When weeps the time for passion’s flame
and moonlit stars don’t look the same,
it finds no place where clearing falls
instead, dark depths the heart does trawl.
Gardens, gone from bush to brush and then to hush,
have sung their songs of youthful blush.
To fight the mind’s cruel entropy
one serves the heart’s lobotomy.
But soon in life if not in limb
come moments still, one’s cup to brim.
And then, when whispers fend off shouts
no more weeps time, then, love slakes drought.
Through cinnamon skies and ochre afternoons
where stillness reigns the day, and find
that all but trouble is welcome there,
let God speak.
In whispered whine of whippoorwills,
the tawdry tones of turtle songs,
the manic music made of nature’s hubris,
let God speak.
In Grandma’s flare for tasty treats
and children’s flare for eating them
their sticky, tie-dye candy rainbow teeth,
let God speak.
In Mother’s cautious, insistent drone
for teenage bravado of foolish boys
and chatty girls with nothing better to do,
let God speak.
In uncles, aunts and janitors,
whose stories tell of tales worth telling,
fostered in life’s mandibles,
let God speak.
In days that strike and nights that stain
with little pause for joy or cheer,
and time refuses to budge,
let God speak.
In sightless eyes still seeing more,
the pounding heart in fear or shame,
whose sleep is enemy and not friend,
let God speak.
Let God speak.
Sprung alongside leaves of rust
these feet descend on paths we trust,
these limpid scenes of road-cut dreams
where filigreed beauty fills our seams.
* * *
Disguised as nighttime’s distant friend
she makes her appearance, broad breast extends
o’er field and lake and crispling brook
she hunkers down for one last look.
* * *
Where designs of fall now yield to one
more simple, benign and bids her gone.
Now there must a reck’ning be
when all things living, shall soon death see.
* * *
But when through forest, hill and glen
the wand’rer, stout, comes round again
to find his way from found to lost;
find he will, by faith, his host.
Blinded by the light at the end of the bar,
his too heavy head bobs and weaves. But, not far
from his warm and worn stool where drinking was best,
sat one he had known, his heart stopped in his chest.
* * *
Hurtling headlong to oblivion’s cave,
one Scotch, one gin, one more chaser to save.
His only-one-more plan for one more last drink
would push away logic, it hurt just to think.
* * *
But severed in time, time and time again
his whispering soul no longer his friend
he turned to adjourn this collective canteen
of invisible friends and the pinball machine.
* * *
He saw his reflection in spilled pools of beer
from everyone else’s love and good cheer
and paused long enough his fate to forestall
the one he had known said, “I’ll be your last last call.”
Glad am I to see such frozen lips on morning’s edge,
quivering, stiff, unmoving.
She struggles to kiss each day.
Her hope unwavering, her sun-sheen still to come,
her laugh boisterous yet understated, she prepares.
The immanence of her arrival means many colors become one.
The collective explosion of unpredictability, hiding in beauty
bows to the unifying loss of all to gain the one.
Yet she who comes, though dark, mysterious, unclear,
brings with her resurrection’s promise.
Winter-dark shimmer holds in her bosom Spring’s giddy giggle,
her fickle but welcome friend.
Sparring suits, dress for success ties in highly researched color schemes
jockey for position, their bumble-shuffle, slip ‘n slide warehouse of prefab ideas,
rehashed for our viewing amusement.
It’s the already dead, trite and spew, flag me down moments
poorly disguised as having teeth for any meal
other than years of limo rides and cigar smoke backrooms
to further carve up the world into golf course size chunks.
Good places for more deals.
You fill out these dancing pixels, the scene behind the scene, seen by all and no one.
What is real, what is fabrication? What is wise, what is insulation?
Promises, like hearts, are made to be broken –
forged in the heat of passions lost, loves unrequited, dreams dashed.
* * *
Still there lives “the dearest freshness deep down things” if Hopkins has his way.
I’m with him.
This is my submission to Abbey of the Arts latest Poetry Party. The theme: Hospitality.
There is room for all at the fountain of life!
Let come who will to bathe or drink
these playful drops so cool, you think
“how lavish God does pour upon
this water’d life whose life He’s won.”
And though the edge of this lagoon
is busting, full of those who soon
will push and tear and force their way,
yet those who see can laugh, can play.
For wherever all are welcome, there
is space for all, both rough and fair.
God it is who will decide
the ones who choke out love with pride,
instead the pain’d and poor, invite;
together, let us dine tonight.
Photo courtesy of: Steven Elliott
Domestic violence is never an easy topic to address in any setting, let alone with poetry. And yet, where else should one seek to draw attention to the ugliness of the issue but through the beauty and precision of poetry? May these simple, unadorned words, reach into all of us and may we, together, be each others’ rescuers.
Let it be quick
The car screeches into the driveway, askew, radio blaring
and your hidden fears become visceral terror for what’s coming.
For hours now, neck craned, head cocked with ear against the door
your sweaty palms flat against the wall, you listen. Listen.
You flatten the wrinkles in your dress hoping against hope he sees;
he sees you, not the face of his discontent, not the end game
of nights spent boasting of adventures never taken,
trysts only dreamed of in whiskey stupors,
of the feigned and faint glory days in High School hallway peacock parades.
“He doesn’t mean what he says”, you say.
“He’s just having a hard time right now”, you say.
“Oh, I just fell”, you say.
You agonize within, thinking tonight, just maybe, tonight…
he’ll see the girl who caused him to leave his hometown,
for you. Only you. Always you. That’s what he said at least.
You’ve parted your hair the way he likes
and even donned the Junior High barrette he insists is still sexy.
But as the door crashes open what little courage you’d mustered
scurries away like the mice living in your pantry.
And as the first fist comes, you pray:
“let it be quick.”
Satisfied am I with the twisting melodies of yesterday’s yearning?
Driven am I to bedeck my mind in frivolities of yesterday’s learning?
Poking holes in theories ill-suited to soulish life
but still beholding too near my swollen strife.
* * *
Come what may, then, bestir what’s left of daytime’s faith
and mix it up and blend it till sweet to the taste.
Whirl these dervishing bedevilments and find the pearls made sand,
and make them pearls again – in heart, less than in hand.
* * *
Make the numbers match the math when teasing out the will
to sit, to silence all, the tongue, the words, and still
endure with me these acrid hours like waiting for the train
of hopeful dreaming coming soon, once more to love again.
Several weeks now have past
and troubles met and served up, last
like ham sandwiches and potato salad, cold;
you shudder to meet even one so bold.
They stare you down like cheetah with prey
and meet with eyes worn, disheveled and grey.
They pierce and stab, thrust and joust
your long-stem soul now sold, like Faust.
Perchance to seek, to try, to reach
for God knows what, these things, rare, teach
the lessons, ill-gained, that bring us round
to find once more our feet on the ground.
If we are made in God’s image and God sings, then we should be singing, too.
Ancient Wisdom for Modern Seekers
Spiritual Direction for Integrated Living
From liquid courage to Sober Courage
an anamcara exploring those close encounters of the liminal kind
Collaborating with the Muses to inspire, create, and illuminate
...in such kind ways...
"That I may publish with the voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all thy wondrous works." Psalm 26:7
Blog for poet and singer-songwriter Malcolm Guite
…in the thick of things
REFLECTIONS & REVIEWS
Seeking that which is life giving.
… hope is oxygen
Homepage of Seymour Jacklin: Writer - Narrator - Facilitator
Rob's Lit-Bits 
