Three Love Songs:
Starling, Spirit, Sincerity

Song of the Starling

 

There is a starling I hold close to my heart
   Winged darling of curious eye
Surprised in the brush, it doth depart
   I know I shall not see it again;
It was my friend.

Tender feathered starling, large as light
   Dainty and comely in the sky bright blue
And in the night it sings its song
   Upon the slender bows of the quince bush;
Then darts like arrow into downy throng.

O, voice so sweet, like lilting hymn
   Sings Christian tales of lovers’ consummation
I wish to hold its fragile limb—
   Inspect those eyes of delicate sharpness,
      And reveal scene of woed lovers’ separation.

There is a starling I hold close to my heart
   Winged darling of curious eye
Surprised in the brush, it doth depart
   I know I shall not see it again;
It was my friend.

 

 

Song of the Spirit

 

Beauty: pure be thy name,
     Distilled elegance.
Litanic lamentations of refined essence,
   Intoxicating,
To misplace a psalm into palms unworthy.

Foolish: Then,
     Alchemical rites of dusky biology,
Alembic apparatus to temper daemon’s sharp spirit-tooth,
   Archaic methods to soothe out romantic merit’s sooth.

Hands of prayer conjoined and closely tented;
     No phrases coined or lent to describe puerile tint and blush,
But those of reams of script enwrote in history’s brush.

The saint and soul exist entwined as contradicting tenants;
     They share the world, and see God’s lot of actions crying penance:

When for all we yearn is to spend our hours enriched by her subtle presence.

 

 

Song of Sincerity

 

A smile’s a gift of perfect ease with she,
An exchange of hands ’neath trees, ’neath rain;
I wince rue passions as she shifts her knee,
Project where her elfin form has lain.
The instances that comprise woodland tryst
Speak to golden wisps of hair from fey nymph,
The instances of seelie words I list
Flow o’er me as pure unyielding lymph.
My arthritic hand lends a laurel crown—
Such alms I wrought in care to thank her so
For what I wear atop sewn sylvan gown.
I steel the fears of romance, I forego:
      All other love that makes good sense to chase;
      Commit to one struck with tender fay’s grace.

 

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