Weekly Poems: A Philosophical Poem And More

ONCE A PALADIN

Once a paladin
Rode into mountains
Seeking himself
Among barren stones.

He was a spring
Covered by fountains,
Or an immortal elf
In a dungeon of bones.

Long he rode weary
Through high mountain passes
And deep, lonely canyons
Untouched by the sun.

Long he rode dreary
'Mid snow-covered masses,
His dreams for companions,
And still he rode on.

Yet he found nothing
That matched his ambition
To see himself naked
Of what was not him:

That singular something
Beyond all condition,
The soul he'd forsaken
For life's daily din.

He came on a hermit
Praying in shadow,
Unmoving for hours
In the early spring cold;

His hut near a summit
In a high mountain meadow
Covered with flowers,
Red, white, and gold.

Finally moving,
He turned towards the paladin,
Blank as a snowfield,
Silent as space;

The soul simply choosing
To pass its brief time within,
Steadfastly sealed
Behind its locked face.

"Good Sir," said the paladin,
"Long have I wandered
In search of the soul
That somehow I lost.

"My life has been sin,
My brief moment squandered,
Yet I would be whole
Regardless of cost.

"O holy man,
Show me the truth
Known to those few
At being's bright core!

"And, if you can,
Yourself be the proof,
For I would be you --
I ask nothing more."

The hermit then opened
His eyes wide as saucers.
Behind them was emptiness,
Nothing at all.

Sheer nothingness beckoned
Like death 'neath life's wonders,
The absolute stillness
That makes the flesh crawl.

"O God!" shrieked the paladin,
"Heaven, please save me!"
And down from the mountains
He fled on his steed;

Back towards profusion,
The commerce that daily
Surrounds the great fountains
That simple springs feed.

Back, back to the world
Of passion and plunder
The paladin raced
Away from that sight

Of a self self-dissolved
In the truth that lay under
The truth – just a taste
Of the cold, waiting night.

Nor did he ever
Recover from seeing
That vision of nothingness
At being's heart.

Alas! He could never
Embrace his own being,
And so performed graceless
His pitiful part.

SINNERS ALL, WE ASK FOR YOUR FORGIVENESS

Sinners all, we ask for Your forgiveness
As we await the hour of Your return.
If only grace were something one could earn!
Nor can we hope to imitate Your goodness.
The saints know well the hopelessness of being
Put upon the pedestal of faith
As though we had already gained Your grace.
The heart is naked to Your restless seeking.
Regard us all, then, equally with love:
In saints and vicious pederasts find lovers,
Cherishing not one above the others,
Knowing none has anything to prove.

EXACTLY WHEN DID LOVE COME TO YOUR HEARTS

Exactly when did love come to your hearts,
Vesting something one in something twain,
Exchanging simple wholes for complex parts,
Less purely self, more vulnerable to pain?
Yet passion often migrates into need,
Not needing much to crave unfeigned affection;
And so each craving does the other feed,
Need serving need as bond against rejection.
Doubt not such sweet sense can be sustained,
Not by passion, but by will and grace.
In long-lived love there's too much to be gained,
Convectively, to easy unembrace.
Oceans well up richly well within,
Letting go the air that we begin
Avidly to breathe, with passion burning,
So fraught with love no years can hold our yearning.

MOTHER OF MY LOVED ONE, HEAR MY LOVE

Mother of my loved one, hear my love
On this, a day when such sweet words are due.
Take to heart the heartfelt praise that you
Have long bestowed but wanted little of.
Even as waves hunger for the shore,
Resting their long yearnings on the sand,
So I have found in you a mother, and
Delighted in the sunlight at your door.
An accident of love brought us together,
Yet though I chose not, I would choose no other.

HEAVEN IS NO HAPPENSTANCE

Heaven is no happenstance,
As everybody knows.
Prayer leads to paradise;
Passion leads to blows.
Years and years of loving God,
Even when in pain,
And faith in Christ's great sacrifice
Simple hearts sustain.
Those who neither hope nor care
Exist in undisclosed despair,
Reasoning in vain.

PART OF BEING JEWISH IS A CHOICE

Part of being Jewish is a choice
As one becomes an act of preservation.
Seders start the stream of admonition,
Stories meant to bind one to the past.
On words alone the exiles had to last,
Verses reified by repetition,
Each an heirloom of a generation
Reared to give those ancient words a voice.

KIRSTEN

Kirsten's joy is wonderful:
Intense and glowing, free and light.
Reason simply can't supply
Sufficient explanation why,
Though thought is not the cause, but sight.
Each day is super bountiful,
Not least this day--as is her right!