The Knob

It is a thing of minuscule grandeur,

To be stopped up short in one’s mundane steps,

By the bulbous projection on one’s door,

A sphere that spectacularly projects,

Struck by elegance and simple function,

It gleams. How am I so oft’ unaware?

This latch provides beautiful conjunction,

Opening doors with an e’er humble air,

While simultaneously resembling

The highest shape and motion of the forms, 

How dare I approach without trembling? 

It is the simple, pure thing that transforms. 

This plain knob yet may bring Christianity

to civilization and humanity. 

A Book Review

May I make you a recommendation? 

For a text most elegant and superb, 

By the illustrious, G.K. Chesterton, 

In my mind, a master of written word.

Rarely in life, has a book besotted

Me so, from the very first page twas True

That it would be oh most favorited,

I’d be remiss not to share it with you. 

Tis a slim volume, but full of wonder, 

 Beauty and Goodness are it’s golden crown,

It forms the soul, yet purrs with the thunder 

Of the voice of Christendom from all around. 

This book, possesses power to revive 

And does remind us we are Manalive. 

 

Read It. 

The Telling Pause

Indulge with a poem or two today,

Take note of bright white flags in the wind, 

And consider the rose’s wild climbing play,

While through the blossoms the bees briskly wind.

Excuse the intrusion upon labor, 

As myth and fancy spring into the world, 

With all the sharp sweetness of a sabre,

And with the deep magic thoroughly whorled. 

Pardon the soul for old contemplations,

Questions, still nagging, need true answers, and

Hours lost in mindful meditations

Are, perhaps, hours better found than planned.

Forgive the pause, turn again to the breach,

But be strengthened and revitalized, each. 

Utensil

I don’t remember learning to use a fork

Although I am now aware that I did, 

I knew atoms were small but then came the quark;

Is this how Columbus felt when he landed?

The realization; manifestation 

Of something just out of reach and yet known

All along, the topic of conversation 

Is the harvest of seed that once was sown.

These discoveries show that mystery

Is the stuff of our own sparse invention 

And the narrative we call history 

May be no more than classification,

But why should we rob ourselves of wonder 

With this pedantic theorizing blunder?

 

                        Onward and Up

                        Into the deep

                        No river too far

                       Or mountain too steep

                      Discovery’s the thing

                        That makes us Man

                        In spite of ourselves

                        In spite of our sin, 

                        Yes, curiosity is a part 

                        Of that divine spark

                        That leads us to find

                        The quark and the fork. 

The First Day of Summer?!

The bright green grass all warm between my toes,

Seems to whisper of the coming summer,

So I yearn for that promised sweet repose,

While bumblebees bump into spring’s flower.

Oh, overbrim-filled with impatience, am I

For popsicles and lemonade to slurp,

It seems a shame to let this day slip by,

Or so say the happy spring birds that chirp.

My concentration on school work rivals

That of my fourth-grade-self on such a day,

Hearing tetherball chains clinking their poles,

Knowing that after school I’d get to play

Outside, where the smell of newly mowed grass

Overwhelms the very mention of class.

LAX

I suppose there is a sort of beauty 

In concrete columns and electric wires

Arched and draped with ingenious duty

All climbing to the cloudy sky in spires;

Those great metal birds, hurtling in flight

Improbable, man’s daft technology,

Stirring anticipation and delight

In all of humanity’s ethnology; 

Travelers are students of the global

Tendencies, Sojourners are observers,

Life experts and academics mobile,

Of dignity they are the preservers;

 How I long to discover and wander,

Eagerly pursuing endless yonder.

Youth’s Confession

I have a confession to make to you,

I’m not a grown up yet, I still rely 

On other people, parents and friends who

Bolster me up when I’m blue, and don’t lie

About things because it isn’t loving,

I confess that I still cry about dumb

Things more trivial than playground shoving

And laugh in those instances when someone

Tells a poorly constructed knock-knock joke,

I wonder if this immaturity

Is perpetual, like and iron yoke,

Or if those more mature than I keep

The truth under the radar and make their own

Confession that they too don’t yet feel grown.  

Sea Shells

Why do we stoop down to pick up sea shells;

Or bits of ocean glass, empty and dead

Occupant free, luminous little cells 

From which all life’s brilliant spark has fled?

Fragments of toil, beloved, belabored,

These tiny homes, unwilled to heirs, picked up

And hauled to the nest of some jaybird

To clutter a window sill or front step,

Are more of a reminder than treasure,

Arbitrary until some thought seeps in, 

There lies their value, not in base pleasure,

But in the recollection of man’s sin

And the promise which binds up broken hearts

Makes a mosaic of fragmented parts. 

 

Sonnets for Sunset

The last sonnet.  Any suggestions for a name? 

 

Some think seven is a holy number;

Holy is the only word for this light,

It drew my soul from its lazy slumber,

And demanded all virtue and right

From me, a puny creature in vastness

Far beyond my comprehension and ken,

So wearily and broken, I confess

That I am sinful, again and again,

Pink clouds are what it takes to remind me,

That despite the troubles that firmly stay,

There’s grace and hope, a cozy cup of tea,

For me at the start and end of each day,

And no matter life’s dreary circumstance

My God hovers over all the expanse.

Sonnets for Sunset

Here are the poems of sunset number six! 

 

‘Gentle Night’

Pastel colored clouds like the light brushstrokes

Of the craftsmanship of an old Master,

Imbue comfort, assurance and hopes,

Soft glory rifling through fields of aster,

Reminding me of waves lapping the shore

And the smooth pearly insides of seashells

Blues, pinks, lavender and gold, sky’s decor,

No one is dressed as well, despite their frills,

Darkness comes and wraps me in its embrace,

And hands me a blossom of tranquility,

Such hold is restful solitude and grace,

Such bond is noble in gentility,

So I come quiet to time nocturnal,

And my mind opens upon vistas eternal.

 

Fragment of Freeverse…

Or are the clouds seeping purple bruises,

From the mischief and antics of the moon

In conspiracy with the lonely star

Dangling yonder over my left shoulder?

 

‘Questions’

Would this be so terrible

a habit, this time of reflection?

To avow may, in due course,

Turn it to obligation,

But when I come to the

End of my life, would

It have been worth it,

After all, to have lived

And come at each days end

With viceral thought and

Pause in meditation

Upon the great I Am?

Could there be pleasure

In spiritual discipline?