The Confessions of a Christian. Book 4.
Saint Nick is friend of mariner,
The Santa’s friend of little children,
Saint Nickolas is ever present
In life of ours.
Everywhere he’s our patron in disguise
Of many names, of many notions.
He loves us, and he blesses us.
And many happy brides can intimate
Their sudden fortune.
#2 To Baby Mary.
Saint Mary came to you from Heav’n
When you were left by ruthless parents
At mercy of the fatum blind.
And She- Most Saint- invited you
To kingdom of forgotten orphans
And you consented to Her words,
And you found crown of your new glory
To help me and the other guys.
Saint George was famous in his age –
Young warrior of highest rank.
He was martyred by Emperor
Who wanted him just to observe the cult
Of the servility and punished
All free and bold. Recriminations
Were so severe that Heaven cried
With rain and thunder of Begotten.
Mainstream of literature of now
Is fall in awkward miscreation
That marshals thoughts of fallen nation
And to impress the hand and brow.
The time is coming. Antichrist
Is to appear on stage in power
To shed the blood in awful shower
To rule in open and disguised.
My solitude is shared by God,
I’m hermit in big city His.
I watch from window what’s beneath
And from heart what’s above. And what
I can to spot in jiffy my.
Life is to scud as feeble cloud
From East to West in pace unloud
In run I cannot to deny.
I love my fate for simple disregard
Of any superficial emotion.
The life is way of soul’s devotion
That’s ever long, and ever hard,
Even if you lived one moment in
The vanity of world of this-
We all have many things to miss
In birth and death and in between.
Lock reason in you bosom clean
Of any vice of wishful thinking.
When mind’s aghast and is a-blinking
At any happenstance it’s seen.
I wish I think of pure conduct
Without reproach from The God.
It’s wishful thinking of some sort
But that that never to destruct.
The Russian Emperor is dead
And he’s alive in better world.
He knew his way to go to God
And was not weakling or just mad.
He came to rule the shaky crowd
Of people willing to destroy
His old Empire that was a toy
To passions shameless, vain and loud.
I’m wise by wisdom of my father,
There is a father in the Heav’n.
And sin’s forgotten and frogiv’n
When silent tear broke out rather.
It happens. Time to come and go.
I’m loony loner, goner, wreckage.
And life and death proceed in package
Of silent thought on friend and foe.
I like my verse. It’s stupid, boring
And worth for only the deploring.
It has to be its own breed
Of only fruit with only seed
To plant in heart of human race
For sake of Christ and of His grace
Which to pronounce the sentence on
The everyone to come and gone.
My scruples are suspicious being
Not for the hearing, not for seeing,
Not for the power of the mind,
Not for the heart, the one unkind.
They’re for the dodging, pleading, crying
For outliving not denying
The life as is or as it was
When all was worth of better worth.
My silly mind is overtaxed
By wish alone to get relaxed.
It fights for peace of its stronghold
Which is a being manifold.
It likes the wine, tobacco, girl –
It wants a pose and on the whole
When I will die I rather see
All that I was and had to be.
I’m worn to blink, it’s strange to see
The man of thirty something be
So destitute of healthy sense –
My thoughts again are filthy dance
That to pollute my life and name –
It’s not reality to tame.
It’s so absurd, so funny, so
Pretentious in the full of go.
I’m rattled to the core. Existence
Is to dash off. I fly, I fly, I fly
To better worth of solitude in crowd
Of better notion than of mine
To live and just to die in time
Of fame and glory and promotions
To better status of relax
Of soul that is possessing wisdom.
My God is only being that’s above
Creation, life and law. And death
Has nothing in His way to go
Or in His way to come and stay.
I’m just to say again that and again
That God is pure existence of devotion
Of any name that’s blessed or damned
Or put to store for future ages.
I’m gone, I’m gone and to return
With glory, wine and flowers wild.
For that I’ll die, for that was borne.
For that I cried when I was child.
My fate is usual on the Earth –
First I have prayed, then have received
What I have wanted and believed
In early tears, in lately chores.
I have my song to sing again
Without try of vocal strain.
The silent music of the reading
Has her imaginative pleading.
It pleads the peace on every war.
