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Mateus Corvinus Poem
I say Your name,
I pray the same
and I feel close to You.
The word You gave me
will always keep me
close to You.
Our Father!
King of eternity.
Most High!
Creator of all things.
My Jehovah,
Your name “Jehovah”
is what I sing.
In time You prove
whatsoever You
shall prove to be;
as You become
whatsoever You
might need to be.
Almighty!
True God of all I see.
Savior!
Your kingdom come to me.
My Jehovah,
Your name “Jehovah”
is what I sing.
He glorified His name.
Let it be glorified again.
He draws close to us
when we draw close to Him—
Jehovah!
We’ll never take His name
in a worthless way, no not in vain;
cause He’s not far from us
and He will surely judge the day!
I say Your name,
I pray the same
and I feel close to You.
The word You gave me
will always keep me
close to You.
Our Father!
True god of all I see.
Savior!
Your love alone saves me.
My Jehovah,
Your name “Jehovah”
is what I sing.
Copyright © Mateus Corvinus | Year Posted 2019
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Mateus Corvinus Poem
If I could have one spoonful
of your daily feast,
just one spoonful that my eyes
might shed their wanting hue,
I promise not to gloat
against the raging beast
that like a fire inside
consumes this empty tomb.
If I could have one taste
of the sweet grape you drink,
just one taste that I might know
the joy that stains your lips,
I promise not to dance
and give you cause to think
that drunkenness is what quivers
these feeble hips.
If I could spend one night
lying in the bed you keep,
just one night in silken sheets
and pillows plush with down,
I promise not to dream
of things I'll never reap
and tomorrow I’ll return
to my place on the ground.
Where hope transcends banality
of shallow breath,
where longing taunts the poverty
of daily toil,
I will resign my innocence
to certain death, and
I won’t cry as the victors
celebrate the spoils.
Copyright © Mateus Corvinus | Year Posted 2019
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Mateus Corvinus Poem
Oh, lord
what’s the use in tryin’?
Nothin’s turned out
the way I planned.
I got the whole world
tellin’ me I’m dyin’.
Think I’ll just lie here with
the Good Book in my hands.
I’m on board
and bound for leavin’.
No farewells
from family or friends.
Guess in the long run
I just broke even
while I lie here with
the Good Book in my hands.
I won’t bother tryin’
to sell my soul
before I rest in peace.
I never found
an ounce of gold in anything
I claim to believe.
Reminded of my sins
when I feel that linen
soft against my skin.
Oh, lord
too late for cryin’.
Ran out of reasons
to save this man.
I see four walls
closin’ in around me
as I lie here with
the Good Book in my hands.
I won’t bother tryin’
to sell my soul
before I rest in peace.
I never found
an ounce of gold in anything
I claim to believe.
Reminded of my sins
when I feel that linen
soft against my skin.
I got the whole world
tellin’ me I’m dyin’.
Think I’ll just lie here with
the Good Book,
die here with the Good Book,
in my hands.
Copyright © Mateus Corvinus | Year Posted 2019
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Mateus Corvinus Poem
The bus pulls out for morning routes
on empty streets
as the cops rouse up the homeless
on the sidewalks sound asleep
and it’s no surprise.
A world away one soldier
makes his father proud
as the bullets rip the air
he calls his Savior’s name out loud
and it’s no surprise.
When one man makes his fortune
while a million more go hungry
with the layoffs and payoffs
in the name of god and Country
singing “Glory Hallelujah!” we go marching on
never asking why we don’t hear the angels sing
when freedom rings.
Asylum in disorder
migrants brave the night
they caravan to borders
asking “Who will save a life?”
and it’s no surprise.
We barricade the classrooms
with a wall of hands
between the bully and the gunman
our kids don’t stand a chance
and it’s no surprise.
When one man makes his fortune
while a million more go hungry
with the layoffs and payoffs
in the name of god and Country
singing “Glory Hallelujah!” we go marching on
never asking why we don’t hear the angels sing
when freedom rings.
(I’ve heard them say
how much they love this land.
Tell me again
the progress that we’ve made?)
My sister called me crying
when my mother passed away
then the bankers hired their lawyers
to collect on bills unpaid.
So someone tell my brothers
that I won’t be coming home
there’s no love lost between us
since I struck out on my own
singing “Glory Hallelujah!” boys it’s no surprise
men like you and I
we don’t hear the angels sing
don’t ask me why
we don’t hear the angels sing
when freedom rings.
Copyright © Mateus Corvinus | Year Posted 2019
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Mateus Corvinus Poem
Today you learned how to tie
your shoes all by yourself.
It’s one more day that I’m
so proud of you.
I’m counting the reasons
why you still might need my help
with a million other things
you’ll want to do.
Ayva don’t grow up so fast.
What little time we have
your mamma’s trying to make it last.
Well, today you’re only three;
then tomorrow you’re eighteen
Ayva don’t grow up so fast.
I like it when you hold my hand
when we’re crossing the street.
It’s one more thing maw-maw
taught you to do.
