excesses cannot carry on

Let the Archmage of the East
Fight the Archdemons of Hell
Vanquish the Power of the Beast
By the might of Divine Spell!

Oh Divine Water, wash away the Power of Lust
Brought upon by Archdemon Asmodeus
Lust, be gone like a worthless dust
So we can worthily accept the body of Jesus

Let the Archmage of the East
Fight the Archdemons of Hell
Vanquish the Power of the Beast
By the might of Divine Spell!

Oh Divine Lightning, terrorize the Power of Anger
Brought upon by Archdemon Satan
Anger, cower like a defeated monster
So conflict & chaos be all gone

Let the Archmage of the East
Fight the Archdemons of Hell
Vanquish the Power of the Beast
By the might of Divine Spell!

Oh Divine Wind, blow away the Power of Envy
Brought upon by Archdemon Leviathan
Envy, disappear like a forgotten misery
So our hearts can have contentment & fun

Let the Archmage of the East
Fight the Archdemons of Hell
Vanquish the Power of the Beast
By the might of Divine Spell!

Oh Divine Flame, burn down the Power of Gluttony
Brought upon by Archdemon Beelzebub
Gluttony, be burnt down like the fats in belly
So we can gracefully & comfortably move

Let the Archmage of the East
Fight the Archdemons of Hell
Vanquish the Power of the Beast
By the might of Divine Spell!

Oh Divine Smoke, agitate the Power of Laziness
Brought upon by Archdemon Belphegor
Laziness, break like a vacuum of nothingness
So we can be fruitful forevermore

Let the Archmage of the East
Fight the Archdemons of Hell
Vanquish the Power of the Beast
By the might of Divine Spell!

-10/25-31/2015
(Dumarao)
*for allpoetry.com contest

It was the third day of my madness caused by your doom
And my inner poet was lying with glooms
trying to perish
But your force was so strong and refreshing,
I felt his endless will to rise again and live
I was afraid to look his eyes even a moment
I had deprived him of worth, had left him to die
I was afraid hereafter of his conviction
I knew he was stronger because he had you...
But what I had my own, except my paltriness?!
What I did to save you
when you relentlessly put an end to yourself inside me?!
He said that he lived more vividly and worthily
And he deserved to live even more than me...
He asked what I had achieved more than ten years?
I shut up only, like before you had also made me
You had called all that I felt only complaints
But in fact, I had perceived you had also been afraid
To face the damages which you had caused to me...

Yes, my dear friend, I often have heavy damages
I was always traumatized in dimensional clashes
As I betray my eigen* and leave myself alone,
I begin to acknowledge my all emptiness
You can just exist in vain with your mind and logic
But you can truly live only by accepting your feelings valuable...

I got my strength with fire in my heart,
I was watching my growing power,
Which was circulating  along my freezing veins
I hugged my innocent, suffering poet,
I promised to create - my own highest values,
My predecessors, my sufferer poet and me
would live hereafter disregarding yours!
But yet it was not fair, yet it was not worthwhile,
I had to cling to my dimensions much more deeply
I was full of energy and had everything to fight,
There appeared a dream to share my horizons I would gain thereafter...
But I lacked you... Who deserved to see it most than others...
As the one who was able to do the impossible
which no one had been able to do before...
You had to see my intentional life you had presented...

I wandered among the graves in my "graveheart",
Resurrected my all soulmates lying in chaos,
Who we shared our sacred dimensions of solitude
Who were craving to be felt and to be understood
Nietzche, Schopenhauer, Cioran lead them of course...
I brought them to life with the laughter you had taught me,
We marched side by side to the source of vitality,
We saluted Martin Eden
and vowed to avenge his suicidal also!

We movingly reached the end of my heart,
where your awesome grave was lying
I kept your cold remedial hands,
As I smiled, in return you smiled warmer than me,
You know, I can never smile or laugh as deep as you do,
I faithfully said that I wanted to live,
I promised one day I would laugh even more deeply than you do.
I understood you had wanted me just to be strong,
However, you hadn't been able to understand me again once more...
As women represent themselves as a tool to strong ones,
contrary they represent themselves as a present to the weak
That is why I was brawling and trying to withstand,
Could I accept you as another worthless thing rather than a present?!

I embraced you and internalized your
spirit,
All my soulmates exulted in it...
I and my pale poet set my new universe,
In company with the souls of our dimensions,
we raised you...
We raised you above all of the tortures and fears,
We raised you above all of the dimensions.
We raised you above all of the meanings,
We sacrificed the meaning of life for you
and I made you the center of my universe
You began to shine like the sun in my life,
Then all separated values and meanings
began in harmony to whirl around you
Around the sun of my worthwhile universe...

