The Song of Rachel

I stood and stared into my hands
As if they screamed out guiltily.
“I have no scorn nor reprimands,
A wild beast has taken him,” said she.

The mother, seeped in sorrow, clasped
The bloodied body to her breast –
The body seconds earlier had gasped
His final sobs, then went to rest.

No sound, but silence thicker than
The blackness of the bestial sea
Was there until she said again,
“A beast has taken him from me.”

She struck the heavens dumb with sighs.
“Some beast,” she sighed, “I know not whom –
She turned and gazed into my eyes –
Took the only child of my virgin womb.

“He took and tossed his life away
Like litter, a tempest-tattered bag.
He tore him with his teeth; he played
Him like a useless piece of rag.

“But I forgive. How was the beast
To know he was my only boy,
Who suckled softly at my breast,
Who gave my life its life – my joy!”

I watched the teardrops swelling in
Her ocean-eyes and trickle down
The whiteness of her cheek and chin
And fall like stones upon the ground.

I tried to solace her with words,
But she would not be comforted.
Her heart was pierced by seven swords
And in her arms her son was dead.

“A beast has killed…” and sorrow stilled
All words she might have said to me;
I stared into my hands, and guilt
Stared dreadfully like blood at me.

If I to prove my love

If I to prove my love should kiss,
I would not kiss you once, but twice—
Then ten more times for emphasis.

But two and ten is twelve and, Miss,
I fear that twelve would not suffice
If I to prove my love should kiss.

That I might fill what is remiss,
I’ll add one more to break the ice,
Then ten more times for emphasis.

Do I dare stop with one more kiss?—
My counting may be imprecise
If I to prove my love should kiss.

So I will add ten more to this—
But even then I’m not precise,
Then ten more times for emphasis.

Yet, when I start to reminisce,
I charge myself with cowardice
If I to prove my love should kiss—
Then ten more times for emphasis.

Sonnet of Christ to St. Cecilia

Sing, Cecilia, sing the vespers of your heart,
And alleviate the sorrows of my soul.
I daily wander to Gethsemane,
Reliving there the aching of my heart.
And I retrace the trails with bloodied soles
Onward, onward, up to my cruel Calvary.
But, ah, there stands just one beneath my tree
Of truth; there stands just one—stand with her.
She, whom my heart desires—it is she.
Her beating heart is song; her breathing, hymns;
Her eyes, like stars in heaven’s velvet sea,
Intone their twinkling tunes. And my limbs
And bones that writhe in pain shall painless be
If you shall sing your songs to comfort her.

The Ballad for the Ancients

With shouts of joy, I lift to my lips
A brazen bugle. I blow
A blast into air, beckoning to my ships
That lie in wait below.

And from the decks, like plaques they pour,
My comrades ten, to sack the town,
To carry off the wealth of war:
Some coins, a king, a crown.

The people think that I am mad,
Because I waste my time with toys.
But let them say that I am mad—
I’m still at heart a boy.

Sonnet: The Light I Longed to See

The light I longed to see, the light of hope,
Is doused and damned; and as grim as the grave
Is now the night. Abandoned-blind, I grope
My way alone. “Is there not one to brave
The darkness of the night to comfort me?”
The blackness bellows back its answer , “None!”
Crawl down the path that fate has forged for thee.
For friend-forgotten, go thou art alone!”
But as the words roll down from mouth unseen,
A star, so thunderously silent, rends
The curtain of the clouds and like the queen
Of jewels dawns and down, down, down descends.
Her silence, soft and low, down from her throne
Speaks golden words, “My son, you’re not alone.”