Palette or Palate

Grace is always within you

it is said...Hmmm...

I think grace is pink

which is why its hard to find

when all you see is red.

Love is not all crimson cupcakes

still, there is gratitude, 

warm and orange. 

Citrus can be sweet or sour,

it depends on more than taste.

Every word

a jagged cube of ice

to crush or to melt,

linger into nothing...

Yet nourishing

by experience,

like white or wisdom-

or the sun.

What do I know

of divinity-

But hell

and evil, is black 

Absence or All...

Diluting color

of meaning, when

Time is demanded.

Faith is ordered.

I taste metal,

or my own

blood

while

sensing my fragile

green mortality

All over.

Painting by Vincenzo Irolli (1860-1949), in Public domain, 'Young boy eating a watermelon' via Wikimedia Commons.

Re-cited Rite

I have read the Legends
shared around the world
in so many ways
as I have had Sundays

And took notice
today
Nobody is looking
forward
to the second coming,
a sequel
is too much of the same.
None await a haloed savior
to share a repast
this silver evening
under the Hunters Moon.

Faith, as taught to us,
has burnt the crust
of broken bread,
the wine has overflown
its chalice, insatiable desire
the mortal hands quiver
and become stained clasping
the thorned stem too tight,
the feeling is lost.

Though dutifully,
we cradle the spines gently,
as if History could crumble
in our salty psalms
And the words
on the opposing side
of scritta come through,
like the shape of your body
inside its cloak and robe,
alluding to a language shared
in mythos by Ahmen.

And I find another Sunday
to read seven ways
of looking harder at the structures
and steeples
we have built
in order to live with
introspection and novelty
recited inaudibly in tiny volumes
the atonement we create to
consume us in ritual.

It feels right.




Painting by Ambrosius Benson (1495-1550), 'The Mary Magdalen Reading', c. 1520 in Public Domain. 

Working up to it

We had hopes

And held on

To air

Imagine this, delicately, with your fingers.

Tell me,

Is your faith strong, rigid, cold?

When we close our eyes, nowadays,

our metronome is muffled with backfire.

It is still

So busy so

We try to think

Optimistic, or up,

But that is not doing

Anything

For lift.

We had work to do, we all knew

Sweat

Yet, we hoped it would all get done.

Painting by Paul Peel [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Hymn of Ewe

Faith is the wool blanket 

woven by the flock

who sheepishly sew 

contentedly knitting 

nestled in envied green knolls

bleating a single string 

in wandering white streams 

hiding in the herded folds

matted in the material of dreams

tucking in their ears

softly in numbers

Image of painting 'Strayed Sheep' 1852, by William Holman Hunt [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.