Binding

Our knots undone by our Lady's hands,
As our foundations wash like sand,
but Christ, by him no chains are rent,
he but takes from them their consequence.

For Brightfield, Fair Host

On newer ties that bind old friends,

affections grow, or change, or end.

Aged affectations to apprehend

the weighty flow'r sweet romance sends.

Tensions grow and branches bend

But interchanged, they lift again.

That bud which, budding, obscures the roots.

The petal asking, "thorn or shoot"

As truth betrayed by its own voice

decides its verity and makes its choice.

Oh, Spring, oh Spring,

Thou, Lady, spring.

Thine eyes art fair.

This is no slight

'gainst thine flaxen hair.

But though you set your glade grown there

Time now has come to move, to pare.

Oh, Brightfield, Brightfield

find your song.

Have no questions

after thinking long,

and smile, oh, smile, find unkempt joy

and let it loose, sing life, not noise.

Thou art made a saint today

by precious hands which, precious, lay

thine absolution upon thy brow.

Oh, rugged one,

most honest, sir,

I say thee this

Do take it sure,

This is thy time

And this is her.

Do let thy rhyme

and meter flow

for fem'nine song

to sing, to go

above, above

and then below.

Thou art the rhythm, let thy drums beat

and let thine step fall with tired feet.

Oh, to both, as this is said,
remember, remember, if pairing heads.
Do melt dark rock and feel no shame
in glory of thine asphalt flame,
In cul-de-sac of snowy lane.

Oh, Spirit, Ghost, flow ever free,

let souls find rest, let eyes now see,

Let joy be full in most pow'rful name.

And set, in hearts, your perfect reign,

Now cleansed of every smallest stain.

No Labradors in Purgatory

I saw the creature paddling
as she was wont to do
As master sat there with his son
beside the sunny pool.

Almost seeming to forget, for moments in the water,
that he who kept her living was watching there, beside her,

but every few moments--it was a fall day, but mild,
she rolled there on the grass before her master and his child.

She would, panting, run back with a splash, so joyfully, so free,
always returning, drying her fur, I could almost see
her learn to love her master from the gift of this fine outing,
and appreciate the water as the gift.

I thought how every pup could swim, could roll in grass,
Every girl can eat, can dance, can kiss,
But this fine dog had learnt to love both;
when so many pout at water, whine at bliss.

The golden hair of each, of pretty bitch or girl,
is wet by the watery affections of the world,
But when remembering her master, her sustainer, she would run,
her golden hair would shine, not with water, but with sun.

For master is there loving, holding his child,
rejoicing in the loyalty of this creature, this wild
beast he adopted, which he paid for, he keeps,
and whom, not without reproving, he loves and feeds.
This beast he adores, To whom he laid claim,
He made her loyal, honored her neck with a chain.

Water is happy, but master is joy
Our Father is greater than the world and its toys.

She'd paddle round, chasing a ball,
then game having been played, she'd paddle, he'd call
"Lady, come, time to go."
and leaving the ball, she joyfully came
when time to come home,
why would we cling to the game?

But it turned out all that running and rolling and repeated drying--
only brief times in the water, always trying
to maintain perspective, to remember the reason
for coming to water, though it seemed out of season;

This habit of letting the water roll off,
such that her body never learned to love the water
was not merely a habit formed by love for her master,
but also a habit which the master taught her.

This gift that's been given,
we receive, we enjoy,
and we thank our God
for this gift he's employed
to show how he loves us
how he loves our smile,
but after our travels,
after a while,

we must remember that though this gift
is all good, all proper when rightly equipped,
but our master, the Lord, from whom we receive
at his call, in a moment, we must be ready to leave

all these great gifts behind, fly to where he are,
because the master can't allow water in his car.

It ruins the upholstery.

Lacerations

A chalice cold with ancient wine
golden gild and marked with time.

Glint on razor's edge-
ringed round the lip.
What must we pay
for one violent sip?

A stoop to grasp the shining stem
and lift unto the lip.
Beaded blood on thread of time.
Then drop of wine, and hit -
the floor a rolling
cup - I let my hand unfold
And so it lays me slowly down
in ecstasy - and cold.

Burn the red and deeper goes
alcohol on tongue, in nose.
Deeper yet, it cuts through flesh
finding pathways razor left.

Cut and burn - the cleaner wound
makes day run into sleep.
Cut and burn - an end so crude
The price to live so steep.