Poetry — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #36

A pivot of all my stumblings
Upon Thy spirit’s pedestal stands erect:
Not just great timber or polished edifice,
But a firm ground of Thy marvellous spirit.

All Thy works into me pour and relish,
Like dreams cast into a waking hour of Thy bliss.



Sonnet — Daily Poetry to The Master of Works #35

A ruined temple.

What scale measures the quantum of mercy
That in hourly alms is granted unto me?
Whose the hand that counts every grain
That seeds my soil yielding unfailing pain?

Whose the brow curved by a too cold light
That crowds with woe my daily sight?
Whose the lips that sneer and smile,
Laughing at my plight and relentless ill?

Who bleeds my dusks of all the vermillion
Leaving them pale with no passion?
Who now scours the last straggling breath
And meets me in silence sombre as death?

Wouldst Thou know O Sire the author who conceives
All my parts to match the grim grecian tragedies?!



Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #34

Courtesy Midjourney.com

Halt, who comes in moments smile bearing,
A gaudy scent daubed for some low allure,
Masking betrayals with trinket of pleasure,
Away villain, bearer of duplicity conniving.

Who dispatched thee on this enterprise,
This devious game to pierce the fallen?
Dost thou box our each pitiable groan
And replay it for pleasure of pitiless ears?

Does He sneer, lips take a dagger’s curve
Savouring our anguish, kneading our lives
For a forbidden wine of the hell-grapes,
The basest yield that night doth have?

Linger then, gather a full bushel of our woes,
Ferment our plight for His choicest yields.



Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #35

All Inspiration comes from Thee,
Words draped in gold, silver and purple:
All Speech Thy gift unto me;
Out of Thy silence I joyously babble.

My heart is Thine, my body Thy temple;
Am a bright scribe of Thy impetuous will.



Poetry — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #34

A conspiracy of Thee am aware of,
Of Thy plans to scuttle my earthly bed;
All comforts plucked away, all my grief
Too, yet remains a gesture of Thy dazzling light.

I am stripped bare and nude
And through my skin pass Thy deathless air:
I breathe now Thy vaster delight
And in my marrow feel Thy hurricane-pressure.

O what night can scare my stride
Into Thy denser light and truth
Or what pain fierce can defeat
My dreams of Thy joy and mirth?

Though bruised and beaten, I stand still
Upon the pedestal of Thy secret puissance.
All Thy heavens into me descend and dwell,
As I plunge deeper into this unholy Inconscience.

O Lord, if Thy conspiracies save and deliver,
So be it, so be it, my beloved Sire!



Sonnet — Daily Poetry to The Master of Works #33

A little remains of the little there was,
Of the prevailing ruin the useable sliver
Is now demolished for Thy wasting whims
And yet I must to old mores adhere?

Like a wayward wave engulfs the shore
Turning our lives its hunger’s food,
So is Thy will prowling this simple air
Relishing in our despair and ungood.

For Thine is the sceptre to flagrantly flaunt
And our knees only given to buckle and serve,
If such is the end deemed at the start
For what grand issue must we labouring prove?

Oh gloat, gloat in Thy white castle unassailable,
My last tear shall haunt the doors of Thy portal.



Sonnet — Poetry for The Master of Works #32

Rough Seas — Max Jensen

What perennial fruit is in ephemeral time
That in bitterness ever ripe always is,
How richly endowed by this sordid clime
That it the seedly cycle easily forfeits!

Who or what is this rising so full-born
Like a power typal from ancient waters
Or a wraith that a cold will did summon
As perfect in intent and deliberate ills.

For author there is no other of all here
But Thee and hence Thou must know
Who or what plots our black despair,
A vengeful god or some demon below.

But what of all the ransom in sweat and tears
That I have brought Thee over these wretched years?



Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #33

My enamoured thought is Thou,
Leaping out of a sacred fire
Into joy and mirth of Thy love,
As if a child reaching for its beloved Mother.

My impassioned heart is Thy temple,
Built of Thy own edifice lent out:
It is marbled and rubied of Thy smile,
A rapture-sanctum of Thy ineffable light.

My body is Thy playground,
A battlefield of many woes,
But in it Thy dreams wander bare and nude,
As all my battle and struggle melt in Thy bliss.

O Lord, my whole self is Thou;
I am Thy embodied infinity in Matter’s deep marrow.



Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #32

A twisted brain imagined
Its brilliance was almighty God;
When body coughed of cold,
It thought God was sick and sneezed.

A demented heart its own deity
And godhead of perverse ecstasy.
When its tubes ruptured and failed,
It dying thought its Godhead too died.

Some impaired nerves
Bleeding profusely amid a crisis
Died inglorious without knowing
What God or Devil in them residing.

A soul from the askesis
Looked at their collective plights,
And went into a blissful sleep
Till the next drama of human grief.

A night and day in the annals of mortal brith
The Spirit’s infinite joy and mirth.



Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #31

Peace, peace, marvellous peace,
Raining bounty of heavenly kiss
Dreams, dreams hither into my brows
With thy rapture-dance of immortal bliss.

Come, come, impetuous of Grace;
My heart and soul filled of thy presence.



Inevitable Word

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