A poem of hope
I must find another Poem somehow,
A poem of hope,
Or else I’ll join the vultures of despair
Who, in our time, circle the wounded and the dying,
descending to squabble over stolen fragments
not to be numbered with the losers.
There is a carrion comfort for each time,
A way of witnessing the hopelessness
And roiling circumstance of each age,
The suffering sickness of our savage grasping,
A way of telling all that in our futile fix
Self-interest without restraint alone
Can answer for the strong,
Poulticing their wounds with wealth and influence.
But then, you look into a presidential face
and see a sad portrait there
A map of scars
Where every part of hope
Has been excised
And only plastic counterfeits remain.
Better to toil among our troubles,
Clutching our thin human mede of hope
than circling, deluded, there, among the raptors.
Some people say
There is in everyone an Angel embryo,
That knows not what it may become.
The body’s double coil,
Our time, our life, our fate
Is but a chrysalis, in which the Angel-pupa grows.
And then in Angel-birth, we die.
But ghostly traces of the larval stage remain;
The faces of newborn angels
A faint reflection of their origin.
But hear my warning:
Between metaphor or myth,
and simple truth,
I cannot make distinctions,
or none, at least,
That also make a difference.
The psalmists write themselves from sorrow into joy.
They thirst and pant and fear their way
To momentary peace,
While waiting, always waiting for a Sign:
This fallen world will someday be made
Is it possible
that every cliché hides a truth?
The autumn forests of Germany
are just what you expected
with their photogenic, polychromatic
Replicas of some travel poster
you’ve already seen.
But in their presence,
they fix you with the power
of their nicely judged relations:
their perfect balance.
They make it easier to believe
in some divinity
indulging in just that degree of self revelation
she judges we could stand
if we should look too closely.
Eating the berries of a self-sown ?Elm