Long Cathedral Poems
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September 18 2022
(With Barb)
By Franklin Price
09/18/2022
It's the eighteenth of September
The year is twenty twenty-two
I'm on a River Cruise in Europe
With early morning thoughts of you
Eight long months have passed us by
Since the good Lord took you home
You'll always be within my heart
Where ever in the world I roam.
I felt you as we walked upon
The lands of persons' past
Of ancestors you spoke about
I've brought you here at last
To Germany and Hungary
To Slovakia we went
In Austria we hiked around
To Vienna we were sent
Discovered many places
That we only heard about
Through my eyes you saw them
You are with me there's no doubt
The churches and the castles
The cobbled streets were not a bore
Towns were here a thousand years
Some of them for many more
Tomorrow we will end this cruise
And return to present days
Kings and queens of days gone by
Will go back into the haze
This week we will be back again
To the house that is our home
With memories and photographs
Of castles and cathedral domes
From ground to high sky
birds fill break of day with song
feathered hymns rejoice—
dawn chorus of wing and will
call all to join nature's voice
Magpie's carolling
ignites dawn with fluted bells
welcoming chorale
in day-break's cathedral dome
joyous songs of devotion
Willie Wagtail struts
tail flicks like a metronome
swagger in each step—
black-and-white little soldier
stakes claim to place of its own
Grey Fantail arc skits
with tail flits like restless fan
chaos ensemble—
air itself shakes in the dance
with its frantic flight patterns
Superb Fairy-wren
courageous, blatantly bold
blazes bright in blue—
outlandish flare on green leaves
with its beauty turned to dare
Eastern Whip-bird cracks
the lash to rouse sleepy heads
who missed the alarm
stumbled wobbly out of bed—
hoping no one would notice
The Welcome Swallow
adept aerial maestro—
dazzles watching throngs
with its acrobatic stunts
snatching at insects mid-flight
In twilight's tender grasp, where shadows twirl,
A cathedral of dreams, in whispers unfurl.
Its stones sing with silver and gold's gleam,
A harmony divine, like a poet's dream.
La Catedral, a symphony in stone,
Where passion's echoes in soft whispers are sown.
With each note, a solace, a comforting balm,
In its embrace, our hearts find their calm.
Through ancient corridors, love's tale weaves,
Guitar strings dance, as each heart believes.
Emotions vast, untamed, set free,
In this hallowed place, where souls meet in glee.
La Catedral, a sanctuary of sound,
Where deepest yearnings of the soul are found.
With each chord struck, a closeness we feel,
To its rhythm, where dreams gently steal.
In silence, beneath the starry night's glow,
We pour our souls in melodies that flow.
Within La Catedral, where dreams alight,
In every refrain, love takes its flight.
A beacon in darkness, guiding our way,
La Catedral, where memories sway.
With each gentle pluck, a story told,
In its halls, where love's mark takes hold.
So let us linger in this sacred space,
Where time and music tenderly embrace.
In La Catedral, our spirits soar high,
In the symphony of night, forever nigh.
:: 04.02.2024 ::
In the cathedral of time, where seconds drip like holy myrrh on the altar of eternity,
We stand, creatures of light draped in mantles of shadow and doubt,
With golden hands weaving the veil of reality, yet eyes covered by scales of ignorance,
While the Great Weaver watches silently from behind the cosmic curtain.
Our ship of destiny sails on the ocean of infinity, with sails made of unwoven dreams,
Blind helmsmen, crowned with thorns and wielding scepters of smoke, lead us to illusory horizons,
While deep in the hold, pearls of wisdom and diamonds of knowledge wait to be discovered,
Guarded by sirens of doubt and hydras of fear, fed by the tears of our lost hopes.
In the garden of souls, where trees of knowledge stretch their branches towards the sky of consciousness,
We dance a frenzied waltz with shadows of our own unfulfilled selves,
As angels with wax wings and demons with crystal hearts whisper the secrets of creation,
And we, blind and deaf, continue to weave the tapestry of destiny with threads of regret and nostalgia.
