Page the Second


A fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi. (In front of you, a precipice. Behind you, wolves.)

Sunday, May 5, 2013

Numbers Nineteen and 20

April is over and I ran out of time, but I'm going to finish my commitment to myself to do thirty poems. So here are numbers nineteen and twenty:

Glistening and golden
The orb of the morning
Scales the firmament
To spread its glory
Over a bright new day. 
Silken flags
And fill my being
With a gift
Of light

Most Beloved Friend

My Master sat down in the kitchen
His feet were all battered and sore
I washed them and lovingly dried them
While His stories He told, and much more.

He spoke of the publican sinner,
Of the harlot, the leper, the lame
He spun tales of the sewer of seedlings
Of the vinyarder's cleansing with flame.

When our brother was sick unto dying
Jesus tardily came to our aid
I thought him too late with his visit
On his deathbed our brother was laid.

He stetched forth His hand unto Laz'rus
And lifted him from his death bed
The grave clothes He lay from off him
And then Jesus anointed his head.

We stood at the cross with His mother
Our eyes now were swimming with tears   
Though He fainted with pain he was careful
Of His loved ones. He assuaged all our fears.          

I went to the garden to mourn him
I knelt at his stony tomb
The flowers ran riot around me
The air smelled of jasmine in bloom.

The mirrh I would use to anoint him
Lay still near my bended knee
For He was not there where we'd put him
He was gone to His Father, you see.

I wept that He'd left me behind him
This Man who had been my friend
His voice softly whispered, "Dear Mary
My going is in no way the end."

And now I must go on without Him
Finding my way home some day
He'll be waiting with arms out to hold me
I can't wait for his dear voice to say

"Mary, my well lov'ed sister
Your feet, bruised and battered and sore
You've walked dusty roads to find me
Welcome home from your travels once more."    


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  2. These poems are more than lovely, they raise the spirit.