Winter Poetry

Sorry for the hiatus. First my laptop died, then I lost a baby. But you’ll hear about the latter in later poetry.

Thank you for reading.

Why the Hell


And why the hell unleashed through tiny gates
When heaven is the destined end of us?
Come, answer this: what justice comes too late
To rescue sufferers? Why treat me thus?
Alas, for though you doled out life from trees,
We took bad fruit and unlocked doors to hell
and death and barren wombs and lost the keys.
I am no less than all the rest who fell.
Perhaps I suffer more for all the joy
I’ve glimpsed through tiny gates whence heaven bleeds.
For all the thief comes nigh yet to destroy
I know the restoration yet precedes.
The door yawns wide beyond the narrow paths,
But why this hell that cuts me off in wrath?

Dip the Pen

The fact is, this is not the same
As once it was; the magic ink
Stirs less of me as time leaves lines
So deeply carved in me. I think
The beauty may be lost for now
The muse steps forward, takes her bow;
But here I write
Despite, despite
The fire’s fading, dying glow.

At midnight someone speaks the name:
My well-loved muse stands on the brink.
She doesn’t know I’ll need her soon.
She doesn’t quite come in the room
As I with gusto dip my pen
And light the dying fire within
Come shed some light;
I write, I write!
And pour out promise ere you go.

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