Puritano

Posts Tagged ‘children’

Perhaps

In Uncategorized on April 1, 2017 at 12:22 am

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July 8

In Uncategorized on March 30, 2016 at 1:51 am

Darling don’t you know

I wanted to give you the world

in all its blinding beauty

its richness and its glory,

transmuted to a limpid jewel

you could hold in your precious hand.

This for that onrushing day

when I have gone to dust.

And so we journeyed you and I

across vast plains and high peaks of memory,

through centuries of sunlit days, moon-fed nights.

At length we came to rest here, in

this secret cavern carved of tears,

walls glistening with blue depths

of dreamhaunted waters.

We lay down, for I had become weary.

You ran your hands through the golden sand

saying Look, look, father.

The tawdry world knelt down at your feet,

roses melted into hot stars and

the beasts of the field gathered around

and grew still.

Time smiled wanly and whispered

Just this once….

My heart rose like a long-caged bird;

I as well.

The wind was already brushing away my footprints.

December 29

In Uncategorized on May 14, 2012 at 1:51 pm

The eyes of our children

seen from afar:

they shine with a radium glow.

Skyclad,

their hermetic souls sleep

like long-dead insects

in the amber of our love.

Their incorruptible, fabulist’s gaze!

The night is soon ripped open with

the imagining of an elemental grief

to which all that is premonition in us

says yes.

As hollow as a played-out mine,

we fearfully drag ourselves

up time’s interminable rope.

And those for whom we

draw breath?

Grown weary of praising us, they’ve

migrated to a distant star, where they

are gently preparing to redeem

a weary universe.

For nothing has yet been accomplished.

November 25

In Uncategorized on November 28, 2011 at 1:36 pm

The children at play in winterlight.

Acolytes of a gentler god,

since the Fall what sweeter grace

has been granted us?

Dusk, and moths dance

in the darkening air.

Wise, innocent eyes seeking, teaching.

Our hopes jangle in their pockets along

with blackbird feathers and plastic trinkets.

Uncertain voices lift now in song.

A song, a psalm, and sung to whom?

The wind perhaps, or the prodigal stars

who yearn, like us, to follow love,

to bathe in its empire of dew;

for once, dear Lord, to rest,

to vanquish memory,

and join them in a sleep profound

as the stillness of the sea.

*

*

Art by R. Waiksnis

September 12

In Uncategorized on October 11, 2010 at 4:50 am

On a lark to Arashiyama
between the pincered rows
of train passengers
my child turns up
her face to me
with a look
wearier than a thousand widows.