The full moon of enlightenment pours its silver light over the temple of humanity,
But the ignored priestesses of intuition and exiled prophets of vision stand in the shadows,
While on the altar, clay idols of mediocrity receive offerings of unfulfilled dreams,
And the smoke of our futile sacrifices rises to the indifferent sky of history.
Yet in the depths of the collective soul's cave, a sacred flame still flickers,
Fed by droplets of hope and the divine breath of our boundless potential,
For we are incarnate stars, carriers of the cosmic code in every cell,
Awaiting the sacred moment when we will pierce the veil of illusion and step into the light of eternal truth.
In the cosmic dance of creation, we are both dancers and music, both stage and audience,
Caught in a mystical hora of becoming, our steps measured by the heartbeat of the universe,
And one day, perhaps, we will remember the primordial song of our divine soul,
And weave anew the tapestry of reality, this time with threads of pure light and unconditional love.
Oh, how I swoon
in the ruby bliss of your sunset kiss -
your vibrant rays of maturity arouses my fire;
touching me with urgent rapture,
saturating me in sparkles of champagne light, then,
streaming through me in bold shafts of gold.
We embrace
in the broadening bloom of lantana skies -
our burning blend;
your western blaze my prismatic panes
telling biblical stories of love and pain,
bestowing rainbows into depths of dark -
our fervor cast like water-colored sprites
in far-flung illuminations
across dusky medieval arches
enlightening dim granite walls
gracing graceful curves and conscientious columns
in jewel-shades waltzing with your solar pulse.
Our vivacious union reflects our Gothic romance
in mirrored mirages dyeing the staid floor
with painted riches that richly rejoice
in plashes of splashy
orgies of light and glory
the appetite of holy ambiance whet
by warm and cool tones
pregnant with passions of the heart
and imbued with torments and ecstasies
of the soul -
cleaving humanity and divinity
in flaring flair; emerald, sapphire, citrine and garnet,
amid our spellbinding moments
of tantric twilight magic.
Our synergy electrifies
the night-falling quietude of this sacred space
before our enchanted euphoria
begins to wane… and as your dying flame
gives way to the rise of the shy crescent moon
I lose my orgasmic zest
to the evening’s ebon hue.
A slow red sun cut through the soft gray sky,
To warm my eyes with layered painted light.
Birds shadows glide on the wind's goodbye.
Their fragile wings carry them from the night.
Day's end changes coats as night creatures sing,
To bring harmonies to the ear's delight.
Night's dim stars appear like an uncoiled string.
The dark cloth of time envelops twilight,
To end the sunlight's quiet turning spool,
As I watch in awe of this changing scene,
I find my silent presence minuscule,
Only my whispered thanks will intervene.
This moonlit cathedral with rising face,
Has ended this day, it has been replaced.
written 12/4/14
Before the promised coming of the Messiah,
Men sought shelter in caves near the sacred sea.
Rites of purification they practiced there,
Seeking for a new light to set them free.
We prepare a shrine worthy of Him,
For He is the communion of our dreams.
His are the Holy Elements we seek,
About which all earthly loveliness streams.
Every daybreak, the sun holds his devotions.
The horizon his altar for God's praise.
And for its blessed holy sacrament,
It distributes its brilliant erubescent rays.
Robins and buntings in feathery robes
With rapture ring their silver bells
To let every worthy believer know
That God upon His throne now dwells.
The mighty limbs of towering trees
Reach to embrace like the outstretched arm.
The divine cathedral brightly waits
Extending perfect greetings, so warm.
Saints, gargoyles, Kings, and imps,
mix, match and mingle.
The beatific and the ogres
hang over slate roofs
like drunks at closing-time.
The stone-masons were subversives,
they must have drank on the job,
yet Remigius de Fécamp, Bishop Alexander,
and St Hugh of Lincoln
all signed off on this unholy riot.
