As we descend into our togetherness
There are her tears and whispers of "be gentle with me"
As she condescends into our passion
We hold each other firm with messages of skin and heart
We fall deeper into each other
She has hesitance to fully surrender her body
But is caught up into thoughts of his piercing blue eyes
Which can seduce her when her clothes are on
She shivers and the articulation of gentle kisses
On nape and notch (And why now am I thinking of hop scotch?)
"Hey! No!" "Kisses, focus on the kisses"
As we are warm for each others form
And the smell of mahogany in this cabin
(In which just moments ago we were both enjoying a good book)
And in each other we smother as inhibitions
Are now falling away (and the smell of French Toast)
Why French Toast when I am enjoying the interrogation
Of my lover lips? Oh sweet lover who has gently and caressingly
Wooed me into a chase of orgasmic finality
And into the afterglow of post coital spooning
Wow and whew (with a heavy sigh)
Maybe now the French Toast
It comes boldly, like the winter’s cold
Immodest and smug, it can’t be told
It lives in the arrogant and the vain
Always dignified, never one to abstain
It is conceited, like the wind’s howl
Never smiling – leaves it’s dark scowl
It is egotistical beyond the belief
Not ashamed of its stolen relief
It feels so superior – a tear never falls
From its eyes, where it’s honor calls
It reminds the humble of its advantage
Without its haughtiness, can they manage?
It condescends and it says it always wins
But the believer knows it’s the biggest of sins!
To what avail are scriptures etched on stones?
Of much, in every way, but not an end:
the rocks cry out in deepest, awe-filled moans
to bear a glyph divine that condescends
to pierce transcendent planes and self-reveal.
In this, divine becomes the word engraved,
but stony hearts and tablets are the same.
Commands evoke resistance from enslaved,
reveal the distance to the One acclaimed,
though truth remains aloof, ethereal.
To pierce the creature, Spirit breathes afresh:
complete transfiguration of the heart.
A meld of spirit, word, and renewed flesh
breathes life in those dry bones, sets them apart
to live the holy life with joyful zeal.
————-
THIRD PLACE WINNER
for the Our Truth Poetry Contest
sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
written on 04/25/2022
Created in His image from the first,
And charged with cultivating all He wrought,
Soon idle hands begot us banished, cursed,
And weary, prone to wander was our lot.
Rejecting God, "A golden calf!” we pled;
Soon all did what was right in their own eyes.
Our king, not God, we chose a man instead;
Our name, not His, we lifted upon high.
But God, from glory, condescends to take
An empty, humble form from which to give.
Obedient to death all for our sake,
Then raised that we might ever with him live.
Rejoice, rejoice, the come Emmanuel!
Christ pitched his tent among us, pleased to dwell!
"Each day I arise,
Confidence by my side
My unseen strength,
Kicks in when I wake
To bolster my nerve,
No matter what today serves
For its strength I depend,
No matter how many condescends
That say I can’t,
I can is my rant
I will is my belief,
Victory, no retreat
For each battle fought,
Something is taught
About ourselves and what we can do,
So no day will ever “get” you
The war is never over,
Until you’re buried under clover
So pick your battles wisely,
And your actions precisely
To make it through each fight,
Capturing ground to see you right
For life is a long road,
Which confidence knows
And therefore is at your side,
Every morning when you arise"
The brightest light of all lights
Condescends to make all things right.
Darkness tends to overcome the light;
The Sun in shame withdraws its light,
Earth trembles and all nature sigh,
And accept the sacrifice set at the awful sight.
Behold! the great sacrifice in the darkest night.
Oh Savior, the brightest light of all lights
Whose offering we cannot requite;
Let our garments be made White.
O Lord, let our Heart unite
And make thy presence a delight.
O Lord, the brightest light of all lights .
light my light,
Remove me not from thy sight
For thy glory is light.
When I joke with my light
And my day suddenly turned to Night,
May my Heart be contrite,
May thou send thy light
That emanates from thy throne of light
And let it rage against the dying of the light.
I will sit tight
Even When tempted to fight.
I will never fuel a fight
For I am a light.
I will be my neighbor's light,
Make his day clear and Bright
And his night as bright as the sunlight.
The brightest light of all lights.
I will preach thy light,
Rely on thy Might,
Preach of thy might,
And light the world with thy light.
Go struggle, battle if ye must your battles,
No consent need ye nod if ye should not,
You're not among them that for U-turn settles,
Let the whole world stay put whereso it sought
To be. Love, let it soil your snow white shirt,
To dance one's heart out no one needs a coach,
Love, worry not of that one-off vague hurt,
Dance, as if no one's out there you to watch.
Get up and pen your own little poem,
Whether or not world condescends to read,
Go to etch out your own distinct emblem,
Say what you must, let no one may pay heed.
So here’s that little poem, dear readers,
That knows to settle for no reverse gears.
_______________________________________________
Sonnets | 01.12.05 |
Topic: poem, poet
Poet's note: The octave here gives an impression that one is encouraged for some battle, an expedition, or do something rare. But the sestet brings the reader down, oh all this fuss to write just a poem! But think again, is it so easy to write a first poem, or even a very first love letter?
Some days I'd carve a mirror of my own.
Though sometimes
There are such days,
Where I might render a judgment,
Just so I could instill my heart cold.
The intentional shivers I conjure myself to,
To put a pause on my marbling of others,
And mar on myself instead.
Oh, Apparition that condescends in a distance,
A reminiscent yet elusive doppelganger of my sort,
Slumberously mirroring my every gesture and emotion of thought,
Yet slipping out a totally different whisper altogether.
Like a soft spoken murmur drooling out,
Sung from and out of me,
But redirected at me and for me.
An asking to listen more while fidgeting less,
As a pumpkin slowly nestles on my lap.
Strange that it'd bewilder me,
The sight of a bittersweet pumpkin.
Castrated calmly beneath my fingers,
Yet warming up in an oven of its own.
Sentences dripping with meaning, we sit,
Foetal in a blissfully repetitive equation,
Extinguished stumps of trees taking brief roots
On a plastic surface a meteor’s distance above;
A flood of harmony resumes under the clinical glow of misspent youth.
Condensation condescends from dull walls
Saturated with dim impressionable images,
Ideas shaped to a teardrop’s curve leaking
From cloud-like minds to dry tongues in a leaden cavalcade;
Thus everything means anything insightful anymore.
We ascend in drowsy downpour of precise procedure,
Ending this sodden epoch for the molten notes
And clean ceiling-clung starlight of a place beyond The Box.
One day in the life,
a bird sings, hallowed;
a tree branch condescends.
A cat sees all, tempted by melodies sung in three-quarter time--
those of holy offices whose praise-adorations
from branch to branch fly.
Perfect time, perfect prolation give credence
as saints preserve the wings way home.
One day, one day, one day in the life.
Note: In Medieval music, perfect time/perfect prolation was indicated by a
Circle = three-quarter time = Divine/Trinity. (an early time signature)
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.