How Great is Our God in HEBREW,

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Some Poems

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
With 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,
Dark imaginings,
Or pain"
Take care that the mockery or censure of spirits
Does not snatch the seed as it falls, like hungry ravens
Quoting ‘nevermore.’
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
All Rights Reserved

All rights reserved

Ahh my friend...we shall sit down to tea--
you and me.
It's your favorite blend
Perfect for a broken heart
Perhaps it will mend
The loss that will not go away.
 I'm the one to stay
My chats go out into the dark of space
I think of where you lie
In the warm loam--
I'll drink my tea alone
How can one love so completely,--
When it is only the tapping of keys
That united our hearts?
No one has ever mourned my pain
The way you did
Those tears are diamonds to me now
And maybe the diamonds in your crown.

The Stillbirth 
CLV 5-12-15
All Rights Reserved
Poetry eludes me
Words confuse me.
I get lost in their corridors –
-- turning corners
One after the other
Forgetting from whence I have come
And to where I am going.
I find a beautiful one, like a gem on the beach:
Rolled til satin–smooth,
Bounced about my mind til commonplace
I tasted it on my tongue
Soft, slow, sweet--
Fragrant-- like dried lavender.                     
I must use it.
But oh!! It is gone!!
Riding the gray waves of what matters.
Slipped through a crevice and leapt back to the surf
From whence it had come.
I am bereft; the poem: stillborn.


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