Saturday, June 2, 2012


The wind blasts against the shuttering glass
The clouds move quickly across the moon
The storm gathers around the house’s every room
And pushing back hearth’s smoke, it may not pass

We sit on nights like these and laugh
At ghosts we thought we’d left behind
As clothing forgotten whips on abandon lines
And like harsh touch speaks with vulgar lash

We tremble, too, look at the squalid boards
Of house and tremble we thought thoroughly knew
That creaks and glands and hollows at the spew
Of pounding beasts and Satan’s angry hoards.

We clamp our hands and sweaty palms to heat
The cold dank dampness growing in the soul
We thought we grew over this terror too old
For horrors of night and storms too complete

Inside us, old trembles shakes of other serious crimes
That we have confessed by not rightly lamented
Or sorrowed over, confession enough for fences mended
The guilt rises with the dark and noise into our minds

Maybe we should return and answer all this with pray
Like children do under the cover in dark wait for the morn
Or soldiers in trenches deep in the midst of battle for horn
Maybe we need dig deeper still to sings to which we’re heir

Then when worse winds wind us house, home and all
Around these thought so storm seas sullen rage
Dawn rises like a chapter’s end, a fresh new page
Where confessions forgotten are shoved back for yet another call.

No comments:

Post a Comment