Rolling Back the Years

At some point,

promises given out…weigh greater than…the ones kept.

The heft of diminishing worlds…overwhelm delicate scales of time.

An eternity of missteps…lost in tall pines.

Stockpiles of contrasting beauty…yet, no apparent sign.

I frequent my primitive vows.

Though they have snapped and rotted…

Cracked and shattered…

Receding over the years.

Bare and illegible, I must own my incomplete ‘why’!

Seek it out under azure skies.

For without ownership,

I am but a false warrior.

With a fistful of lies.

On Woman – Yeats

MAY God be praised for woman
That gives up all her mind,
A man may find in no man
A friendship of her kind
That covers all he has brought
As with her flesh and bone,
Nor quarrels with a thought
Because it is not her own.
Though pedantry denies,
It’s plain the Bible means
That Solomon grew wise
While talking with his queens.
Yet never could, although
They say he counted grass,
Count all the praises due
When Sheba was his lass,
When she the iron wrought, or
When from the smithy fire
It shuddered in the water:
Harshness of their desire
That made them stretch and yawn,
pleasure that comes with sleep,
Shudder that made them one.
What else He give or keep
God grant me — no, not here,
For I am not so bold
To hope a thing so dear
Now I am growing old,
But when, if the tale’s true,
The Pestle of the moon
That pounds up all anew
Brings me to birth again —
To find what once I had
And know what once I have known,
Until I am driven mad,
Sleep driven from my bed.
By tenderness and care.
pity, an aching head,
Gnashing of teeth, despair;
And all because of some one
perverse creature of chance,
And live like Solomon
That Sheba led a dance