It pleads the light of nightly star
To dash from skies to bed of mine
To share my dream, to bless my wine.
My mind is freaky store of toys.
There are the dolls, their clothes, dishes.
And I have no exquisite wishes
For taste and harmony and choice.
When I was young I was encouraged
By friends and times to open store.
But still what for, I say, what for?
To get and blamed and then disparaged.
I have no melody in heart.
There are the wicked old illusions
That wait their day of prosecution
And only then they can to start
Be sweetest dreams of melancholy,
Be my distinguished pure delight
In day as well as in the night
And bright, and powerful and holy.
I’m tried to edge to find solution
How to prevail o’er revolution
Of sense as good one as a bad –
The situation is too sad.
I’m grieving over stale condition
Of world that’s wading to perdition
Of the worst sort when to obtain
The new-borne changes in the chain.
I look on life as formal way
Of go and go and go and stay.
We go when babies, go when young,
We go when mature to the rank
Of doing something and we stay
When life is off and we’re but clay.
When death is coming to besiege
We’re to give up without a hitch.
My way is but too long to sing
The every day from wink to wink,
Or every night from dusk to dawn,
Or battles lost, or battles won.
I disagree that all my worth
Is song that drawn from mouth of horse –
It’s bad the wording but it can
To ban the grief, the tear to ban.
I love my lovely destination
That was created with Creation.
It’s final grace, it’s final peace,
It’s final Godly legalese
Of absolution from my Lord
Till now unknown and unheard.
The devil pleads to grant me hell
But in The Heaven I to dwell.
With Heav’nly Father I’m to speak
When peace of mind I am to seek.
His icons old, His icons new
Bring grace on me, would be on you
When we’re in grief, when we’re in tears
We smile with Him, and soul then hears
The voice that’s coming from above.
It’s voice of wisdom and of love.
I cry at night when I’m alone.
The voice is hushed and undertone.
I look above and see you, Mary.
You’re kind to me, and kind too very.
I look below and see the hell,
There’s anguish I can never tell
About in word, it’s so unwordly.
And Lord is blessing all it lordly.
I heard the words- I’m stupid but I get
The gist of Reasoning of Heaven.
And then enough on world was said
When world itself is but forgiven.
I know that when I die I go
To better world where's all in Glory.
And there’s no reason to but worry –
So pure it is, and blessed it’s so.
I have no wisdom of the Heaven,
I have no guts to say It All.
I blast away to get in stall
When want the mind be bright and give in.
I got no sense of here and there,
I got no wish to come and stare
At sense of humor of proceedings
That here and there to spread their pleadings.
I know that when I’ll come to Judge
I’ll have a mercy all-forgiving.
That’ll spare my life, that’ll spare my living
Without the damn, without the grudge.
I have it all in purest dreams.
It’s solace just to know reaction
That dreams of my will take the action
Against my madness as it seems.
My love to fill my solitude
As cup that filled with goodish wine.
I left my home to have to pine
On fate and merciful and rude.
What I will see again away
From native stead, from golden days?
It’s hard to say in many ways
But simple in its own way.
My heart is broken, mind is broken.
And all my life to go unwoken
With Royal Chalice to fulfill
The will unbent with fierce zeal
Accomplishing the simplest knowledge
That can’t be learnt in any college –
That life is paradise to dwell
If not the curse, if not the hell.
My lyre is rarest gift of God –
It’s simple as a simple thought
On mores, life and death and Lord.
It comes to grant the peace, no tort.
It heals the weakness of all kind
And absentness of ailing mind
In instant to grip blatant truth
Without of which I have no use.
So what again to find away
From walls of Moscow. Ancient city
Is scarcely functional but witty
All year around, and night and day.
I loved to travel to far side
Where strangers do their due to notion
That love is mystery of caution
Of easy way, of gracious might.
I’m to produce another verse
Of kind so lovable and terse
That fruity thought be decorated
With quality not overstated,
Not understated, but enough
Achieving in the ways of love.
I hope to see it happy after
In life and death, in cry and laughter.
Then Caesar built his Rome,
Then Peter built his Petersburg,
And I to build my book
With poems short, and sweet, and honest.
And future generations there to read
About their heart and soul and mind,
And present ones to find there omens
Of times of danger.
