Proudly stands the ancient Rock, the epoch’s sentinel Resolute upon the running fields Once home to primal, angry mangonels And men of arms with glinting claimhte and clashing shields Where prayers were said in whispers and in hallowed song Where worship rose a scented smoke upon the lifting breeze Where stones have stood through seasons … Continue reading The Epochs’ Sentinel
She calls to me. The fair island. Her fragrant scent, so sweet, so full of death and growth, flows o'er the oceans vast that stretch so tautly on our mother's swollen womb with dark and melancholy histories distending in a body's sullen soul by resonating peals; a paradox, a pox of reeling brews that ply … Continue reading She Calls to Me
Poetry that is timeless is inevitably lyrical. If it does not sing - if it does not move - if it does not engage the soul - than it is simply dead wind; a fart drifting amidst the rotting leaves.
I am convinced that poets are toddlers in a cathedral, slobbering on wooden blocks and piling them up in the light of the stained glass. We can hardly make anything beautiful that wasn’t beautiful in the first place. We aren’t writers, but gleeful rearrangers of words whose meanings we can’t begin to know. When we … Continue reading Toddlers in Cathedrals