Why would the painter stay his hand

When he’d illumined the easel

With brush strokes broad of piquant light

And dark colors filled the canvass,

Leave his figures’ faces bereft

As ancient, mummified Pharaohs.


Reminders of ingratitude

Are bitter holes in my life’s hour,

For them I scan in mother’s tongue

The Creator’s pen provided.

So soft and tender tell the lines

Of greater gifts that bind my book.


Mother’s, father’s patient love gives,

And friendship’s virtues not in vain

Did my blessèd Father bestow

On this little life unworthy.

My easy brow, my hands unbled,

Are His great love’s last testament.


But one stanza he feeds with stones

That in two seeks to be one flesh:

Without this psalm or glory’s gloss

Leave’s me unknowning and unknown,

Like a pock-marked, mysterious

Mesopotamian tablet.


Haven of hopes, destroyer of dreams,

All these barren spaces in between

The ghostly marks of Holy Writ

That brand our souls; but not our strength

Can salve our woe—we crushed must wait

Till God himself shall fill them up.

~ by Alypius on July 9, 2016.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: