To Have and to Hold

And this holy marriage, being a thing most honourable, is of such virtue and force, that thereby the husband has no more right or power over his own body, but the wife; and likewise the wife has no power over her own body, but the husband ~ From the Scottish Book of Common Order

~

To have, to hold, the wonder of the world?
None can possess the sun or stars or sea
Whose glories are too wonderful for me —
How can I claim creation’s crown —  its pearl?
For even now, to know, to love, to give,
Is glory more than th’ocean’s majesty,
And when the mountains fall into the sea,
In greater glory, you yet young shall live.
But only as I’m yours, are you now mine.
How could a life be won at lower price
Than life for life, and total sacrifice
Surrendering power and right? So must, in fine,
The wonder seeker sell himself till lost,
Calling no heart-beat his, he’s paid the cost.

My previously written wedding vow sonnets. 

For Better For Worse,   Till Death Us Do Part

Riddle

This is based on an old Anglo-Saxon Riddle from the Exeter Book:

Strange creature, mounted on the swelling sea,
Came, wondrous, calling out to ship and crew,
With hollow groans and shattering laughter free.
Too slow for battle-rush, yet strong to do
Cruel ravage as it strikes the wooden-wall,
And oars-men underneath the north sea fall.

An Iceberg.

 

 

 

 

 

Walk away to Win

 

Luther in the Wartburg

Sometimes great fighters in the days of yore
Proved victors far from foe or battle field,
And hidden from men’s eyes made lethal war.

The monk at Worms who stood and would not yield,
In peril of great Rome’s cursed flaming stake,
Was stol’n and in old Wartburg’s keep concealed,

And there with pen and prayer did undertake
To loose the word of God on German lands,
To wake the dead and Satan’s bondage break.

So may one truly for the truth then stand
Far from his enemy’s chosen battle site,
And still God give his foe into his hand,
And prove a flight the truest way to fight.

The room in the Wartburg Castle, where Luther translated the New Testament into German.

Matter and Meaning

The science-minded men upon the beach
Who number grains of sands, and hope to find
Why sand exists, will find that out of reach.
Between these two domains God drew a line,
As firm as that which still the ocean binds:
Proud waves may come so far and then must stand,
Held back by God’s immutable command.

Still, counting-men believe, in surging pride,
That when the sky is measured, breadth and height,
And every single atom quantified,
Those questions will stand forth in perfect light
Which haunted them awake in bed at night.
And “Purpose” upon the periodic table will appear,
And death, dissected, will then deserve no fear.

Love Poem

Thou art beautiful, O my love, as Tirzah, comely as Jerusalem, terrible as an army with banners. Turn away thine eyes from me, for they have overcome me (Song of Solomon 6:4-5)

Will my words reveal my love deserves the name?
Finding form, are its lineaments a sacrifice aflame
Bound in your service, in every way to raise you?
I draw back now; I almost fear to praise you —
An overawed general who shuts his eyes at the sight
Of an army vast with banners, terrible in its might. 

Love’s quick to bring to mind the image of
The one who in her beauty is beloved,
And I would turn away as from the sun,
Overcome; but as light swiftly runs
Your glory overtakes me, wins the field,
And breathless I, I cease to run and yield.

You are all together lovely; clear as the dawn
Fair as the flying moon and sky beyond,
My joy will be your majesty and glory
So triumph now: turn your eyes towards me.

Midnight Promises

There’s a little ledge on Lombard street
Just outside our house
And midnight trucks passing over it
Will sometimes a sleeper rouse.
A hollow thud, a lonely sound,
But it comes to me
To herald the existence, through the night,
Of humanity.
And the train-track rumble from the north
With its waning whistle warning,
Tells me that I am not alone
These long dark hours till morning.
And your sweet snoring never could be
Grating or distressing
The breath of one soul dear to me
I’ll evermore count a blessing.

Remember as a child at the bottom of the stairs
Looking up debating
In your mind, if you should climb
Where comfort could be waiting?
Looking up where the stairs
Disappeared in darkness,
Knowing that your parents there
Lay asleep, oblivious?
Am I too old, I wondered,
Now sleeping in my own room
To go back to my mom again?
Heart beating in the gloom.

Life’s like a seed in dark soil hidden
All the lonely night,
And sounds we hear are signs of life
Buried from our sight.
Perhaps as a child I took heart
Outside my parents’ door,
It stilled my fears a little bit
Just to hear them snore.

Sounds are midnight promises
That human life goes on,
And like a closed poppy it will wake
And blossom with the dawn.

Poet’s Work

Fiercely describe the beauty of a leaf,
So no proud buck will pass it by
With just a glancing of the eye,
Uninterested and brief.

Shout of the stillness, hidden and humble,  —
Awake the busy sleepers driving around
To unobtrusive beauty’s sounds,
Beyond the traffic’s rumble.

 

 

 

My Muse

I’ll pretend that she likes poetry
So that my lines will flow with ease,
And find no dam in knowing she
Is yawning — not intrigued or pleased.

I’ll pretend she cares for rhythmic feet
That each should ring euphonious —
About each line’s fluidic beat
That each should sound harmonious,

Then when a wind shall come to blow
The candle of my genius out,
Or trip me up and lay me low
And mire me in the ditch of doubt,

Knocking the feather from the hand,
Of slumping genius paralyzed,
Mocking my high aspiring plans
Some worthy theme t’immortalize,

I’ll think of her and find the strength,
To stay undoused, to stand defiant,
And smith with fire th’entire length
Of lines iambic, keen and pliant.

For she, I know, would have them so —
That they should rise to beauty’s height,
And to their ripe perfection grow,
Would be, no doubt, her deep delight.

The Envious One

Either way my jealous envy
Rears it’s ugly head,
If you work at things I’m good at,
Or other things instead.

Fears that you’ll surpass, replace me,
Take away my relevance,
Come when you pursue my skill-fields,
Learn my learning’s eloquence.

As Vivian entrapped Merlin
Fast inside a tree
When the witch had learned his wisdom —
So you’ll do to me!

BUT

If you show no interest,
In the skills of which I boast,
Turn yawning and indifferent,
From things I love the most,

That you’ve sat by with judging eye
And thought my projects lame
Brings fears you’re right, it’s all in vain
They’re worthless, I’m the same.

And I’m like some inventor
Who fruitlessly pursues
An obsolete contraption
That no one wants to use.

BUT
The thing you turn to,
Your study, your pursuit,
Is beautiful and wondrous,
Come, teach me how you do it.

Columbia County, Oregon

No hyperbolic poet could express
How wet and muddy this country is.
Endless drips from big leaf maple trees,
(Branches in lichen, bare of leaves)
Fall into the puddle-ditch beside the way
Slippery with smashed-down maple-leaf clay.

Bury your hand in the tree-trunk’s moss,
As you slide with the ground— mud over your socks —
On the path to the creek where the Alders lay
Themselves as bridges, soon washed away —
It’s never the same from day to day.

Soft you can hear it, after each step,
A thousand little rivers suddenly drip
Through the stalks of the blackberries fallen to ground—
Then softly departs the multitudinous sound.

How high are the clouds over our heads?
Just at the tree tops their blanket is spread —
Snagged on the tree tops, caught there to stay
Hung on the cedars, a ceiling of grey,
So it never will ever stop raining here,
Though other things change from year to year,
Trees rot and paths wash away, this will remain
It will never here, ever here, cease to rain.