The wind billows no reward
for the isolated in heart.
The world holds no meaning
for those transported in ek-stasis.
Beyond the beyond shimmers
a horizon of blessedness. Only
the sinner qualifies for entry.
Only the lost lamb regains the fold.
Contemplation pulls me toward
the threshold of Being. What beckons
from afar rings like a shepherd’s
call to his flock of goats. His beret teeters.
Ezra Pound paced the compound’s cage
of madness and treason. His trial sent him
to a hospital bed, then on to Venice, where
he wrote, lived and died. His cantos obscure.
I have witnessed the new birth of poetry.
I have testified to the wonder of words
to wound, then heal, to nurture, then mourn.
Poetic hymns construct a gateway to joy.
Doves flock to a feeder meant for starlings.
Size matters only to the victor.
The conquered throng smuggles power
through weakness. Nietzsche shudders in his grave.
Alone before God, the triune self ricochets
from transcendence to supplication. Relating
itself to itself, the self somersaults into union
with the divine. What is triumphs over what would be.
Potential, actual. Pick your path of volition,
will your way into the fray of dread and death.
We hurtle toward demise, clawing all the way.
Poetry signals release, but the flag is torn.