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…

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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.

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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?

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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…

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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…

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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.

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Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #30

My limbs a physical rendition of Thy peacock plumbs,
An ode to Thy mysteried Self of immortal hue,
In my nerves Thy streams of heavenly rapture run through,
I stand a strong limbed child of Thy bliss.

I wade through Time into Thy timeless Infinity,
Embodied, myriadly grown and measureless of…

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Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #31

What is mine from here to give,
For all is Thine, the inanimate and alive,
And the bright coin and high nobility
Only by Thy name any shine carry,
All deeds, the high and the base
Come unto being only by Thy force,
So too every hymn and every ode
That erupts alive from Thy musing mood,
So, what can I ever give to Thee,
Thou who art all and even me!

But hear, one thing I alone can dare,
To bring all my mire to Thee in an absolute surrender!

Oh, even more for Thee I can do,
To steal this Thy wandering world and bring it back to you!

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Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #29

What riches of Spirit can I buy
With my scanty purse of mortal dreams?
How my dreams to immortality
Aspire in a twisted plot of Inconscience?

However, a Godhead in me still broods
Of his riches, though pauper seems he.
From Night into Twilight he closely lingers,
Ambushed for ever and invalidated of…

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Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #30

What use to Thee am I as a lifeless ghost
Shorn of vitals, stripped of senses five,
Of conscious mind and thought bereft,
Unable to serve Thee tangibly and alive?

What use to rue like a Hamletian ghost
Of immoral couches and injustices done,
Is not late justice an aid most least,
Like wreath to a body with soul long gone?

What use to Thee am I as a hanger by,
Like a cold bright god to frame a scene
Who appears to gladden the common eye
When all toil is expended and the victory won?

Oh, let me not mar the splendour of Thy chamber
As a pitiful ghost struggling to secrete a ghostly tear!

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