The way that your eyes light up
when tickling grandpa’s feet—
like the shooting stars
are all named after you.
Ayva don’t grow up so fast.
What little time we have
your mamma’s trying to make it last.
Well, today you’re only three;
then tomorrow you’re eighteen
Ayva don’t grow up so fast.
And when you find out
there’s a world wide open
you’ll say it’s time to make it
on your own.
That’s when your heart
should lead the way!
Oh, try to remember
as you’re falling fast asleep
your mom and dad are always
here for you.
We’re counting the reasons
why we both been trying to keep
you from stepping out
and growing up too soon.
Ayva don’t grow up so fast.
What little time we have
your mamma’s trying to make it last.
Well, today you’re only three;
then tomorrow you’re eighteen
Ayva don’t grow up so fast.
No, Ayva don’t grow up
so fast…
Copyright © Mateus Corvinus | Year Posted 2019
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Mateus Corvinus Poem
Oil stains on canvas,
thumbprints on the frame,
the price dangling from the bottom
on a string and paper tag.
Sculpture in the corner,
penguin eggs in clay,
all piled in a random pattern
on a plate made of glass.
Gallery.
Lithography landscapes,
black and white on gray,
resigned against a cedar backdrop
like a stage before a show.
Gallery… in gallery.
If I can keep an open mind,
messages in crumbs of bread,
engaging what’s been left behind
might sweep the cobwebs
from my head… in my head.
Quetzalcoatl rising,
navigating space,
the last Chichen Itza villager
mundane in photograph.
Gallery… in gallery.
If I can keep an open mind,
messages in crumbs of bread,
engaging what’s been left behind
might sweep the cobwebs
from my head… in my head.
Gallery… in gallery.
Copyright © Mateus Corvinus | Year Posted 2019
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Mateus Corvinus Poem
Perched within the fair La Plata
just beneath the great San Juans
basking in the starlit rapture
as the dusk approaches dawn
Lies the point of inspiration
where lost souls have found their way
each unto the revelation
offered there in Rafter J.
Abandoned by the Anasazi
tamed by Ute and Navajo
across the river Animas
between the rock and blinding snow
Lies a spiritual awakening,
visions of the ancient ways,
a timeless wisdom rising, breaking
through the beams in Rafter J.
A refuge in the course uncharted
a tower of hope where love redeems
to bring us back to where we started
in our youth and with our dreams
To find our peace there in the mountains,
find the God to whom we pray,
to find new life there in the fountains
springing forth from Rafter J.
Copyright © Mateus Corvinus | Year Posted 2019
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Mateus Corvinus Poem
She was raised on the shorelines of Lake Wawasee
her mother a full-blooded Miami
and her father now buried on Syracuse Hill
said she will have his eyes.
She’ll always remember the day that he died
with fading breath he called her to his side
and he played her a song, he knew was the one,
that she loved as a child…
that she loved as a child.
And, oh, when that fiddle would call for its bow
his hands would begin soft and slow
and the strings they would sing through the night.
They would sing through the night.
*
The tears and the years made her spirit free
the summer before she turned seventeen
she went out on her own and her mother can still
see the will in her eyes.
She played in the taverns and out on the streets
she played for the strangers that she would meet
like that maple and spruce, and hickory bow,
was a part of her soul…
was the heart of her soul.
And, oh, when that fiddle would call for its bow
her hands would begin soft and slow
and the strings they would sing through the night.
They would sing through the night.
*
She traveled the world over land and high seas
the audiences cheered and rose to their feet
when the legend lived on and she played the song
that she loved as a child…
that she loved as a child.
And, oh, when that fiddle would call for its bow
their hands would begin soft and slow
and the strings they would sing through the night.
They would sing through the night.
Copyright © Mateus Corvinus | Year Posted 2019
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Mateus Corvinus Poem
I saw a cloud go drifting by
and doing so I cast my eye
upon another puff of white
following the first one’s flight.
The two they traveled stern to bow
by wind and sky I know not how
but onward, onward they did sail
their speed increasing with the gale.
So what am I to do at last
just sit and watch the clouds go past
or follow them to lands beyond?
Yes! Follow them to lands beyond!
Copyright © Mateus Corvinus | Year Posted 2019
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Mateus Corvinus Poem
“You must not serve an other’s dream,”
so said The Man when lately asked,
“your soul drinks from a different stream
that spills the life that soon shall pass.”
His words did taunt the untrained ear
and felled me prostrate on the ground
arousing me with poem, this prayer,
that I have humbly written down:
“Wind-withered arrows split the air
and meet their target straight and true;
if only fate could likewise snare
the future coveted by you.”
“Such dismal thoughts of wasted time
keep chipping at the marbled brim
the jagged rocks they leave behind
will someday trip us up again.”
“Rest easy in the silent search
for all too soon we stand fulfilled
while ecstasy from one’s rebirth
ignores the young and weak of will.”
“Oh, king of your inner domain,
ruler of your own remorse,
remember that we live again
still free to choose or change the course!”
Copyright © Mateus Corvinus | Year Posted 2019
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