Misguided chief of wanton discontent
I glided through the years and as I went
I’ve seen creations of distorted mind
Viz. poetry of mine. And of what kind
I can prescribe the remedy to them –
To all my verses – from the stern to stem
There is a scorn of disposition to
True word poetic, and are so untrue.
Imbibing early morning dew
In silent plains a-far
I’m memorizing evening star
Of marvelous hue.
No way to say I’m ready to
Meet in my path astray
The miracle of no decay –
The eyes so tinted, too.
My walk is lone through city old,
Cars move along no bother why.
And Heaven is about to cry
In windy August cold.
I met the daughter of my friend
With baby in her hands.
The situation recommends
The age to understand.
Love is an art to be devote,
To be in hands of fate.
And happiness is never late
Like blessing of good thought.
I brood on customs of my times –
They are so bestial quite
And rush our fellow to benight
In curse of prose and rhymes.
Intruder of my dreams is silent ghost.
No words, no quips, and what is worst –
He silents me in most obtrusive way.
He wants with soul of mine to play
The silent game of utter the despair
But here to him I must be fair –
He shrinks from prayer, shrinks from quote
From Biblical and healthy thought.
My benevolent angel guards me strong.
And if I’m wrong, he’s never wrong.
He tells me truth of days to come
To give me courage, though the some.
I love his voice, I trust his speech.
He’s to impede when I beseech
The death to come. He guards my life
And sword and torch him help to strife.
My eyes are weary with the night
That falls on me. I have to fight
Against her cruelty and so
I hope for morning on the go.
In wreckages of darkness now
I pore be brave-heart as allow
Me inconveniences of night
That fell on me. I have to fight.
The swallow and the swan are birds of sky.
Both live at lake and feed on it.
Both beautiful on earth and when they fly.
Both have in nature own the royal seat.
The swan is slow, the swallow’s rather quick.
Both sing their song when time has come to pair.
Both gracious in the features with own chic.
Both solace are in hour of despair.
The passions are to torment dear old heart
In whirls and tribulations that in turns
To bother it – one waits when peace returns
With pure embrace and graceful chart
Of Heav’nly sentence to live on
Through waves and billows storming near
To cast on soul their mortal fear –
The one I would have overdone.
My temple fallen is and void,
The altar covered with the ash
And boarded with the minute trash
Which my devotion to avoid.
The fire is now extinguished where
It used to burn the sacrifice.
My heart is silent and it cries
On fate unfair, on fate unfair.
With all commodities of crime
I hurry up to build new rhyme
That to unveil in season due
Its sweetness openly to you.
My reader, do forgive me. I
Was ever in the ties of try
To write my poem in respect
Of things you are not to neglect.
The loud feelings do me worst
‘Tis presence of the peace too lost
Just to be won again when time
Will come to me in toll and chime.
I like my being true poetic,
And poetry when rules prophetic
To sway the world in the denial
Of revenge at the final trial.
The poetry is to live on
Through stratagems and tribulations.
It comes as blessing to the nations
That nothing other could have won.
I’m goner for I’ve gone to loose
On worldly norm of pose and standing,
But I’ve with reader understanding
The Heavens choose, The Heavens choose.
My zeal is lax, I’m not to hone
My rhyme that’s shabby all and borrowed.
But breast of mine is truly sorrowed
With sorrows I’m not to postpone.
But why again to cry and smile?
But why again to pray, be fasting
In Lent of sorrow ever-lasting,
The sorrow no one to beguile.
All that I ever would have felt
Was to be poured in prayer when I knelt.
All that would e’er my breast have filled
Was to be poured in prayer when I kneeled.
I love to pray though rarely with a book
Of saintly prayers. But, my reader, look
In heart of mine, ‘tis prayer all in flames
Of love and grace – ‘tis serious and no games.
I have no notion, have no notion
Of line poetic of proportion
Divine and wholly on the side
That easy not to blame, to chide
Of scrutiny in way misguided
That’s to be blamed, that’s to be chided.
I never knew my verse by soul –
It’s mystery of poets all.
Chill of my heart’s chimera of
My everlasting Godly love
To poetry that’s strong and hot
And it is not what it is not.
