Anaverse for this February Twenty-ninth Four years have passed since the day that never was and I find myself here again, in this unwanted moment, this day that never belonged, this February Twenty-ninth I was running that year full strength, head strong hurtling right off the edge where I remain, still. Sick now, pained now,…
Tag: poem
It is Well with My Soul
It Is Well With My Soul When peace like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea billows roll; Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well, with my soul. Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come, Let this blest assurance control, That Christ has regarded…
Sanctus Valentinus: Behind the Verse
Oh, Saint, to your name, thereof, My question is this, what is love? On a warm summer’s day, sunshine beaming down on country fields, and in the vibrant spring of my life, many, many years ago now, I once spoke these fateful words to a certain girl I liked very much: I don’t know what…
The Fourth Year
The fourth year is a dead, dry sea of shifting sands. Each week is a new staggering climb to crest a new mountain of sand, to be greeted again by another vicious valley and one more dead, dry sea of shifting sands.
In this picture, too…
In this picture, rustic wood framed, there walk one set of steps, with unsure aim. Within crafted wood, blue can be seen nearly filling the place, cold, sad, serene.
In this brush…
In this brush, quarks flip topsy-turvy, up and down, top to bottom, charming strange electrons and protons to smash together in orbital attraction, while excited gluons carry chaotic forces. In this brush, a quantum world explodes, rockets skyward shattering every stratosphere in its path, and lays bear a crescendo of crashing realities.
In this blue…
In this blue, slate blue, I lay me down my heart. Lost and bewildered am I in this beautiful hue. Here, in this blue, is where I find myself, because I find you.
Sanctus Valentinus
Oh, Saint, can you hear my voice from ages past? I hope against hope because your voice seems to be the last. Oh, Saint, may I ask a question? Will you proffer a suggestion? Oh, Saint, to your name, thereof, My question is this, what is love?
In this hour…
In this hour, I awake to find you awake. I’ve seen you here before, but not from this place. It seems fitting then that I have lost mine. In this hour, even this hour, I know His hand is at work. Out late, up late, I don’t know which – but concern, and troubling jealously,…
vincens ut vinceret (a reponse to Henley’s Invictus)
After writing my own response to William Ernest Henley’s Invictus, I’ve come across some responses to the poem (I admit, I google my own blogs!), including vincens ut vinceret by Will Hapeman. I quite like it. It took largely the same tack as mine, swapping words and phrases, and ended up with a number of…