Poetic Hours Online Autumn 2008 |
Jason Ford |
A Moment's Notice Come to me with your flaming sword, Let me walk a path not ridden. As I stare upon the raging horde, May I enter a land forbidden. There is no turning one's face away From the dangers which rise to surface As young warriors move without delay To reach their lives' new purpose. From the depth of the soil below, Voices rise up to roars that tremble Anything which descends to mellow The smooth breeze which I resemble. A Glimpse that Troubled Me That split second in which I saw A hand firmly holding what it tore Inside a bag filled with several leaks. The way that hand swiftly separated Itself from virtues only now abated, Gave it the strength of one who speaks. Whenever things look to be vague or dull, The hand reaches out to begin its cull Of fauna who appear not able to adapt. When that time comes with malcontent, The hand is encompassing in full extent Over those eyes it desires to be wrapped. Expectation Every time I am reminded of his presence, Expectations of him arise from a distance, A longing for high angels' pure essence when children are awakened out of trance. He moves from one principality to another without any sleepy eyes becoming aware that his coming brings much more than a brother, whose reflection of man is a gleaming glare. When he appears at the edge of the shore his outer shell emits a swirling gleam, a royal display in full galore a banner flowing face into a stream. |