It’s not the chilblain of my soul,
It’s stove for children in the mall
To sell the cake of Heav’nly sweet
And it is it what it is it.
I love my presence of the mind
When fate is cruel and unkind.
I love my presence of the heart
When love proclaims on me its chart.
I love my presence of the soul
When death at me designs its scowl.
I love my presence of the prayer
When hardships on in thick the layer.
My like is similar to song
That’s ever right and never wrong.
My like is similar to ode
That knows what singing and what not.
My like is similar to hymn
That cause Divine is e’er to deem
In every line I’m to propose
To worshipers of Christ on Cross.
The defamation oft to bless
Those are in need, those are in mess.
It’s crime to think way infidel
That sin in every soul to dwell.
In stone of heart we often see
The mercy of the Godly be.
It’s crime to think way infidel
That sin in every soul to dwell.
Sword has its way,
Prayer has its use,
Rule has its sway,
God has His Truth.
I have my poetry in hope
That it will never have to stop.
I hail my gale – it’s danger, danger, danger.
I have no hatred to it being no revenger.
I put no curse on storm. It had to come
With dash and tribulation. But I’ve some
Kind word on it – it’s not precisely blessing
But not curse either, if confessing
In proper way my inner tune
I welcome rule of wicked goon.
What’s poverty? It’s blessing or it’s not?
Is it the line of life or line of thought?
Is it the imitation of the Christ
Or night of sense – the awkward night
Where are no stars, no moon, no clouds,
No song and all is wrong and out
Is only starving child of no regrets
And of pure eyes. It bets! It bets
With all the wealth of British Commonwealth –
It speaks untidy but it tells
The story of my run among the fields
Of Russian country. Monasteries, mills –
There are these all. I just have mentioned some
I have by blessing that is never gone.
It’s island with a wooden wharf.
It’s island little like a dwarf.
It’s island far, it’s island old.
It’s Solovky where’s always cold.
It’s North of Russian Northern Sea.
It’s land monastic, land of free.
It’s land of slaves of Stalin’s rule.
It’s land of tales so beautiful.
I have no reason to avoid my dream
That’s in the dark of soul the firing beam
That’s pointing out the path I am to proceed
In soft of mood, in blessing of the creed.
That day to come when I’m to meet my love
To ever after happy be. What’s of
My heart that lives in purest pleasure
Without the death, without the measure.
Luck is rare, love is rare –
But the fate of mine is fair.
In the danger of the plight
I have always Heav’nly light
That’s to give me patience my
For I never had to cry
When I meet a cruel thing -
Happiness is aye on wing.
When soul is tormented and cries
Do know that near is paradise.
We need no worry to appeal
To One on High to have the feel
Of grace of love, of blessing new
To come and to fulfill its due.
When soul is tormented and cries
Do know that near is paradise.
Love is forever on the Earth –
In regular and peaceful dose
It to disperse eternal light
To save the hearts from dark of night.
Love is forever on the High –
We’re not to die, we’re not to cry
In paradise of ever-bliss
Where everyone is hatredless.
I’m lone among my friends. And so
I walk through life in slowly go
To watch the times, to hear the news,
To spread the love, to face abuse.
My heart is wreckage of the way
I’ve gone so far. But still I say
I like my fellow even if
He’s e’er to get and ne’er to give.
Love is no toy for cruel heart.
And till the end and from the start
It’s blessing pure of life to give
On altar Godly to achieve
The peace of mind, the peace of heart;
And till the end and from the start
It’s sacrifice of dear old soul
To whole the world, to world the whole.
Apostle John was good and great –
Precise he did not name the date
Of Second Coming of The Christ
And rule created of the fight:
“Watch out, be vigilant, be kind,
And save your soul, and save your mind!
Enough were prophets on the Earth!
And prophecy’s no labor lost!”
I love my mind, it’s dear and pure
When I’m temptation to endure.
It’s wicked when I’m to give up,
But it is mind whiche’er we dub
Its way or manner, or its likes.
In darkness of the thought it hikes
Through years come, through years gone –
It’s all the same the mind alone.
For what America is voting?
For that she likes? For that she’s doting?
I think it not – the common use
Of common voting is abuse
Of rights of common sense by way
The television us to say.
To have you right don’t vote but pray
And you will see the happy day.
