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All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
Bees swarm along the fragile edge of darkness.
Open wounds attract blood-hungry flies.
Near my heart lie savage little souls
Neatly arrayed to feast upon my life.
In eight days God will be through with miracles.
Even so, life is a gift of love.
So how does one enjoy this gift of love,
Even as one moves from light to darkness?
There is no moment free of miracles,
However swift and deep one's passion flies.
Glory is the dancing quark of life,
Alight with love and lust in all our souls.
Born of the cataclysm, our burgeoning souls
Race towards infinity, love
Infinite, lust infinite, life
Eternal as light billowing into darkness.
Little do we see how far it flies
As we spin through Earth-bound miracles.
Nor can we comprehend these miracles.
Darkness is the center of our souls,
Like still black water in the moonlight. Love
Is of this emptiness; unburdened, it flies
Swiftly in widening circles, skimming the darkness,
A motion outward at the heart of life.
More cry than ocean, more wish than star,
life
Is the lyric of an explosion of miracles.
Dream and dung, it is the gospel of darkness;
In a petrie dish, a canticle of souls.
Earth is the stage for a concert of passionate
love:
Lettuces and roses, gulls and flies.
Let flies and fish and redwoods sing of life
Equally, of love and miracles;
Nor shall our souls deny their birth in darkness. |
