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Weekly Poems: A Halloween Poem and More

HOBNOB WITH THE HOBGOBLINS

Hobnob with the hobgoblins
And gather with the ghouls!
Let the monsters in your heart
Loose to run with wolves!
Open up your happy Hell,
Window on your weir!
Even as you know quite well
Each demon from your dungeon will
Not ravish long your fear.

THE LORD HAS BEEN MERCIFUL TO ME

The Lord has been merciful to me.
For I have sinned all the sins of this place
That preys on weakness and traffics in sin,
And He has not turned away from me.

For I have sinned all the sins of this place,
And sinned and repented and sinned again,
And He has not turned away from me,
Nor blinded my eyes, nor hardened my heart.

And sinned and repented and sinned again,
And He has remained even here, in this place,
Nor blinded my eyes, nor hardened my heart,
Nor left me alone. Praise the Lord!

And He has remained even here, in this place,
That preys on weakness and traffics in sin,
Nor left me alone. Praise the Lord!
The Lord has been merciful to me.

I KNOW WELL I HAVE NO RIGHT TO LOVE YOU

I know well I have no right to love you:
I gave you up, and now you're with my friend.
But I can't stop myself from thinking of you,
Even though that's not what I intend.
I want you but I also don't want you
To hurt my friend by breaking up with her.
So things go wrong no matter what you do;
I long for what I don't want to occur.
Ah, me! I'm in a soap and can't get out!
Help me if you can by being kind.
I tell you this to banish any doubt
That I'll be waiting, if you're so inclined.
But please, please, if my friend still has your love,
Forget completely what I've spoken of.

HOW MIGHT A SPIRIT SETTLE IN THE WIND

How might a spirit settle in the wind?
After death, how might a soul find peace?
Love lasts long after lips and laughter cease,
Leaving only memories behind.
Out of longings, one might linen spin,
Weaving well the welkin edged with fleece.
Each spirit must from wandering seek release,
Else ever through the weary midnights wend,
Not resting till love's angels dark descend.

THERE'S BEAUTY IN THE BAREST BREATH OF SUNSHINE

There's beauty in the barest breath of sunshine,
Wasted on all but those who know despair.
Each wound turns passions just a bit more grey,
Not adding new nor taking old away,
Trading joy for something far less fair,
Yet turning grace to something far more fine.

For such, there is a winding of the way
In which a bleakness, soon become a sign,
Vividly undoes the dying day,
Evoking longings one can hardly bear.

WHEN LOVE IS AN AFFLICTION

When love is an affliction,
There's not much one can do.
Despite the way you've treated me,
I'm still in love with you.

I am the wave and you the rock
Against which I must break:
Again, again the crushing jolt,
The pain I can't forsake;

Again, again the long retreat
To safety, far from shore,
And then again, I don't know why,
The long trip back for more.

Perhaps it is nostalgia for
A long uncertain glow,
Or just some hope so beautiful
I cannot let it go.

Perhaps it is the need to try
For those who must depend
On who we are and what we do,
For whom this should not end.

What evil makes you hurt me so,
What defect of the heart?
What sense there is no greater whole
Of which you are a part?

What lonely choice that only you
Be served by what you choose?
What hard, hard fear of losing what
It is a gift to lose?

I dream sometimes my waiting love
Has made you turn again.
But you care only for yourself,
And I must love in vain.

WHEN GOD'S AS REAL AS SANTA CLAUS

When God's as real as Santa Claus,
And temples are works of art;
When the Bible's living literature,
And the Universe has no heart:
One feels grateful,
But to whom?

When the ritual vestments of faith
Are seen only from outside;
And the strength to live in the void
Becomes a matter of pride:
One feels grateful,
But to whom?

When life seems bursting with beauty,
But everything's accidental;
When calling the noumenal "Thou"
Seems impossibly sentimental:
One feels grateful,
But to whom?

When death is an absolute end,
And pain lets one barely get by;
Prayer's a harmless delusion
And the solace of heaven a lie:
One still feels grateful,
But to whom?

This human urge to say thank you,
Unavoidably orphic,
Requires, just for a moment,
A Creator, anthropomorphic:
So that one can feel grateful
To Whom.

About the Author

I am a poet and webmaster of the popular poetry site, Poems for Free, at http://www.poemsforfree.com.

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