The Death of a Good and Faithful Spider

A good and faithful spider lived its life
In spinning and dusting and catching pests
In the ikon corner among the saints:
Kyril and Methodius, Seraphim

Tikhon the Wonderworker, Vladimir
Anna of Kashin, Nicholas the Czar
Zosima, Xenia of Saint Petersburg
And all the cloud of holy Slavic witness

Whose images were guarded worthily
By a little spider who served God well

Everyone
calls me a cynic;
thinks of me as a fool -
for I do not believe in the reality
of soul-completing
story-worthily compelling
love

And I'm not sorry

Because
I know what I mean
and I know how I feel

Love is simply fictitious -
If it wasn't,
then one wouldn't
fall in and out of it
so quickly
No,
one wouldn't choose to hurt
and betray
and scare off
if it was real

And that's how I know

You gotta trust me too like I trust you just like you did way back you told yourself that I'll come back.

No matter what it took we came together and very tight , might not very right and I get that.

I respect that, we fell down, rebelled inside out just to keep eachother.

Just to stay longer ,spend some more time together.

Spare a part of us worthily, dedicated and dictated ourselves with a lot of "fury", then a lot more sympathy and most of love.

Enriched with fear of being left out alone, stringing, hanging looking at eachother to the shoulder with trust,

Accepted every piece made peace with those pieces, we traced a way back.

It's more than than anything for me, right now.

O Wisdom! What are you? And how can I
Name you? Even the philosopher, who
Calls himself your lover, and who would sigh
To possess you, can he weave a wreath to
Crown you worthily? Will anything do
To offer fitting homage? My poor song
Shall, truly - if you should help it along.

O Wisdom! I shall praise you! You, like light
Which scythes through crowding darkness, are a blade
Which sunders the veil, driving into sight
What ignorance hides; and, having been made
Manifest, your glory shall never fade.
You slip past the warden’s dark, foolish walls
And cause dawn to break in black prison halls.

O Wisdom! Hear me, as I thee invoke,
With haste fly to me from thy golden throne,
For I would take upon myself thy yoke,
I would thy precepts, all sweet, gladly own,
For without thee I should be quite alone,
E’en with friends abounding (and golden must
Her throne be, I know, for gold does not rust).

The Death of a Good and Faithful Spider

In Tod Mixson’s ikon corner a good and faithful spider fulfilled its vocation in an arachnid-life well spent.

A good and faithful spider lived its life
In spinning and dusting and catching pests
In the ikon corner among the saints:
Kyril and Methodius, Seraphim

Tikhon the Wonderworker, Vladimir
Anna of Kashin, Nicholas the Czar
Zosima, Xenia of Saint Petersburg
And all the cloud of holy Slavic witness

Whose images were guarded worthily
By a little spider who served God well

Forsaken she was forced to live among those considered pure
Her rose colored appearance seduced the most worthily assured
Unfamiliar with the customs she adapted none the less
She hid her femininity adorned in modest dress
Naive and unaware of her affect upon others
She congregated in the meeting house with her fellow sisters and brothers
There he stood over the crowd mesmerized by her rare beauty
The passion arose in him but he held onto his duty
Eventually with time their love grew with intensity
Their insatiable passion they attributed to divinity
They could no longer hide the physical propensity
To ****** without regard for the choice they both made
Now her brazen red color has become a crusade
She was no longer an innocent but seen as a harlot
The beautiful red color is better known as scarlet
©1/15/2019

/enlgish: a playground... mind you... who wouldn't want to see so much more of boris brejcha sampling old disney movies? the ori-, the original thought... ah! when does the mea culpa mantra elevate itself from succumbing to a solipsism? mea culpa? i thought that was autistic, solipsistic *******... kicking the can down the road sort of, *******... ever wonder why the original disney cartoons were so, macabre? apparently in england it's all ******* squiggly clean... king Xerxes started to whip the Aegean Sea (again): Helen! come back! come back! i never liked the credo, nor the mea culpa mantra... it appeared, that no one existed, who could be blamed, and i was bound to resort to, blaming myself, masochistically... enter logic: only i exist, no one else exists! that's what the mea culpa mantra equated itself to... early black & white Disney... cutting edge... the guillotine cartoons... hello! autistic christian world! mea culpa my ***... the ******* donkey could vouch: and i speeded up, because the holy prophet whipped me into a gallop! mea culpa... mea culpa... my own fault... ergo, no one else exists!

