Heart of Pain

Armenia,
comfort and cradle
of the wounded,
you know what it is
to be esteemed as dirt:  
to be mocked, starved,
and tortured,
ground underfoot into blood
and dust. 
Yet, still you rise,
face to the sun;
your bloodied soil, healing salve,
gift of martyrs and weeping Rachels. 
What wound, then,
would the unction
of your monstrous suffering
not be able to heal?

P.S.  On behalf of the Armenian priest, Father Michael Kayal, kidnapped in Syria on February 9, 2013:
Father Michael Kayal

Aloft

The atmosphere said,
"Let me give you a lift!" 
It bore me aloft,
and I coasted a bit,
feeling the breeze
gently pat my soul,
movement and freedom
eclipsing control . . . 
Freedom to what, and to where,
and why? 
I don't have the answers,
but I'll look toward the sky.

Finest Linen

Sky,
fragrant with rain
unspoken,
exhales peace,
linen whiteness enveloping all,
as though unfolding
into the gentlest of hands
a treasure of trust.

Light Remembers

Dazzling rays,
you remembered --
as the violins swelled,
bypassing my heart,
speaking only to my soul. 
You remembered,
as the earth lit up through the trees,
lake bathed in misty light;
and I felt the old sweetness
enter, not with a voice
no longer here,
but through my eyes,
through light familiar;
youth bursting through
the death that has been
mine,
new path strewn with rays
glistening;
finest straws of blown glass
mingling
with sound sublime.

Grieg - Holberg Suite, Op. 40 - Part 2/5
Grieg - Holberg Suite, Op. 40 - Part 3/5 
Grieg - Holberg Suite, Op. 40 - Part 4/5