What’s pouring rain and thunderstorm?
What windy days of late the summer?
When drizzling drops to sing or stammer
Behind the window of my home.
My city is so passionate
For riches, cruelty and lust,
But all of these are but a crust
But when we know that it’s too late.
Night, night – you comes to me with gift
Of sleepy hours when my mind adrift
Is to the happiness or morbid fetters
Of wicked images. In letters
It’s hard to recreate my way
I passed in nightly hours for day –
Day of the sun and cloud and rain,
Of every joy and every pain.
What’s inspiration for the odes?
New order of the known words?
Or inexplicable delight
Beyond the thought, beyond insight?
Or fight with sin of mortal soul
That’s summoned by the Heav’nly call?
Or voice of God of love and grace
We never know and are to face.
This world is stumbled on the Cupid
Which was inaccurate and stupid.
It’s fall from grace of Love Divine
By wicked devilish design.
And now we’re passionate for curse
Of lust. And life is in misuse.
But we are borne for kingdom come
If not the all but surely some.
Last trace of summer to be gone
At gates of autumn. When it’s done
We can proceed to year new
Through winter cold. But would be you
Have some to leave in now that be
Soon past forgotten. But would be
You have to take to future joy
The Now as pleasurable toy
Of mind so tired that not to
Excuse it will be so untrue
To rules of life as common as
Our every sin we’re to confess.
It is no pleasure to be so acute
To know the every name of every mood.
It’s pain to pierce in every feeling
With knowing eye of mind not leaving
The place to the unknown and unobserved
That is an inappropriate to hurt
With words and understanding every rank
Of every movement of the soul in joy or pang.
To prophesy a future love –
It needs the blessing from above.
In loveless being it is cure
For heart in pain, for soul obscure.
It’s injudicious to deny
That prophecy is often lie
When not inspired by God of love
In gracious blessing from above.
The comedy of hatred is in pain.
The tragedy of love is in no gain
In world so weak and certainly so dark
That cruel hatred rules it stark.
Ignorance of the ways of love misleads
Us to servility to earthly needs
To blame each other on that base
That fellow being is not made for faith.
What’s magic but the curse?
What’s miracle but blessing?
And what is most impressing
That God behaves as nurse
In obvious miracle Divine
That comes to us in way pristine
To heal the soul and body both.
Such an occurrence devils loathe,
They ever try to cast the spell
To spread the power of hell.
Getting rid of strong emotions
Is disastrous and obnoxious.
I avoid to make the fun
Of the life. Like saintly nun
Told me once I clear the mind
Of the everything unkind.
Love to rule and not amok –
So I learnt to think and talk.
Poet’s being is so ample
As at home as in the temple
Where he’s kneeling just to pray –
For the inspiration’s way
Leads him onward through the rhymes
When he hikes and jumps and climbs
For new gift of composition.
He is always in transition
From the strength to strength and on
To go where no one had gone.
I have no wish oblige my reader
To hold me like the rhyming feeder
Of discontent on every grief
To poignant letter to receive
By morning mail or evening mail.
I have no wish to weep and wail
On other’s morals, other’s sins –
And here my inspiration wins
The cup of merry-making rhymes
By which my soul with triumph dines.
In my obituary writer
Will say that I was stupid blighter
In fetters of faith obsolete
And rhyming constantly to it.
So why I write? Why put the plume
On paper in the such a doom?
My answer is a simple quite –
To glorify My God, His Might,
His Saints, His ways, His words, His Truth.
And there is all my earthly use.
The dream is blackest of backwaters
That splash at shore of real life.
It cuts our strength as sharpest knife
To bridle minds, exile the mottos
Of freedom of unreal, unkind,
Unwise, ungood, unblessed, unhealthy.
Dreams greedy are and not as wealthy
As what in real we’re to find.
Let it go and let it come
As a wisdom of the sum
Of the wits my years did bring.
Inspiration’s on the wing
To declare the freedom of
Love that’s free as Heav’nly dove.
Luck is company to keep
Through the life just not to weep.
My lore is of the ancient folks
That loved and hated, fought and built.
They were sagacious and good-willed
But rarely mentioned now in talks.
