Bough and Feather
untangle,
leave the shadow of Death behind,
at Death's dark door.
Filled w/ Light
the Heart grows wings,
flaps up into the sky free.
Below, She moves,
a dance, through soft, dappled sunshine.
The Five Imperishable Gnostic Trees in Paradise
stand along the roadside, on the Way out of the city.
The noisy crowd still passes by.
The storm is now faraway, retreating, invisible over
the horizon, but still booming and crackling as
it rolls along:
Motion in Rest
in a remnant, Baroque sky -
royal purple, light and dark blue,
grey, white, deepest golden.
Back there, over one's shoulder,
hills slowly, almost imperceptibly darken.
W/ cold night unstoppably approaching,
the good, wise serpent
stirs on a black, wet bough,
due pagan canniness.
Nestled hidden in heavy, quivering leafage,
the serpent hugs His Tree even tighter,
slowly, methodically, tenderly.
Gilded, scaly coils flare softly,
then blaze brighter than any sun.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
