The Garden Temple Of Paradise
Everything is beautiful at this time of day,
Following a quickening morning shower.
And the huge orange pearl that is the sun
Is just beginning to shepherd its endless power.
The spirit of divine blessings carries me,
In a vision, to the center of this sacred lush glade.
There lays a stone walkway crossing a footbridge
In a course toward stairs of rock on a rising grade.
Then immediately before me, a shrine-like temple,
With finely carved work exhibited on every side,
It appears to be the craft of the Eternal Builder himself,
To whom the fairest beauties of nature have replied.
It bestows its stately head of glittering spires to the sky,
Resting upon its noble structure of stone buttress and turrets.
The remaining stairs, I bound, and through the gilded doors,
Into the cedar and marble interior, a work of matchless merits.
The artifacts are carved to satisfy the eyes of God,
And, for amenity, a cruciform lamp high in the ceiling of the shrine.
Comprising the interior are two large and lavish units,
The nave consecrated to the body and the apse to the mind.
The golden glow of the lamp exalted the light in my eyes,
So I turned toward the door and gingerly stepped down the aisle.
With head bowed, I walked through the gilded doors,
Feeling the tender glow of the light on my back all the while.
poem by Albert Price
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An Experience
I entered through an arched doorway,
and walked slowly down the nave,
my footsteps sounding hollow
on the worn stone floor.
With a feeling of awe, I looked upwards,
and beheld such wonders.
Multiple creations of architectural beauty,
in the meticulously carved vaulted ceiling,
built centuries ago,
with such exquisite care.
It took my breath away.
The dominance of the high altar,
resplendent in its ornamentation
and delicate tapestries.
Effigies of past Saints and knights,
ranged along the side aisles,
sculptured in stone,
standing or reclining on plinths,
regal and silent.
Frozen in time.
I felt alone in this vast structure,
even though people were drifting quietly past me.
Locating a chair I sat down,
breathing in the atmosphere,
and finding that I was held in a vacuum of power,
piety and purity,
which gave me the notion that this place,
was strangely mesmeric.
The vision of the Architect, the skills of the builders,
the dedication of the ecclesiastics,
all showing man's ability to achieve.
His Cathedral,
a towering commemoration to God,
and an amazing place to leave one's spiritual thoughts.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Returning To Brussels
Upon a Flemish road, when noon was deep,
I passed a little consecrated shrine,
Where, among simple pictures ranged in line,
The blessed Mary holds her child asleep.
To kneel here, shepherd-maidens leave their sheep
When they feel grave because of the sunshine,
And again kneel here in the day's decline;
And here, when their life ails them, come to weep.
Night being full, I passed on the same road
By the same shrine; within, a lamp was lit
Which through the silence of clear darkness glowed.
Thus, when life's heat is past and doubts arise
Darkling, the lamp of Faith must strengthen it,
Which sometimes will not light and sometimes dies.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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See You On The Other Side
Voices, a thousand, thousand voices
Whispering, the time has passed for choices
Golden days are passing over, yeah
I cant seem to see you baby
Although my eyes are open wide
But I know Ill see you once more
When I see you, Ill see you on the other side
Yes, Ill see you, Ill see you on the other side
Leaving, I hate to see you cry
Grieving, I hate to say goodbye
Dust and ash forever, yeah
Though I know we mus be parted
As sure as stars are in the sky
Im gonna see when it comes to glory
And Ill see you, Ill see you on the other side
Yes Ill see you, Ill see you on the other side
Never thought Id feel like this
Strange to be alone, yeah
But well be together
Carved in stone, carved in stone, carved in stone
Hold me, hold me thight, Im falling
Far away. distant voices calling
Im so cold. I need you darling, yeah
I was down, but now Im flying
Straight across the great divide
I know youre crying, but Ill stop you crying
When I see you, I see you on the other side
Yes. Ill see you. see you on the othe side
Im gonna see you. see you on the other side
God knows Ill see you, see you on the other side, yeah
Ill see you. see you on the othe side
Im gonna see you. see you on the other side
God knows Ill see you, see you on the other side, yeah
I wanna see you, yeah, yeah, yeah, see you on the other side
God knows Ill see you, see you on the other side, yeah
Im gonna see you. see you on the other side
song performed by by Ozzy Osbourne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dispensation of the Divine
Underneath a gorgeous forenoon sky,
In a lush and cool garden of delight,
The green pheasant lifts his exploring eye,
Calling his all wise sage beyond his sight.
