Something old and something new.

Studious

Drifting through the scriptures,
Picking up scattered snowflakes of wisdom.
Swirling through my mind,
Covering little imperfections
With a pure white shroud.


Snobbery?

Is it indeed snobbery?
To know and to love worthy books,
To seek knowledge and wisdom,
From the long-silenced halls of Alexandria?

Nay, not so, but robbery!
For unbidden we steal, like crooks,
Through the pages, and succumb,
Taking that which enriches our thought and idea.

And in doing so, we become greater,
Our learning doth increase,
How then is this Snobbery?
Do we not seek a Utopian land?
Yet the works of the Great Ones,
Are not found in every hand,
but simple rubbish,
That neither enriches,
Nor removes tarnish.


If I were her.

As I turn these pages, easter morn,
And read of the resurrection,
I stop and ponder Mary's thoughts,
Deep grief born of affection.
I wonder what, if I were her,
My heart and head would feel,
What is it like, to know Him gone,
And weeping by his tomb, to kneel.


Pain

softly cloaking my shoulder,
gently draping itself,
Arranging itself.
Making itself at home.
Settling deeply into the fabric of me.
Slowly, delicately unraveling me.
Tenderly unweaving the threads of my being.
Changing tactics,
Lancng through me.
Brutal, blustering,
Assaulting my senses.
Dropping me to my knees
And wearing down my walls
With sheer force.
Ebbing now,
Thankfully ebbing,
Throbbing away into nothingness.
Blissful numbingness.


Stood up

Standing here,
In the cold.
Looking up at the cherry blossoms.
And down at the beauty bark.
Waiting here,
In the cold.
Over there is a roadkill Possum.
To my right is City Park.
Twiddling thumbs,
In the cold
Pointless games drawn into the soil.
Two, a man and woman, look.
Fidgeting thumbs.
In the cold.
Reading a little Conan Doyle.
Thirteenth time I've read this book.