The Pretext of Darknesss
Under my solitary lamp
A poem pulls at the periphery of thought,
Begging to be birthed.
I own the night—or am I the owned?
I am wearied by obligatory tasks;
The ‘I shoulds’ of a silent night.
Perhaps I should greet silence
Or converse with the unseen Divine.
The night owns me.
The Ruler of the Night trumps the uninvited Pretender
Who claims rights as well.
My mind is a stranger to poetry,
Having left it in some furrow along my path
Does it spring up? Like the Sower’s seed?
“Take care, friend, that the seed you sow
Is not met by tangles of human frailty,
Take care that the mockery or censure of spirits
Does not snatch the seed as it falls, like hungry ravens
Wait, rather, for the soft whisper
The familiar ineffable, wholly “Other”
Who waits quietly
To have His say; To stake his claim
To the darkness of this ceaseless night.
When you are owned by the Light
Dark paths matter not….
When the traveler of the spheres
Holds one’s hand, Darkness flees
Though the night be prolonged.
So, hope yet in the dawn,
And permit the poem to be spawned.
Here in the small circle of lamplight
A chronicle of Life in the pretext of Death.
Cynthia Lott Vogel
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