Just a stroke, so tenderly embraced and then laid, strowed, under foot, under hoof, a carpet and canopy for an entering King. How easy to rip from the bough an instrument of worship.
Just a stroke, so fiercely stretched and then nailed. Impail, in foot, in hand; obeisance forced on the one who is King. . . . → Read More: Palms
This poem concludes a trilogy of poems over the last three Christmases. For 2009 and 2010 see Myrrh and Frankincense.
All I have wanted for two years and three months is treasure; Not wrapped and buried in a chest under the ground, rotting, decaying, already dead, but here, held in my my hands, forever.
. . . → Read More: Gold
A day late. Forgive me.
Heirs of Spinoza
Oh “good” ones, who accept their optimal substance (uncompleted) as a portion of that greater substance;
if blessedness can only come from elevation to a higher status, some day ism
who, I implore, sent Gabriel in the first place?
Is that not the perfect question?
Peter Ould . . . → Read More: Heirs of Spinoza
Last year we had Myrrh, this year Frankincense.
How sweet the smell rising to the heavens. A priest at work Offering thanks and sacrifice.
Round the altar a choir with ten thousand wings and countless mouths sings Hallelujah; Hallelujah to the Lamb.
But look down below, beneath the Holy night another evening passes where . . . → Read More: Frankincense
I have at home a Moses basket that lies empty, for the child that should have inhabited it is spread on the wind; ashes to ashes dust to Hertfordshire dust along the Lea Valley. Once he had a home a tight, growing, warm and liquid home with love and nourishment, physical and emotional, piped in. But . . . → Read More: Sepulchre
A fresh day But winter remains Still I mourn