Inspired by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
Those who plant the trees
To grow inquisitive roots
Will never know shade
Excuse my misleading tags: WordPress is now having an invisible man hissy fit. I cannot see or delete what I am typing for them… hence my absence, among other things.
Inspiration from Anne Deneau at The Darkest Art. Superb dock for ‘art of the dark and morbid variety’.
A visit by wicked angels
with ashen arms spread
in righteous but indigent pose
left me gorged, deflated.
I told them, ‘Speak to me only if repentant,
do not tower over castles long forgotten
or drive hoards to fantasy in dire times.
Do not tempt, shame or brainwash
with false gods and saviours.
Go, messengers – singer of slow songs
and harbingers of death
and let me sleep.
Black, glass beads; multi faceted,
sand grained eyes
form a long orderly line,
entwining and bathing
in the sweat of each desperate palm –
desperate for a sign –
something to show for all of the prayers,
waiting for life to be made
better – as if it would in a miracle because
of the pressed flat lines of their upturned hands.
Impressions made by the hollow beads entangled
in grasping, cloying fingers squeeze
out any chance – unless, of course,
they were to repent.
Footfalls swell a cavernous stone recess,
where amber grained benches
bare traces of those lost souls that now hover
above flickering, desperate candles; as desperate
and as lacking as the living ghosts who pass by
to send a thought, a wish and a prayer;
pouring token gestures of insincerity
from salved consciences into tin cups –
parallels are drawn from the rattling
of coffers filled to the brim, but empty
The women, dressed in black,
wear tested shawls – the condition
of which belies their own threadbare, cracked
and weather worn exterior.
They kneel their creaking bones long since
spent, hungry for rejuvenating words –
but after hollow worship and appeasement –
none are given, none will come –
except for those He sees.
Her devout, brittle frame is crucified
on bent knees in her hour of need,
yet she asks for nothing and offers herself
completely. The last of daylight
beams through heavy stained glass jewels
through the connective
nervure of lead and illuminates this wilted
flower. His elongated, pained arms free
themselves from the broad beams of his fight
to gently touch her opaque, watery darkness.
Despite His weary limbs – bleached white from tears –
he is forgiving of the ravenous hoards sat before him,
but he cups her face – and for her,
tender are His mighty thorns of fear.
A soft lamplight of soul
clings, hidden in honeysuckle’s
straggly vine hollows,
it gives vacant worship
to the scented sprigs of omnipotence
traversing the climbing frame
permeating olfactory nerves –
aloof and untouched,
analogous to antennae;
no thorns here, but sweet musings
under velvet eaves’
rained jets of tears that stain
and mar the complexity of
patterns ingrained on leafy palms
upturned to catch naught but
the rose’s squat tealight tears,
which drip viscose
melancholy, while also asking
Raven, black, atop a tree
Screamed religion spuriously
Bleak-black probed me; evil glee
Before I shot it dead
Raven crowned so hideously
In a dream he came to me
Pitch black, vacant eyes I see
Before he swooped on dread
Raven claws insidiously
Gouge my own indemnity
Black robe swoops to smother me
Before tearing flesh, he said
Raven, black, atop the tree
Why do you seek to crucify me?
I only ask as courtesy
Before I shoot you dead