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2024 November Poems >> i fathom not why He should choose the least
No. 08
i fathom not why He should choose the least
an awe-inspired confessional
Remembering Eerie
“It is not death that a man should fear,
but he should fear never beginning to live.”―Marcus Aurelius
i wonder if it's almost time to die,
because my bloom is as the century palm
whose shoot with fragrance paints the evening sky
of spikenard, for its withering of calm.
am i the thornbird with his sweetest song,
preparing for his crucifixion thorn?
so lonely, for no friends can come along
to bear, with him, the bleeding of his morn.
my psalmody a grand spiritual feast
that populates my worship with His Pen,
i fathom not why He should choose the least,
to insight others with His Sovereign Ken.
my poet's parchment plumes with patent fire
from every fleeting thought that stirs my ink;
time seems too short to script my full desire,
for i am teetering upon the brink
of something i do not now understand.
yet am i willing, where i have no choice,
to strain my ear to His Divine Command;
for nothing bears sound reason otherwise.
my focal lens looks only at myself,
as though i were not clay from Adam's dust;
yet, may i not be least among the twelve,
for to His Grace i yield, whose Love is just.
© Copyright 2024 November 18
by Clyve A. Bowen♫
i fathom not why He should choose the least
an awe-inspired confessional
Remembering Eerie
“It is not death that a man should fear,
but he should fear never beginning to live.”―Marcus Aurelius
i wonder if it's almost time to die,
because my bloom is as the century palm
whose shoot with fragrance paints the evening sky
of spikenard, for its withering of calm.
am i the thornbird with his sweetest song,
preparing for his crucifixion thorn?
so lonely, for no friends can come along
to bear, with him, the bleeding of his morn.
my psalmody a grand spiritual feast
that populates my worship with His Pen,
i fathom not why He should choose the least,
to insight others with His Sovereign Ken.
my poet's parchment plumes with patent fire
from every fleeting thought that stirs my ink;
time seems too short to script my full desire,
for i am teetering upon the brink
of something i do not now understand.
yet am i willing, where i have no choice,
to strain my ear to His Divine Command;
for nothing bears sound reason otherwise.
my focal lens looks only at myself,
as though i were not clay from Adam's dust;
yet, may i not be least among the twelve,
for to His Grace i yield, whose Love is just.
© Copyright 2024 November 18
by Clyve A. Bowen♫
Published 19th Nov 2024
Author's Note
UPSIDE-DOWN profile pic as a 30-day tribute to the memory of Eerie.
I wrote this poem yesterday morning before getting out of bed, because of a foreboding about whether my life was about to end -- not due to any threats or illness, but because of certain positive confluences I was experiencing, whose purpose I could not comprehend.
I thought of the century palm, which blooms once in its lifetime, at 100 years, and then dies within a year. I also thought of the thornbird, which sings its sweetest song while impaling its breast on the thorn tree, until it dies. These images are reflected in the poem.
When I saw Eerie's death announcement this morning, I thought I would purpose (or re REpurpose) my new poem as a memorial for our dearly departed DU sister and my NaPo Co-Director.
I wrote this poem yesterday morning before getting out of bed, because of a foreboding about whether my life was about to end -- not due to any threats or illness, but because of certain positive confluences I was experiencing, whose purpose I could not comprehend.
I thought of the century palm, which blooms once in its lifetime, at 100 years, and then dies within a year. I also thought of the thornbird, which sings its sweetest song while impaling its breast on the thorn tree, until it dies. These images are reflected in the poem.
When I saw Eerie's death announcement this morning, I thought I would purpose (or re REpurpose) my new poem as a memorial for our dearly departed DU sister and my NaPo Co-Director.
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