Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Picasso and the Hand of God

these days of despair
when quailing, my heart ventures out
I half expect some tragedy
to come in to my home and destroy.
Each day a chorus of news paints pictures
of gristly scenes, twisted in anguish~
Guernica is everywhere, everywhere,
and so many saviors carrying standards
their great flapping flags concealing spears, swords,
so quick to light the crucible and heat the branding iron
where is my Gaugamela?
who will be my Alexander?
I would to God that it was Christ in a blood red robe,
parting the sky, cleaving the mount
in my mind He looks as a Bloch painting does
yet the scriptures tease that we would not know him
Is this the God who will still my quavering soul?
The one who would calm the tremors, still the shrillness?
May it be!
Man carries on into darkness, clouded
hopes pinned on a revolution, a socialization;
bleak despair and dark hopelessness are opposing millstones
and grind without measure~
my only hope vouched in a faith unscientific--
that paper and ink carry the weight of God!
Perhaps Freud would say it's merely projection;
that I, and others, have repressed desires
but I'd rather my implications than the war to the teeth.
I'd rather my delusions than the darkness.
these days of despair
when quailing, my heart ventures out
half expecting a tragedy
a flower springs up beside these broken swords.


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