Angel

Inspired by a work in progress by Mandee Alyson Clifton

O, how inconceivable is the soul
Knitted within my womb like fragile lace?
A blessing words cannot wholly extol;
An angel: sure proof of eternal grace.
My heart, once desolate, is now o'erfull
With love. I give my life to you – as yours
Was granted me – my belov'd jewel,
And pledge to ever protect and adore.
But, language falls short of the perfection
Thou art – forever failing thy beauty
In my eyes – and lacks honest expression
Of the long, bless'd life I wish for thee.
To be worthy of this gift, I will strive,
As my mother's prayers up to Heaven rise.

The Heart as Icarus

For Amy Lynn Watkins

The heart as Icarus soars toward the sun
Of our desires. But, blind to hazard,
Love so often tumbles from light to dun;
Leaving all – mind, body, and soul – battered.
Dicing 'gainst the Gods, we strive to escape
This fate; yearning for flight beyond our dreams.
Sadly, we find that we are poor in shape –
Requiring wings in such airy streams.
Words stand impotent – overwhelmed by clouds
Of loss – never healing our wounded pride.
Yet, even through the darkness of this shroud
Strong hearts will rise to seek a love enskied.
Though now it seems tears cannot be restrained,
'Tis certain, time will melt away our pain.

Doubts and Wishes

For "Her."

Oh, Cupid; why must you make me captive
To those hot twins of passion: love and hate?
Shall my heart burn e'en as my mind misgives?
Will my wit to madness be subjugate?
Archer, aim thy arrows some other way,
Lest I be shipwrecked on rocks of regret;
Left alone to drown beneath waves of pain.
Thou seest I dread thy infection, yet,
If music be the food of love, I pray
Thee, direct a symphony for the ears.
Bestow thy gift on my heart that it may
Kindle a new flame to wither all fear.
Grant thou a hand to hold, and lips to kiss;
A soul with whom to share eternal bliss.

The Call Home

For Dan Masterson; poet, teacher, mentor, and friend

The call home comes far too soon for those left
Behind. Not unexpected, of course – we
Each owe God this debt – yet somehow bereft
Of any divine sense of poetry;
We'll stand in loose circles at the viewing,
Grim-faced and consoling, while holding hushed
Exchanges, listening to those who knew
Him well, and the students whose lives he touched;
"He was a good man," someone will say, and
Heads will bob to augment muttered consent.
"The best…gone too soon," they'll echo off hand
As their thoughts quickly turn to the present.
But, I am one whose mem'ry will linger,
Holding your words in my mind and fingers.

Il Mio Respiro

For "Her."

In truth, my words are writ by thy fingers.
Is it not you who first taught me to love;
Who enchanted me while my eyes lingered
On thine, and kindled a flame undreamt of?
What glory can be mine when the sound
Of your voice arouses my pen? O, spark
Imagination by thy touch; and compound
Thee little songs with kisses in the dark.
Lady, though I fear my desires blaspheme
Love, I pray by such devotion you know:
Your breath is my breath, your dreams are my dreams,
And your body houses my very soul.
O, Muse; O, Fire; O, living passion;
Thou art my bright heaven of invention.

The Eye of a Hurricane

For Amy Lynn Watkins

A maelstrom of emotions torment me –
Love; hate; desire and desperation –
Infusing my thoughts with an energy
That breeds both destruction and creation.
Howling winds of insanity tear
My reason, and lash my mind with surges
Of doubt which leave my spirit in despair.
This tempest rages; wave and sky converge
In their fury, as I fear for my soul.
But, then I remember your eye, and take
Solace in the thought; for this peace unfolds
A haven ‘til the storm within me breaks.
Love has ever been both blessing and curse;
The sweet torture we suffer on this earth.

My Heart Will Never be Safe With You

For "Her."

It is madness, I admit, to tender
My affections – tortured these thirteen years –
So freely, when my wit is like tinder
Spread ‘fore a storm of passion, and flames sear
My spirit. But, if ecstasy thou feign
To mock my devotion, then by your whim
I’ll endure a life of desperate pain,
Then go to my grave still singing thee hymns.
Love, my heart will never be safe with you;
Nor, in truth, would I desire it be so.
And while, too oft’, I’ve played the part of fool,
For thee I stand willing to risk my soul.
Though some think me naïve, I must confess:
All I am, or could be, thou dost possess.

A Muse Lives Forever

For "Her."

A Muse lives forever – outlasting time
In the poems she inspires. While death
Conquers the body, love quickens the rhyme
That would will a spirit eternal breath.
Fashion doth oft’ make memory a fool;
But, when you have passed, art will bear witness
To thy toils. E’en if it be but a mewl
‘Gainst the storm of years, you’ll remain dateless.
Do not think, while I live, I could abjure
Thy face – a fairest fair age can’t erase.
Oh, command my heart and you shall endure;
For, through my words, the world will know thy grace.
By your hand, grant my soul serenity;
And, by mine, gain thy immortality.

Ninth Step

For "Her."

Do not presume your ninth step is my first
Toward granting absolution. In truth, your
Effort is wasted on a man well-versed
In scorn; possessed of a heart love abjures.
Struggling to amend rips open old wounds
Festered in a decade of bitterness;
Revealing a soul where malice abounds.
Of sin I stand not guiltless, but confess:
‘Tis not my place nor power to excuse
Others, while I cannot forgive myself.
No, I am a fool whose mind is abused
By allowing hate to feed on itself.
Though pardon’s a grace that sets conscience free,
You’ll have to go on healing without me.

A Whiney Lament O'er Dying Form

No one wants to read love sonnets these days.
We’re busy following what Paris tweets,
And devouring each word Gaga says.
Why think, when you can “stream” while Snooki bleats?
Will writes, “Brevity is the soul of wit.”
How accurate that is today seems sad,
As we gauge our success by total “hits;”
Courting fame on electronic doodads.
We prefer shock to awe – ignoring art
And substance in favor of flash. ‘Tis crime
To celebrate invention wrought sans heart,
O’er iambic pentameter and rhyme.
The coffin nails arrive with little flair:
“We wish you luck in placing them elsewhere.”