Poetry / Psalms

Some psalms 1 through 4


Lovesongs hued from His matter

My manhunt began as a submerged seedling. Angling skyward, out of the inward. Reified in the air. Were it angels that carried me to G-d, I would not deny them. But it was G-d’s space itself, deifying all of life. “What shall you love?” hummed Him …

Psalm 1 :: In close enclosure

By love we seed the flowers. Heart quakes essential powers. Trumpets source what is ours. Your ebony, my epiphany — our coil dances a skywarm embrace.

Psalm 2 :: The tree-in-me

Broken rainstorms. Pit against the forlorn. Expire, re-aspire, fall the rainclouds to rebound. These tribal-borne incisions sentence their ownly cryers. Man-to-woman reconditions. Back to back their lowly pyres flay the utterly unwound. Spines underground envision upright spires. Desire_us.

The truth lies inside its own ties.

Psalm 3 :: Dust and dye in one

We are just and die at once. Wakes and breaths heave their hazards. Womenkind in seas of azure. The belly close, a scentless breeze. We are lonely, we are scatter. In the hue of you, the latter eye. Swaggering an answer, a riposte from a prancer. We are hotter than this fire, we are both of G-d’s inquire, hewed me-and-you’d from His matter.

Psalm 4 :: Pleasure imprecise

We have building within us. Manhandles (himself concise.) Squalor and might beneath this – urgence in a dense world. A prig before the learned quiet, out came his soiled soul, burrowed or borrowed in entangled word. Weak men are a fashion, livery of passion. We give and lose attention, wallflowers blemished and blurred. You, love, are my caution. In pallid scenes of commotion, you herd my ever-devotion from the melody within my lyre.

An ambush has conviction over life without prediction. Foreground dereliction, life has now expired. Brickteeth have been arrowed, excavated, layered. Our house has been acquired by angel witnesses, et. al. Library fanatics make the devil frantic. You’r comely, you’r comity of heirs without withdrawal. We are blameless for inaction, for lifetimes of redaction. Can there ever be retraction in the rainlight and pall?

Will there ever be refraction through the fog that forms and falls? A brutish self-exemption, still we’re beckoned here by choir. Grace be understated, erasures unabated. Our uppening and opening is hoping ever-higher. Backsliding can be tempting when there’s ease in redemption. We are grafted, crafted loneliness. Our lifetime will a_spire.


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