Poetry

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Come a Time

 

Will there never come a time when the Lord

                shall not scrounge out my insides

                                and oven-cake my mind?

Will he not com-bine grains of right and wrong

                                in order to winnow out all reasoning?

Will he not bless the heartless,

                take soulful stock of the critically sick,

and, blessingly, bury the poor in spirit?

                                If only Goodness had a God …

 

No Nearer

 

As through the causal clearing of sky and mind,

                they who both share a heritage –

were born revolutionaries in the Brownian movement,

both held in rhythm, according to time and mechanics;

but must still turn the page of personal calendar change.

                Given so much progressive evolution flown,

                                or else divinity installed,         yet

not one molecule closer to its ultimate rest.

 

Seasons

 

I am not so much hurt by the fall –

                                and this is what casts me:

such an easy passage into another autumn season.

There is nothing                out of which

                should spring even light recalling;

the months of winter silence will see to that –

                barely behind this sudden shutdown of form

                into snowy and statuary impression of myself,

                better suited in perseverance and prayer

                                                of my hardened quest.

Still I make this plea             next to icy ritual

                (according to thy scheduled will),

if after so long a patient time …

less grievous would be the outburst leaving

                should summer merely resign.

 

Soon

 

The nighttime has beaten the mercies of the Lord,

                                and darkened His eyes forever.

Soon I shall busy myself, likewise,

in the darkness of the realization of a shedding light.

                … It is a time beyond truing,

                                beyond discovery and finite certitude;

God’s sight is dead to my place fading –

                and I soon dead replacing them.

 

 

Dr. Walter Boswell

[email protected]

 

 

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