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Friday, May 07, 2010

Insinnuendo

Unmade Bed

Secret Sanctuary

i

I come to you:
a wayfarer
to spend the night
in the holiest area
of your temple
;

entering a warm bethel
for my nightly confessional,
in search of a holy oratory
to keep me faithful;

and then to fall asleep there
at the cloister of all worship,
a refugee in sanctuary
praying in a private presbytery;

ii

for you to make sense out of me:
my physician of healing,
my baptism in the morning
where I dip my head
in pilgrim waters

dedicated to sustaining
the soul, and where I thankfully
take my medicine;
give myself up as offering

to an elaborate cleansing
of something more
than just the sum of parts
becoming whole.

__________________

No Spark in Sin

this spark
that ignites off me
to light you up
so beautifully -- can it be a sin?
so many of the books they
label great says so; but
how can it be --
                  when everything good
in me tells me that true sin
can hold no spark, it holds no light
that shines up from within
to the very pinpoint of your eyes
to leave so deep a mark;
                  sin cannot disguise
ugliness to be beauty; it has mystery,
it has enticement -- but sin
is a selfish self-inducement,
                  beauty is god-given,
or nature's charity -- however you believe it to be;
                  maybe the reality of sin
is as in ancient Greek mythology,
simply the failing to respect
the odyssey of self-discovery.

__________________

The Art of Healing

the Greek god Asclepius --
plundered deep from his mother's womb
by his father Apollo --
grew strong as he lay cradled in the secrets
of the wilderness; where he
learnt to impart his fabled art of healing,

he even wooed Death by piercing through
the virginal membrane of her bloom,
training how to arouse the ethereal flow
to fill the human vessel and light
its rooms like a true son of Apollo,
with a seeping, burning sun-white glow;

his sanctuaries became centres
of remedy for those whom sought cures;
where outstretched on sofas below
his likeness, the faithful ached to dream
during the night for Asclepius
to rise and probe and give advice,

and to the believer his appearance
would be a miraculous performance
of guidance; a spiritual substance
hardened to a spike that could burst open
any resisting dam of pain,
to make the sleeper live again.

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