Poetry

LOOKING OUT AND IN

by Walter Boswell
04/02/19
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Looking Out and In                 

                                To think, too, I am here,

                the first to reclaim the last hours of anyone’s rest –

staying up late, writing, so as to capture light’s early read on life.

How many nights were they to account for all such passages?

What brinkmanship of passion or rolling of emotional turmoil

                                lay between these crow’s feet eyes?

                It means nothing now to those in wander of sleep.

Unlike God, who has an eternity to play with,

                and an infinity of subjects on which to inflict

                                                                endless hellish pains.

Reflect once more … upon endings …

                we are orphans to faith, and lost souls to truth –

having no fresh scent to set aflame,

                                                to arise in sacrifice of earnest deeds,

but only the depressed sun taking set           on failed horizons.

Market Haven                    

The seeming bargain of these days …

                sell far beyond their miraculous reprieve

                                                in saving price.

Deserts and canyon-lands are crowded rainforests

                next to his paltry stakes and shanty allotments.

Nevermore could I see a mountain,

                                but that I shall weep for it.

Nevermore could I ride the rim

                                without wishing to step inside.

Never filling the sea or encouraging it to tide:

where is the Lord in all this giving,

                to return whiffs of favor in blind ‘manifold’

                                                of charity’s windfall?

The temple Spirit is rent who watches over good.

No such luck that I should die in mercy and grace

                                according to schedule –

                with this little good showing (and this much evil):

what is thus amply ceded – rewarded bad for bad

                … while goodness, still lost, lay never understood.

Illusionary (Prophecy Return)

Down a just polished hall, you have caught my glare,

                but, lo, the Lord indwells no institution.

To the running of a swift deer,

you have associated my grace and perfection,

                but, lo, I am not of your wanton nature.

Oft during the long nights,

you have story-read my constellations,

                reminding to fictionalize my shape;

                but, lo, the pail is dimly sought –

as your eyes come not quenching a swell of stars.

They thought they knew their son.

They though they knew their father.

                I hid you among the bulrushes,

                                and in the belly of a fish,

                                                until like smoke

                                Gehenna spewed you out:

when first a Word was spoken

                and thus a King was born.

Dr. Walter Boswell

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