“Bethlehem’s Hours’ Mourn”
Bethlehem’s hour’s mourned, furtive glances northward toward Nazareth;
Veiled her expectations as soon enough her promised Son survives.
She knows that somewhere in between this king contrives
Within himself to build a wall. He practices precision; he does not guess.
He knows exactly what he wants, and from the East come
Three who only recently made queries round the campfires
‘Neath the skies beyond the Jordan. Casually they’ve inquired,
“What are these walls, and what the genesis of guns
And orchards plaited all along the shepherds’ run? Whose images are these,
And what is it they disguise, the vulgate for the people?”
Yes, they come, these three, adrift once again stalled between the steeples,
Barred, forbidden. Then again, their passage isn’t what it used to be.
They ask in vain and find the answers come as no surprise.
The king’s awake tonight; he’ll not fool the wise this time.
Posted in Bethlehem, Caesar, Christmas, Christmas Season, Civilisation, Double Sonnet, End Times, Herod, Holy Land, Hubris, Imagery, Imagination, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Magi, Materialism, Nazareth, Night, Poem, Poetry, Ptolemy, Pyrrhic Victory, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Walls, Wise men
Tagged Bethlehem, Christmas, Christmas Season, Double Sonnet, End Times, Herod, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Nazareth, Pain, Poem, poetry, Ptolemy, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Wise men
“Weaknesses At the Weekend”
Weaknesses at the weekend–yes, perhaps,
And then there are the early autumn’s housebound
Moments when the embers’ crackling sounds
Speak volumes to the soul, stay put and mishaps
Of the weekdays’ wounds are soon overlooked
In major preparations’ soups and brews
And special sauce while the marinating stews
And meats are seasoned over notebook
Recipes in peppered flour, yes. A fine pork chop
Or two there on the counter smiling in the kitchen,
A filet for sure or then again the hearts of artichokes smitten
With the thought of someone’s mother’s chicken boiling in a pot
All day with herbs and garlic; eventually, an entire tree of broccoli,
A wreath of parsley. Broth days…
…it’s the famous the famous eat or sleep dichotomy…
Posted in Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Weekend
Tagged Aging, Christmas Season, Cooking, Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets