If it gets much keener, I will sync into the brilliance of heart thought, layered in pink folds of tender softness. My crimes of glory, of glee, of gladness are consumed inside the blanket, its softness upon my lap. With Snow White rap, I cover myself in, with the wind. In the snow, at night, when I’m playing, I am praying; when I’m lying, soft peaks are rising in the stillness of almost sleep. I feel the arms of the hearts of my loved ones inside this lamb-like skin, this fleece cap of free-flowing thought. I am the wind as it whispers through the leaves. So please these leaves; the river steals them but to us they cleave. They do not burn, they do not gather. They are trod upon with snow and rain and the feet of man, but they always exist in the soil. Let’s bring them back to life, for in the blooms they shall not spoil.
Lovely, Richard. :D
Originally posted on Richard Ankers:
I saw it in the sweep of her swanlike neck,
An elegance born of nature.
Her persuasion was to kindness
Something I’d almost forgotten about.
Her tendency to smile, whilst others grimaced,
Endeared her still further: she was perfect.
She wore white more often than not, a coat of softest down.
Whenever the wind blew, I expected her wings to unravel,
Her form to take flight beneath the cold winter skies.
I am not ashamed to say, I was enraptured by her.
But, like the birds she resembled, she departed,
Migrated across the ocean and left me behind.
I wait still stood atop the crumbling cliff tops.
I will always wait for her, my darling swan.
(Image courtesy of LunaSombria on deviantart.com)
The Weak are those
who do not tow the party line
but step across it
one foot at a time
to get to know the evil other
so as to meet within themselves
their own evil which is worse
than that of their brother
For we are the chiefest of sinners, we might say
and so very loved, while feeling so depraved
He set us on a hilltop
He honors the trying resilient
more than complacent safety that stays and says
we’re undoubtedly your best;
It’s most obvious,
as we’ve understood you in the past
It’s not You, Father, who have changed
into a more Christ-like behavior
It’s our understanding that we can grow in our weakness
Or stay eating the meat
of a static experience;
that from before the epiphany of your truest, loveliest light,
in this ephemeral life,
gave us eyes to seek expansive meaning
within your illuminating
It’s hard to keep the peace
When Jesus said there’d be a sword
We deified the word
within our filters
we thought we understood
The Soul of Christ
can never be met
in the fog of disgruntlement
Yet it feels so right
like the knife that should cut
the ear from the high priest’s servant
My friend, where are you?
Your photographs, so lovely
It’s been three months
and your words no longer grace
the well-lit page.
From India, you set the world aglow;
We miss you so!
I judge that you judge
my judgment of your juggling that idea on your nose
I’m glad I don’t judge
~ Judge Mental