The Dusk of Night

I find myself within the dusk of night
Where ghouls and shadows flit around my head
Spitting words of hopeless paths and tired treads
Pressing under me, the weight of darkness’ might
In the midst of shadowed storms I seek the light
Trying to remember words of hope I’ve heard and read
Holding onto sanity by naught but tiny threads
Beat and bruised and cast beyond the realm of fight
In this pitied state I seek the light of Jesus’ hope
I cling unto the splintered Cross, I’m washed by perfect blood
I feel as one who’s lost to die, but sought by He who hung
And as the light shines down upon my bloody face, I grope
I seek the One who saves and keeps with perfect love
For I have no one else to seek and no one else to run

Advertisements

Child of the Night

She is a child of the night, blanketed by the darkness and lit by the eerie glow of the quarter moon. Her skin glows faintly in the creeping blackness, her form is still; silent, waiting. Her pale eyes smolder in the dusk and fog, perceiving shapes and forms, pathways, destinations and intents. She is at home in the dun silence, padding down hidden trails; every step halting and sure. She sees with blindness; perceiving faint whiffs of air, noting slight eddies of scents as they tangle through the air. She discerns faint nuances of thought, swirls in the heady, erotic, intoxicating dance of ideas – geneses begetting geneses. Hers is a gnosis roughly earned.

The darkness is her only friend, the trackless paths her highway and despondent hope her reality.

She resonates with heroic anti-heroes, ingloriously bastard misfits, the tortured souls who fight to fight for good and lose. Whose motives are never pure, whose means are always suspect, who find themselves drawn to the muck, to the murk, to the dirt of life. Who seek to do good, to be noble, to pursue justice, but who cannot for want of sound breeding. She is outcast.

She is compelled by the eyes of the owl, the night-hunting omen of death; she is awed by the intelligent savagery of the wolf-pack; she is comforted by the mournful sadness of the raven and excited by the vicious fury of the winged raptors. She is a huntress, a night-walker, a nightmare to demons.

She is paradoxically most certain in the midst of doubt’s calm and most anxiously doubtful in the heady, tumultuous sea of certitude. Questions haunt her steps; enigmas dog her paths. Her way is paradox. She lives to death and dies to life. Mystery is her only constant.

The darkness is her only friend, the trackless paths her highway and despondent hope her reality.

She is sceadugenga.

Winter

In darkness lies midwinter’s lonely road
beneath the bleak discriminating erne.
He pads midst silent seas of snow and firn
and stride upon the troglodytic wold.
The sun grows shy before his slow advance,
the moon tenaciously asserts her berth.
Her glow illuminates the raven’s mirth
and floods the season’s gelid, hoary manse.
Amidst the dead of night is birth the morn
when wintertide is at his fullest flow.
The bitter winds across the tillage show
the brutal, bloody path to glory’s bourn.
The solstice gleam approaches in the tomb
dispelling night with light in heaven’s womb.

An Evening Sonnet

The evening settles down upon the tired ground
and suns explode in colors bright across the skies
as flying fowl descend upon the naked branches round
while charging clouds across the sunken heavens fly.
The sun has set and lights are lit inside,
Our daily work complete, the day is done.
The brew is drunk, the food’s consumed and plied,
all men rejoice in lighting soft and dun.
In silence man and beast have settled for the night
they come to roost with friends and kin and trope.
The dark’s a time to rest and heal from daily fights
and home’s a place to grow and rest in hope
The night has settled in.
The light is coming in.

The Moon

Her silver liquid showers us with sounds and soothing night Her light a respite from her harsh, unyielding brother’s glare

Her glow illumines rocky paths and guides in darkened ways

Her presence soothes and comforts those with cloudy minds and smoky dispositions

She comes and goes with stark, unyielding frequency, a fleeting wraith of sight and never waking, always aching night