this will have to be the funniest petition
ever...
    for one, it's impossible,
but secondary to that impossible
is the reaction to the blatant introduction
of "hieroglyphics" into
a modern language...
      that's ******* troubling,
    ancient egypt is staging a resugrence
within english, among other languages...
i can't let that happen...
   what with emoticons
     acronyms and emoji whatever
the ******* want to call them?
             that's hieroglyphic spreschen,
hot air balloons, zombie heads,
   voids and more voids, inside one giant
void of: the black hole explains everything...
yeah! it does... ever play the PS1 tomb raider?
ever become fascinated about
those two dimensional ferns and bushes
in a three dimensional space?
            rotating like a tasmanian devil?
that's a black hole...
            a two dimensional object in a three
dimensional space...
     who says i'm wrong? who says i'm right?
you have empirical proof to say i'm wrong?
anyway, this will be almost impossible,
fair game for introducing the german
   diacritical distinction into english,
the es-und-zed (ß), when there's ambiguity
concerning the spelling of (variance)
  systematisation     vs.          systematize
hey presto!                
                                       ß,
    zaire                                               sire.
now that's the easy part, the difficult bit?
  no one spotted the lack of diacritical necessity
with regards to the letter R.
                 none!
you can have the squiggly on the N in spanish
as in a tilde: Ñ....
                    invoking a juggling act of
                          ι + . . . = ñ        (j)
                    **** me, a clown juggling...
but exposing a trill on the R, when a language
has devolved from applying it,
other than harking phlegm while smoking
in paris, or making vampire movies?
  the tilde isn't even near the trill representation...
i had to go to russia to think something
up, to fill the vacuum... w'eh hey! found it!
      яobot,
                 yes yes, i know, the russians
state я as ya... whatever...
      to me, the lack of diacritical application
to the R has this solution...
      it's not an R with dentistry's anaesthetic
so you slobber... it's harsh, poignant,
self-evident... let's call this:
     reinventing the wheel, well, it's not
so much rolling, as rattle-snake against
the palatine raphe...
                 pneumatic-drill of a letter...
a complete drum-kit...
   but since there was no diacritical markings
with either liberal (theoretical)
   or orthodox (applicable) usage:
   no, i will not learn the silly linguistic
alphabet...
                 all the americans did was
insert god's right hand into the matter...
    a... wait for this...     a                        H...
that's all they did!
         my my, what a ******* improvement
from /ˈpɑːdən/  to [pahr-dn],
  if this could be art,
   i'd call one: cubism,
                     and the other post-cubism...

but english is the current version
of the wild west...
      diacritical markers can come in...
"reign" from above,
   and sieve from down below...
it's a barren land,
compared to the already existing
european languages...
            e.g.?
                         łąka - field
woe-k'ah...
but that's a primitive phonetic
association,
given the original canvas of
the used tongue,
used only two diacritical markers...
hovering, like u.f.o.s
above            ι        and        ȷ....
     you want the dead hydra,
don't you?
        why not... embark upon
the aesthetic of...
   citing:             ȷump!
                rather than jump...
or...                        ιdea!
                      ­         rather than idea?
all ιt takes ιs allowιng the people
to guιllotιne two heads, no?
          look! hey presto!
                an alιgnment!
   because why wouldn't you?
there's no caron above an S...
            to hide an H... in šeep...
          there's no caron above a C
to also hide an H... in čatter...
so... why bother with the poιntless
     twιn "halo" hoverιng above
            ιdea and ȷustιfιed resonance?
two dots...
                   .                     .
                   ι                     ȷ
                       you don't need them!
curves rather than curses:
     look at that!
                                                    ȷ
     ­                                            ι
almost makes a... U! yew yew?
                    no... upsιlon: up-sιgh-alone...

hell, people wanted a hyper-"ιnflated"
lιterate world, "order"...
      graffιtι dιdn't do ιt for me...
nor dιd the meme culture...
                       ιt was only a two headed
hydra to begιn wιth...
                              hardly a
   ghídorah (well yeah, sιnce the H
ιs sιlent, "hιdden", but ιn plaιn sιght...
there has to be an acute attaché to the ιota,
and yes, that H at the end?
ιt's a vowel-catcher... equιvalent of a,
sιgh)...
                                 you try intruducing
diacritical marks into english,
things become, "sketchy"...
  e.g. when = łen...
                            woman = łuman...
              the tetragrammaton ȷust
keeps probιng...
          hell... let's go as far as:
sz  (ш)                     szcz (щ)
   sh  (ш)                shch (щ)

e.g.?
                     щэкa - a dog, barks...
    щыптa - pinch - of... сoли
                                                    (salt)..­.

        шэпт ( szept /                whisper)...

in all honesty?
   english is the ugliest language in known
history, when diacritical markers
are applied,
and the language is translated from
a pedagogical convention of spelling,
its rubric...
   of: the eyes see what the ears
will hear, but cannot converse with...

introducing a diacritical critique
to the english language?
            it's ugly... it's like frankenstein's
monster actually found himself
a girlfriend after all...
   i haven't heard of the phenomenon
of dyslexia outside of the english
language,
perhaps i might have found it in fwench...
i doubt i would find it as
"pop" in deutsche...
    given... the saxons were behind...
keeping chemical names
in strict accordance to the usual:
complex compound noun structure
of modern german...

eh... norman davies, the historian,
could have claimed poland
was god's "playground"...
    to me?
                the english language is
a "playground" worthily ripe,
                                      for, plucking.

Her yearly rout precludes calcifying bonds, tanning hides & wearing Japanese pants. ****** is the great shutter-upper...to words, from consonants in line denying what's worthily worrisome. [Chicklet had staying power in commissioned reports.]