Poetry

NO LONGER WORTHY

by Walter Boswell
02/25/19
Free to Share
Author requests article critique

  Message Writer
  Hire Writer

Tweet

No Longer Worthy

It is a good thing that the Lord does not judge the dead:

                speaking from a mind which should be shot;

                its flesh collected in pieces from below the cliff,

                                                safely set aflame

                                what should be afterward wholly burnt.

My heart is a desert echo, crying unto a deaf God,

                                                my pain a spirit mantle,

                even as my soul craves unto death for love.

Shall I be made to give from this abundance

                (ere someone ever gives in return)?

                Then give, as I would give.

                Remind me to the cross.

                                The tyrant has spoken.

The End

In the recollection of these final days,

                as mercy ships drag the river depths

                for the last victims of disaster –

let it be remembered whose dirty rap

                                has put a closing wrap

                                on Earth’s luxury Song of Life.

Turn away from the global stream,

                leave uncovered the weather heating,

                make small the weapons of mass destruction;

instill only the cruel jive and cold language

                                                of your children:

                left for the priests to disembowel

                                in accord with your oracle fate.

By Word it came into being; by words it comes to an end.

Playing

Too much high wind has brought me low,

seeking median shelter inside a mean and average flesh.

Document in the proclaiming – the disappointment of

                whether I be a callus or a boil

in the after-hurt of the game of life.

Enter into trial of contest at thy most vulnerable time,

with even the soul loosened from its inner moorings

                                and a self made doubtful

                since all conscious hits have an unknowing ways to go.

       When in turmoils no longer sporting to the times –

                likewise beyond the decipher of their own writings,

                still spring-step myself up to bat

                                without a place mat of thought 

                                that anyone’s plate be ever honored.

Of what reward is heaven’s promise-throw

                if I am unearned a practice swing?

With what strength shall I even raise the stick,

                unobservant its curves and wisdom flow?

As in, of what avail are rolled-up scrolls of wood

                                                or letter runs without credit?

I accept the sweat of failed baptisms,

                give prior healing to the challenge of the spirited:

                                His signing of contract

                                in my namesake written …

                the intervention of truth in a holy line-up

                until victory be a grand slam celebration

                                or a shower loss at home.

Dr. Walter Boswell

[email protected]