PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Far from the city, Christ's redemptive love

becomes, with our affections set above,

shelter from Rome's conflicts, in time and space:

and like your comforting, gentle embrace,

safe and inviting, full of poetry;

uncompromising to the outer world.

There, lust takes all.  But here, a chaste desire

(only) is necessary to inspire

passion or verses---both of them unfurled,

unshackled, from some ancient expectation

(or, worse, defiled by churlish degradation).

Love is more than a sodomite's quagmire,

more than distraction, politics, and strife.

Love is the cause, and the effect, of life.

From Rome, they write.  My father, Senator

(and, lately, crony of the Emperor),

declared me disinherited:  a cur,

a twist of fate, a badly botched abortion,

dishonor to his family, his worst shame;

no son of his, unworthy of his name;

unfit even to be a stable slave.

Such is the loud oration that he gave.

"Let foreign poverty become his portion,"

he said, "not my estate; no; none of mine."

A fine speech, crafted well:  that closing line

was meant as final warning, an extortion---

choose this, lose that.  I will not choose loss of

my faith, or this small manor, or your love.

A poet, more comfortable with any book

than people, until now; an outward look

not quite the human, that concealed a heart

too needy to express: I kept apart,

until you reached out.  You, curvaceously---

this must be put precisely---beautiful,

walked along a rural road toward me.

I did not know, then, that a miracle

had come upon me when you spoke of Christ.

Your testimony utterly sufficed

to lead me to the faith that makes me whole.

And now your presence is a poetry---

quick eyes, shy smile, wild hair, soft curves, bare feet:

you are my Muse, you make my poems complete.