#poem #poetry #amwriting the vicar's tale i

ecce homo

In the beginning it was not the word
but the compromise, between that divine
and the practical possibilities.
There could be only two. Experienced
revelation felt, or posed blunt question.
In apologetic come explanation:
that blind harmony, without echo's need.
Now question rules without reply, tacit,
often crude; blunt in non-belief of all
that does not match the word; from which began
John, not I.

Eden's Loss

Where yesterday, they lay unbound within
that pit of joy: skipping pleasure's eye shone:
processing o'er the virgin stars of night.
Uncleaved, the fruit, no cloven star reveals
but split between it's equal parts, seen
in critical comprehension; what perfect
in created form: forms patterns accidental.
As the bud yields to the bee, craving the light
it opens fully in it's natural innocence: so they,
there, entangled of their duty reach for that
reflected: reflected in the surging of the heart.
And thus they fall in generation. In expression;
in the turning of the lamp-light low, they dim
to shine with brighter swelling fire; but fall:
not from grace, or lost desire, or shame.
Just the ticking hands of time. And the space
which hourly grows, where before it pruned
in constant of those dreams not present.
When they might, in the sin of adultery, reflect
upon their lesser self: and that they did not know

Genesis 3

Without common power, striven paradise
lies forever beyond. Illuminated snaking
dust: speckled, shafted by that stained glass
in depiction of Saint Veronica's mercy:
he finds her there, among the musted clothes,
in rainbow remembrance of present plight.
The dripping rain, in guttered timpani,
beats the slaver's drum for the roof appeal.
Sack after black sack of rags to sift
battered hats, heel-bitten shoes; all of skin.
They drink tea, from almond cups, and she,
stretching from her labour, observes
the differing racks; the cheaply stitched
jostle dense, whilst the tailored leisure.