We talk of money in the credit
From those who lent them all for greed,
We talk of fame we cannot beat,
And of the menaces we wedded.
The ship is going through the sea
And held by winds, and waves on way
To far away a shore. And may
Her forward go is harmless be.
For not a storm to wreck the sail,
For not a pirate storm the deck,
For not a mariner break neck,
For not an hour there start to gale.
Distorted face of dreams I’ve seen
When I was ill and wished to die.
To go for good was nightly cry.
But life did win.
And all tears shed I soon forgot.
And life had come and bright and new.
And happiness to bring a lot
To me and you.
My duty is to sing my God.
Not pretty girl, not precious wines.
This gift was never priced or bought
By me myself, it lives in lines.
Forever not alone I am –
My loneliness forever shared.
And just to sing and pray I can
And that is all I ever dared.
To be the Christian is a toil
To pray and to avoid the spoil
Of shaky shadows of the mind
That leave no trace but sin behind.
I hope one day I’m to be saved
From tortures of eternal hell.
And it is all I ever braved
To have achieved and to foretell.
My poetry to live for aye
In every clime, in every part
Because I ever dared to say
The truth from bottom of my heart.
And when you’ll see my modest tomb
Don’t say ‘He’s great!’ or ‘He was brave.’
I had and will have no aplomb
Ev’n in the grave.
In God alone we can to heal
The every illness of our soul.
And when is weak our precious will
We can to hear the Godly call.
It’s simple “Love your fellow man!
Love your Divinity and know
That even then, that even then
You’ll have the hardest way to go.”
Twilight of evening is to tell
That night is coming and to cast
The darkness for the shortest spell
And not forever it’s to last.
I have no vision of the times,
Of mutinies, of Acts of God,
Of changings in the earthly climes,
Of fashions in the modern thought.
And all I have the evening star
That came to stay for shortest spell
To shine on me and from the far
Her tale to tell.
I’m borne to be the poet of
The song I’m having from above.
It’s hard to sing the earthly tune
To which my heart is so immune.
I sing of Saints, and heroes gone,
Of wonders made. And under sun
I’m singer happiest of all
Because I sing about the soul.
The world contends about the place
Of earthly glory, might and grace.
I think it’s weak because we have
Eternal Heaven. What was left
Of our mankind and womankind
That they contend this earth unkind?
So I’m preferring not to think
About this world. I’ve Heav’n to sing.
We’re borne to die – no earthly price
Can bring us peace as fine as nice
As peace of Godly paradise –
Though often fellow-being lies
That there’s no God, that there’s no faith,
And no Saint Mary. Why he says
That he has nothing of belief –
It’s grief, it’s grief, it’s grief, it’s grief.
The Christ is only legal child in world
Who proved by acts of law that He is Law.
So what is law of childhood?
Is it the loyalty to parents?
Or loyalty to love of God?
Or some more strange to people
That cures the souls for good
From any trepidation of the death?
My worth is ode.
So why be discontented
With lines to come and then to go?
Why to oblige the reader by the rule
So ruthless of the rhymes so old?
Why? Why? And why? I never knew
That poetry can be as coward
As verse of mine that’s to pronounce
No sacred name without the fear of God.
So why the homily to preach
Forgotten words for every witch,
Or senator, or businessperson –
As one obliterated parson
Of world that is and soon to go
When no one waits, and not to know
Though all’s predicted in due times
By prophets of the prose and rhymes.
My prayer old is e’er with me
To make my being happy be,
To reason out me of the deeds
I’ve started and which sin completes.
I hope I knew why all these words
Of prayer old that came from North
So healing to my wicked soul –
And if I knew – I knew the all.
I’m not much versed in belle versification.
My verse is ever in prevarication
From every effort of poetic act.
It has no wisdom and no tact.
It’s so obscure, so rush, unpolished so
That every reader in his leisure go
Through pages mine to point me soon
That verse was borne with none of silver spoon
In mouth and it is not prepared
For path most pleasant of the ever fared.
Love, love – what’s it in life and death?
The rare gift – the one prideless?
Or pride for children and for wife?
Love, love – what’s it in death and life?
I heard the song that angel sang
About the love – I had to thank
Him for the words that good for me –
These words ‘Love be! Love be! Love be!’