Fire and earthquakes only encouraged
more irreverent flamboyancy.
Gradually `Mary Mother' took over the house
sweeping granite spiders out of the atrium,
boxing the ears of errant goblins,
yet much medieval and Gothic dangle remain.
The effrontery of it all,
all those capricious aberrations,
lead us to believe, not so much in God,
but the sheer immensity of our
rebellious and disorderly minds.
You speak in a language that I don’t understand, but your music is creating mayhem all over the land, the rhythm is so sweet that it ruptures my heart beat, and when the day is moving slow and the energy level is low, the music spurs me on and my adrenalin picks up speed and satisfies the global needs.
You speak in a language that I don’t understand but everything you touch is converted to gold and sometimes it overwhelms my soul. The value is so high and sometimes I fall down on my knees and cry. Your language is so beautiful, sometimes I wish I understand it all, for I would attend that once in a lifetime ball. The intonation, the texture, the height the depth, and the ambiance that comes with it, make the music exciting to listen to.
Language is the heartbeat of every culture, and if you don’t understand it, it makes your mind wander. When someone is greeting you, you might believe that they are criticizing you. Learn the language of the time so that you can make the trip of your dream and be where you always wanted to be. You have always wanted to climb the tower and take a photograph, then visit the cathedral and examine the carving on the floor and doors.
You speak in a language that I don’t know, but every night you steal the show, your romantic voice captivates them all and you have invited everyone to attend the ambassador’s ball. Everything is so exquisite, the layout, the attire, the setting, is like a palace, the food and the wine, makes the language so divine. It’s the passion that resonates in the voices that speaks; it keeps the whole world alive and elevates its dignity and pride.
You speak in a language that is pure, it is not polluted with the dialect from next door. The pronunciation is excellent, the diction and tone is magnificent; the articulation is clean when you open your mouth to speak, the rhythm is so sweet; it’s beautiful to listen to and I hope to speak it fluently someday so that my heart doesn’t go astray.
The language you speak is French and I have already booked my ticket for “heaven”
I will climb that tower and write the music in an hour.
Music is the language of the heart, and I listen to it when the day starts.
In the quiet cathedral of the cell
where spirals of instruction hum like prayer,
we release our smallest surgeons—
bright motes of intention,
no larger than a whisper.
They enter like starlight through the bloodstream,
sailing red rivers and branching veins,
reading the language of damage
written in torn proteins,
misfolded memories,
and broken code.
They know where to go.
To the scar that never healed.
To the joint that burns like rusted hinges.
To the neuron dimming at the edge of forgetting.
To the tumor that learned the wrong grammar of life.
They listen for chemical distress calls,
follow heat and inflammation,
dock at the gates of injured cells
like astronomers landing on wounded planets.
They carry medicine on their backs—
enzymes, repair kits, gene editors,
anti-inflammatory lullabies,
painkillers measured in mercy.
They stitch torn membranes.
Sweep plaque from arteries.
Clear debris from synapses.
Coach mitochondria back into motion.
Rewrite errors before disease can speak its name.
And pain—
pain becomes a signal, not a sentence.
A flare, not a verdict.
The nanobots cradle the nerve,
dampen the scream,
teach the body how to breathe again.
They work in millions,
in quiet cooperation,
never tiring,
never forgetting their task.
And when the work is done,
when the cell stands whole again,
when inflammation lowers its flag,
they unlock their final instruction:
Dissolve.
Some exit through the kidneys
as harmless mineral ghosts.
Some are reclaimed by the liver
and folded back into chemistry.
Some simply disassemble,
returning to atoms and silence.
No scars.
No residue.
No trace but health.
This is not conquest of nature—
this is partnership.
This is learning the alphabet of the body
and writing it more gently.
Longer lives.
Stronger hearts.
Clearer minds.
Less suffering.
More time.
We are not replacing the human story.
We are editing its tragedy.
And in the bloodstream tonight,
a billion tiny physicians
are already on their way.