Poems

Jacob Wrestling With The Angel, Rembrandt (1659) [ Source] A little East of Jordan, Evangelists record, A Gymnast and an Angel Did wrestle long and hard Till morning touching mountain And Jacob, waxing strong, The Angel begged permission To Breakfast – to return! Not so, said cunning Jacob! “I will not let thee go Except thou bless me” – Stranger! The which acceded to Light swung the silver fleeces “Peniel” Hills beyond, And the bewildered Gymnast Found he had worsted God! ...

Forgive me if I disappear here, if like a dying Shooting star my flight expires in a flash of light, yielding To the encircling murk, this shroud that slowly stultifies. Forgive me if my quivering lips neglect to tell my tale Of broken shattered things and distant pains that still remain And this unyielding weight; of things quotidian and unseen. Why can’t skies have clouds and stars\* and enthralling moon light too? Why must a pilgrim find his way, on slippery pavements too? ...

For the prompt Breakfast at the Magpie Tales Breakfast, 1921, Fernand Leger hold your head- steady between your hands; bow your head as though in supplication- and let the strong, sweet scent slowly wafting up- hit you. see your face- faint silhouette, three day stubble, matted hair- and tired eyes reflected in the cup and bow in reverence to its quickening power. wrap your hands around its base and feel the warmth. drink deep, swirl it's dregs in your mouth's backparts and let the waves of unfettered joy course through your veins give in - and kneel in full surrender to the joy of your dark, black cup.

For the prompt at Magpie Tales. I couldn’t shake the impression of distance from my mind (he is looking in her direction, whilst she is looking into the distance) A Dinner Table at Night, 1884, John Singer Sargent There is silence here - There is fear, and the dense Stultifying pall of hurt- and of memories unresolved. I have been here before- On the cusp of this uncharted Sea, tottering on the edge Of this yawning chasm, willing Myself like a puppet on a string To not tip over, to not Be swallowed up in the flames Of the Sango death ritual; Like a mannequin sinks- Weighed down by a necklace Of milestones - into the depths Of a cold calm sea. Water drops glistening In the subtle shade of red lamps, Wine shimmering in the barely there light Cannot fade the gloom; And in her eyes as she looks away For one last time Is the cold detached lost-ness Of a tomorrow that will never be.