My critic, don’t blame inspiration.
I have it all – poetic nation
To live by inspiration only,
And we are not indeed so lonely
Who’s living so – the man or boy,
Or girl, or woman are no toy
For earthly passions and instead
They have from Heaven what be said.
What is democracy but fake
That has to rule at any stake.
And only monarchy to rule
With Grace Divine and kind and full.
Lord Jesus Christ is King of kings,
And heart of Christian ever sings
His supreme power every day.
And being poet I’m to say
That only God can grant donation
Of purest bliss of inspiration.
When lions fight then ravens dine –
Whole world is going by this line.
And only God, and only Saints
Of other kind. And when God deigns
The hearts of people are not evil –
The human kindness not in peril
When Love Divine’s in power full
By which the hell will have to cool.
My love is due, my hatred’s not.
It’s rule of life to carry on.
I hated much, I loved a lot –
But what I won? But what I won?
My day is close, my fame is near.
I’m one of many, one of those
Who wanted only Heaven hear
Been steeped in sin and virtue both.
Love is trick of discontent
Of any possible approval
Of her. She wish not understand
The worldly move of hatred of all.
I’m just to love. It’s old the trick
To meet the heart in earthly way
That is a kind and good and meek,
That I with love am to repay.
What’s love? The Holy cause Divine!
The cause of grace, the cause of mercy.
And verse of mine to be much tersy
And sin poetic to deny.
I have not much of words of love.
My verse is frightful repetitive.
And only heart is competitive
With heart of dove.
I never cried for glory- no!
I cried for love, and not for gold.
And God by me was never told
To punish foe.
That’s so. I wish be saved to all.
And enemy has right for grace.
I know that his immortal soul
I’ll have to face.
What’s purpose of poetic being?
Not glory- no! Then what?
I have to say - it’s happiness
Of being short of evil.
And if so – why I’m sinful.
And leads not to the Kingdom
Of The Christ.
My hope is vain when I’m obscure
And dreaming earthly dream
My hope comes true when I am clear
And dreaming dream of Heaven.
I’m so wicked dreamer
And never know
What to dream about.
Seduction is a burden hard
That harms the soul, that hurts the heart.
It kills the life of human race.
It’s wine of wrath with dash of lace
Of human errancy and love
To earthly being. From above
It’s clearly pitied, clearly seen –
Seduction is an utmost sin.
My love is tiresome for female –
It’s always so, it’s old the tale.
I never learnt to love a woman
Thought it necessary is for man.
I’m not a virgin soul at all,
But I am wholly Christian soul.
And when I love I have to pray
The Heaven to be there one day.
The solemn thought of discontent
With earthly all is to pretend
To be unearthly. But it’s not
For me – I’m of another thought.
I think on earth and Heav’n as one
With stars and flowers, sea and sun.
And if with earth I’m discontented
Then something false I have pretended.
I hope to get along through life
Not having tongue like deadly knife.
That can cut short of love and grace
To disappear without the trace
To place of new to cut again
With deadly word of deadly pain.
I hope to get along through life
Not having tongue like deadly knife.
#113 To My Daughter.
My daughter name is Mary – so
She baptized was a lot ago.
Saint Mary blessed her by Her Name
To tame her soul, her heart to tame.
My daughter’s twelve and to live on
When I’ll be old, when I’ll be gone.
And Mary Saint at Final Feast
Will meet us both – the girl and beast.
Sometimes I cry, sometimes I laugh.
But one a day I’ll have enough
Of earthly days of laugh and cry –
That day – I know – I’ll have to die.
But till it comes I’m to proceed
With laugh and cry from greed to creed
To have enough of laugh and cry –
One day – I know – I’ll have to die.
#115 Ode written in day of death of my mother.
Life is for ever –
Not to die
The man, or woman or the child.
Of all eternity of Love.
#116 On Death of My Mother.
There’s none of you
But still there you are all
In full of life
And death is nothing more
Than separation for the time –
The time to pray,
To wait the meeting.
#117 To Holy Memory of Nun Caroline Glyn.
Nun, Artist, Poetess,
And Holy Soul
That knew no evil –
God of goodness
Had granted her
With freedom from the sin –
And now she walks on Heav’n
And pray of me and you.