Art thou pale for weariness of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth it's constancy? Thou chosen sister of the Spirit, that gazes on thee til in thee it pities. . . -Shelley (To The Moon)

Sunday, January 24, 2010

The Weeping Church

January rain can put me in hibernation mode. It's all I can do just to go to the gym. Now I am huddled on the chesterfield in a maritime quilt, ready for some hot cocoa. Earlier, my sister and I were looking at the website for Versace Home. We oohed and aahed, and our pleasure wasn't spoiled to find the prices listed either, thank goodness. I hope we are all snug inside our own homes. . . unlike the character in my poem The Weeping Church. . . and I hope that our dreams our filled with palaces. . .

The above picture is After The Rain by Paul Cornoyer, and the one on the
right is called In The Rain by Ludovico Jr.

The traffic lights converge in red glare
He schemes mercilessly, I have lost him.

Sacra Familia Church behind weeps into muddy fissures

like tissues, how lonely
a holy home, ornately grey.

Occasional, mournful gongs -------
All these are blurring

I am aware of the worth of the rain
delivered in generous multitudes

Integral, and silver
My son now presses the pain as I consider leaving.

My body breaks with the stuttering engine
outside watered white pines wash my vision.

They alone could be my airless and Motherless haven.

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