Sacred Heart (poetry)
20th July 2011
They see your painted image bent and old —
revered and saintly — humble in your weathered robe
a hermit famous for his pious way of life
they never think of you as virile — handsome — young.
I saw you all those many years ago —
bathing — early morning — at the pool —
your simple tunic folded on the bank
you naked in the water and alone — singing
as you bathed earthy dust away
and seeming happy — joyous even — in your choice of life.
You didn’t see me — never knew
how long I lingered there just watching you —
absorbing everything those moments held —
and found myself enthralled from that time on.
Such romance was forbidden so I kept
my fascination secret — spoke no word
to anyone and saved myself — stayed sane
with promises that I would keep love pure
but passion drew me to that pool again
to look upon a man I dare not name.
I spied on you — and here I will admit
I couldn’t see the harm — nor any sin in it.
I watched you praying in the sacred grove —
the trees all leaning round to catch those words
and growing greener for your presence there
likewise birds and flowers — feathers, petals bright
as though your very breathing thrilled the air
and gave it properties to nourish and sustain
all Nature where you knelt and spoke to God.
Once you had gone — retreated to your cave
high on the rocky hilltop where the path
grew narrow — treacherous with loose sharp stones —
I trespassed in that grove and lay full length soaking in
your dregs.
My thoughts drew on your kindness for their form —
my feelings flowed so gentle and serene
that I became a doe — a forest child
timid in the shadows but beguiled by goodness —
longing for your hand upon my brow
in blessing —only that and nothing more.
Infatuations fade with years — your myth moved on
to higher plains — your cave a lost, forgotten shrine
grown over, covered by a jealous tree
of thorns that barred me from your whitened bones.
Who knows you now but me? — A white-haired keeper of
a high-blown fantasy — my fragile memory
a question mark against the fading twilight closing round —
while I recall the picture clear as age allows —
your body young — my wonder born anew
so causing fire to flicker — one thin deathless flame
illuminates your altar — keeps me warm.
revered and saintly — humble in your weathered robe
a hermit famous for his pious way of life
they never think of you as virile — handsome — young.
I saw you all those many years ago —
bathing — early morning — at the pool —
your simple tunic folded on the bank
you naked in the water and alone — singing
as you bathed earthy dust away
and seeming happy — joyous even — in your choice of life.
You didn’t see me — never knew
how long I lingered there just watching you —
absorbing everything those moments held —
and found myself enthralled from that time on.
Such romance was forbidden so I kept
my fascination secret — spoke no word
to anyone and saved myself — stayed sane
with promises that I would keep love pure
but passion drew me to that pool again
to look upon a man I dare not name.
I spied on you — and here I will admit
I couldn’t see the harm — nor any sin in it.
I watched you praying in the sacred grove —
the trees all leaning round to catch those words
and growing greener for your presence there
likewise birds and flowers — feathers, petals bright
as though your very breathing thrilled the air
and gave it properties to nourish and sustain
all Nature where you knelt and spoke to God.
Once you had gone — retreated to your cave
high on the rocky hilltop where the path
grew narrow — treacherous with loose sharp stones —
I trespassed in that grove and lay full length soaking in
your dregs.
My thoughts drew on your kindness for their form —
my feelings flowed so gentle and serene
that I became a doe — a forest child
timid in the shadows but beguiled by goodness —
longing for your hand upon my brow
in blessing —only that and nothing more.
Infatuations fade with years — your myth moved on
to higher plains — your cave a lost, forgotten shrine
grown over, covered by a jealous tree
of thorns that barred me from your whitened bones.
Who knows you now but me? — A white-haired keeper of
a high-blown fantasy — my fragile memory
a question mark against the fading twilight closing round —
while I recall the picture clear as age allows —
your body young — my wonder born anew
so causing fire to flicker — one thin deathless flame
illuminates your altar — keeps me warm.