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Within Minster Grounds I Tremble

A thousand dreams are lost it seems as petals in descent
Falling to the ground in forgetting of a world chasing golden chariots across an azure sky

To wonder why
To cry
To sigh
And to try for something greater
These are the things the shake our souls
And make us equal with our maker.

Within Minster grounds I tremble
Seeking a knowledge of myself
So that I alone may reassemble
All that I’ve left lost along my way.

Fairies gather here, leading young girls astray from the dance
They are the brides of slow decay, Pretty maids, lifeless dolls,
Parading cold stares, adorning themselves in the feathers of
Innocence when a look within the eye leaves trembling the lover of love.
The Willow Man is playing the pipes of midnight melody

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poem by David Lacey
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911

Our hearts cleaved that horrific day.
The early morning sun shined bright.
No clues were noticed-giveaways
that could forewarn the urbanites.

It began like any Tuesday.
A workday for most New Yorkers.
People bustling to the subways
on their way to their employers.

Still early, not all arrived where
their designated work stations
are situated. Poor souls! unaware
of their imminent destruction.

Suddenly, at eight forty two
A living bomb with mal-vigor
Intentionally, in plain view
Crashed through the north twin tower.

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poem by Albert Ahearn
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Would you have Me smile?

Would you have Me smile?

(inspired by a report seeking to
'debunk the 'black myth' of the Inquisition'.)

“If you take one life, you destroy all the world. If you save one life, you save the world entire.” paraphrase from Hillel, first century C.E.

Would you have Me smile,
to hear fewer of My daughters and sons were set aflame alive
here than there, or there than here,
for their belief in Me?

Would you have Me nod,
on being told not so many of My children suffered
then than now, or now than then
for keeping faith with Me?

Would you have Me stop My tears,
with tales of how fewer of My people died tormented
in the counter-renaissance,

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poem by Gabrielle Ciarann Roniyah Baer
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The Setting Sachem

'Twas an Injin chieftain, in feathers all fine,
Who stood on the ocean's rim;
There were numberless leagues of excellent brine
But there wasn't enough for him.
So he knuckled a thumb in his painted eye,
And added a tear to the scant supply.

The surges were breaking with thund'rous voice,
The winds were a-shrieking shrill;
This warrior thought that a trifle of noise
Was needed to fill the bill.
So he lifted the top of his head off and scowled
Exalted his voice, did this chieftain, and howled!

The sun was aflame in a field of gold
That hung o'er the Western Sea;
Bright banners of light were broadly unrolled,
As banners of light should be.
But no one was 'speaking a piece' to that sun,
And therefore this Medicine Man begun:

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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Liebestod

I who, conceived beneath another star,
Had been a prince and played with life, instead
Have been its slave, an outcast exiled far
From the fair things my faith has merited.
My ways have been the ways that wanderers tread
And those that make romance of poverty --
Soldier, I shared the soldier's board and bed,
And Joy has been a thing more oft to me
Whispered by summer wind and summer sea
Than known incarnate in the hours it lies
All warm against our hearts and laughs into our eyes.

I know not if in risking my best days
I shall leave utterly behind me here
This dream that lightened me through lonesome ways
And that no disappointment made less dear;
Sometimes I think that, where the hilltops rear
Their white entrenchments back of tangled wire,
Behind the mist Death only can make clear,

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poem by Alan Seeger
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Saint Jeanne Jugan (Foundress of ‘Little Sisters of the Poor’)

When four, she lost her father while at sea!
Her mother worked hard, raising family!
She grew in France amidst Revolution;
Her love of God was her life’s solution.

She cared for sick and poor elderly souls,
By assuming the humblest of earth’s roles!
Young Jeanne Jugan grew up a shepherdess;
Her love for Jesus made her a Foundress!

With heart aflame with fire of love for God,
She sacrificed her life for Jesus Lord!
Through exemplary life, she showed the world
That love of God was worth more than all gold.

The elderly poor needed love and care;
So, young Jeanne chose the road traveled quite rare.
Her charity became a noble cause;
She worked for poor without making a pause.

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poem by John Celes
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Mountain Life

IN summer dusk the valley lies
With far-flung shadow veil;
A cloud-sea laps the precipice
Before the evening gale:
The welter of the cloud-waves grey
Cuts off from keenest sight
The glacier, looking out by day
O'er all the district, far away,
And crowned with golden light.

But o'er the smouldering cloud-wrack's flow,
Where gold and amber kiss,
Stands up the archipelago,
A home of shining peace.
The mountain eagle seems to sail
A ship far seen at even;
And over all a serried pale
Of peaks, like giants ranked in mail,
Fronts westward threatening heaven.

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poem by Henrik Johan Ibsen
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Darkness, Man, And God!

lonliness...
the soul cried out for
the presence of god,
even while held in the womb!

and so stars appeared,
for we feared darkness...
forgetting darkness our mother.
and we howled as wolves,

until there was fire.
yet the flesh we cooked
was our own...
darkness wept, and created dawn.

and the tribes of man rebelled
against the scent of the mother...
and civilization was born.
and men created distance,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Ave

PRELUDE TO 'ILLUSTRATED POEMS'

FULL well I know the frozen hand has come
That smites the songs of grove and garden dumb,
And chills sad autumn's last chrysanthemum;

Yet would I find one blossom, if I might,
Ere the dark loom that weaves the robe of white
Hides all the wrecks of summer out of sight.

Sometimes in dim November's narrowing day,
When all the season's pride has passed away,
As mid the blackened stems and leaves we stray,

We spy in sheltered nook or rocky cleft
A starry disk the hurrying winds have left,
Of all its blooming sisterhood bereft.

Some pansy, with its wondering baby eyes
Poor wayside nursling!--fixed in blank surprise

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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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It Could Have Been Eden

Let me tell you something that I remember
from so long ago
but it seems like only yesterday to me
and is still fresh in my memory.

A dusty sand track meandering
past a hillock and a great oak tree
and in the early morning ripe lying like snow
and a spring flowing with clear sweet water,
the freshest that I have ever tasted,
the sun glowing as a huge orange ball
the sky bright blue

and you swimming in the stream
totally naked without concern
as if it was the most natural thing
and that winter could have been spring
and I couldn’t stop looking at your body,
your big breast and aroused nipples
while I was feeling perverse, wicked

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poem by Gert Strydom
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