Three Stories

I promise that I didn't abandon this blog, so much as inadvertently took a break from poetry. I've been reading a lot of Levertov recently, who inspired (a lose term- I don't want to blame her for my inadequacy as a writer) me to try out different verse forms. Here is the result:

Part I



Part II



Part III

Washing Feet

The Prince came in with royal robes,
and having walked down many stairs
descending from His golden throne,
removed His regal gown and airs
and wore His holiness alone.

He gleamed more bright than whitest white
though in a world that knew Him not,
dead in its heart and in its mind,
it boasted life but reeked of rot.
The Light had come to blind mankind.

He came to me and spoke with care,
but I could not respond in kind.
Dead like the rest, what then of life
knew I? Its brightness I maligned,
contented with continued strife.

Yet humbly He sat down in dust
and wrote a few things in the sand.
He took a bowl and washing sheet,
continuing with purposed plan,
the Prince knelt down and washed my feet.

But Sir! I said in frightened voice
Please do not do this lowly deed;
You should regain your princely seat.
They're not that soiled; there's no need-
And I myself can wash my feet.

Despite my protest He went on,
disgraceful soles He took in hand
I did not know my sin so great-
the more He washed, the more demand-
and from my soles He bore the weight.

Now as the blackened dirt washed off,
I watched as it then turned to blood.
He washed my feet, but then He bled
from where His garments washed the mud,
His body taking pain instead.

I did not understand the cost
before I looked into His eyes,
and I then realized with disgust
that He had taken my demise
and there He lay dead in the dust.

'Twas my iniquity for which He died;
He Himself was damned and I - justified.

Freedom?

Why is it that we choose to serve the things
that most enslave us with their lies and strings?

Post-Christmas

The pomp dies down, and empty boxes lie
beneath the browning tree sans bows and ties

But in the stillness, we remember still
'twas not the spectacle that was "good will."

Ever notice that the moon is like a reverse eye?

The moon's white retina shines in the night,
soft iris shimmers, then fades out of sight

Paul was right, but I don't always believe him

If "we are more than conquerors" then why
does my defeated spirit hereby lie?

Immanuel

Light unapproachable, unbearable
so wisely cloaked by virgin miracle