From the throne of God, atop the mountain’s cragged face,
a faint waxing blush bleeds through the ashen darkness.
Through this small rent in the dam of night,
the golden glow of a resurrected sun spills over a dark sea of clouds,
transfiguring water to wine and wine to milk.
Far below the misty wisps of the broken billowing tide,
a slow rolling breaker, spreads its whitewash of light across the dusky valley floor,
washing away the cobwebs and dust of night.
In its growing brightness the past becomes the future
and what was the shadow of myths takes on the breathing flesh of reality.
Illuminated in an amber haze
a lonely, winding river, fences off virgin, fresh, fertile, green, felt forests,
as well as sisters, deflowered and defiled by mans touch.
Their violator having plowed and sowed their fields
left them soiled and partially covered with pilfered patchwork quilts of varying colors.
Unnoticed runs in the worn and ragged, harlequin cloths
reveal the dark skin of man’s pregnant slave.
Separating creations perfection from nature’s naked shame,
an ancient, well worn, dusty, dung spattered, dirt scar,
the master’s mark of ownership,
carries the servant‘s sweat to the distant shops and stores.
Blistered with the bumps of buried boulders,
and stained by mottled splotches of shade,
the plain, seldom chosen lane,
and its tainted, aqueous companion,
come to a deserted country church,
lying with its crooked crosses, and crumbling cemetery crypts
that hold the mass of all its believers and non believers alike.
Passing by, the thirsty byway bends with the damp demands of it’s conjoined consort
holding intercourse with the twisting, lazy, cafe-Au-lait ribbon of water,
where it belatedly and perfidiously promises marriage.
Lying under her companion's bridge, master and slave become one
as she carries the land's sullied discharge to the fertile side of her bed.
Here a seed dropped by a descending dove, into virgin silt, sprouts,
is then baptized, ripens and is harvested to resurrect in glory,
sacrificed, to be eaten in holy sacrament,
for the redemption and salvation of all living things.
And thus, in this mountain air, under a fiery sun,
from water, and dust, the Lord of this land creates his bastard son.
-
Author:
sorenbarrett (
Offline) - Published: July 28th, 2023 07:47
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
- User favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek.
Offline)
Comments3
Resurrected sun
Misty wisps
Thirsty byway.
I’m jealous but glad to be friends w such a talent. I can’t yet tap into that part of my brain or thought process. The part you freaking nail is my goal to understand and use. You’re a monster.
Thank you Bobby you are too kind in your comments of my rambelings. Your most generous words humble me but I am proud to be a friend of a poet like you.
That last line says it all soren.
Andy
Thank you Gold, a rather harsh line, not ment to offend but some things need emphasis.
'Far below the misty wisps of the broken billowing tide,
a slow rolling breaker, spreads its whitewash of light'
Brilliant!
(astounding poetic ambition, dear Poet
what hard earned skill and patience you showcase
just see for yourself
how your writing favourably compares
to the master himself:)
'Her azure veins, her alabaster skin,
Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.
As the grim lion fawneth o’er his prey
Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,
So o’er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay,
His rage of lust by gazing qualified;
Slacked, not suppressed; for, standing by her side,
His eye, which late this mutiny restrains,
Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins.
And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting,
Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting.
In bloody death and ravishment delighting,
Nor children’s tears nor mothers’ groans respecting,
Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting.
Anon his beating heart, alarum striking,
Gives the hot charge and bids them do their liking.
His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye,
His eye commends the leading to his hand;
His hand, as proud of such a dignity,
Smoking with pride, marched on to make his stand
On her bare breast, the heart of all her land,
Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale,
Left their round turrets destitute and pale.
They, mustering to the quiet cabinet
Where their dear governess and lady lies,
Do tell her she is dreadfully beset
And fright her with confusion of their cries.
She, much amazed, breaks ope her locked-up eyes,
Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold,
Are by his flaming torch dimmed and controlled.
Imagine her as one in dead of night
From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking,'
(
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50474/the-rape-of-lucrece
)
Thank you so much dear friend for your more than gracious comment. I am a bit embarrased by comparisons to such a great poem but thank you for your most kind encouragement dear friend.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.