His melodious song praises the divine One,
Whose luminance descends in a beam,
Touching within the shrine bright as the sun,
Turning every thing gold as in a dream.
The Lord rests now upon His noble throne,
Calling all to climb up the stairs of stone.
There my reverie of Jesus commenced-
The glory of His office deified,
His knowledge of man’s history there dispensed,
His science of the present thither described.
Wisdom of the future was His display,
Myself humbled to receive His cachet.
Five years of learning was spent at this shrine-
Proving command of as many disciplines-
Crossing the bridge from human to Divine,
His acute knowledge of miracles begins.
Then writing for His testimonial,
Also history that brightens the wise,
With focus on the rites ceremonial,
And how theocracy does authorize.
Divine authority added to His reign,
With the King’s seal He departs the domain.
poem by Albert Price
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There Is No One There
in trying to forget he escapes from the house of pain
time teaches him about doors that he needs to enter
time leads him to the doors of pleasures and one door
leads to another,
different lights and warmth and glitter
different scents and dance steps of love
lust as he must say
later in his life,
some names and places
soon he is undressed and he sees his body and face in the mirror
his hollow eyes
his thirsting heart
his emaciated soul radiating the inner glow of what is about to be lost
completely
he takes the exit and turns back
to the familiar places of this heart
under the tree the bark where two names are written
a heart carved, an arrow piercing
there is no one there
there is no bird singing anymore
the clouds drift and then go away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Hall
The road led straight to the temple.
Notre Dame, though not Gothic at all.
The huge doors were closed. I chose one on the side,
Not to the main building-to its left wing,
The one in green copper, worn into gaps below.
I pushed. Then it was revealed:
An astonishing large hall, in warm light.
Great statues of sitting women-goddesses,
In draped robes, marked it with a rhythm.
Color embraced me like the interior of a purple-brown flower
Of unheard-of size. I walked, liberated
From worries, pangs of conscience, and fears.
I knew I was there as one day I would be.
I woke up serene, thinking that this dream
Answers my question, often asked:
How is it when one passes the last threshold?
poem by Czeslaw Milosz
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Lava Lamp
In the half light of the evening
I could almost see you glow, I can tell by the way you're moving,
Time may be right to let you know,
you've got a many coloured halo, the body of venus
a babe rainbow and if I come on any closer, I might fall into your silhouette
but the shape of things to come is constantly changing
so let it, so let it, so let it flow
lava lava lava lamp, lava lava lava lamp
indigo, violet and blue, can we meet where the edge is blur cause I am comin' atcha, like a bug eye heading for the burn
the truth is I can't stay away, no I wanna let you light my volcano
and maybe it's just my imagination, but you never know
because the shape of things to come is constantly changing
so let it, so let it, so let it flow
lava lava lava lamp, I'd love to turn you on
lava lava lava lamp, I'd love to turn you on
lava lava lava lamp, I'd love to turn you on
lava lava lava lamp, I'd love to turn you on
so let it, so let it, so let it ...
lava lava lava lamp, I'd love to turn you on
lava lava lava lamp, I'd love to turn you on
lava lava lava lamp, I'd love to turn you on
lava lava lava lamp, I'd love to turn you on
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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St. Ignatius Loyola At The Chapel Of Our Lady Of Montserrat
’Tis midnight, and solemn darkness broods
In a lonely, sacred fane—
The church of Our Lady of Montserrat,
So famous throughout all Spain;
For countless were the pilgrim hosts
Who knelt at that sacred shrine
With aching hearts, that came to seek
Relief and grace divine.
Pure as the light of the evening star
Shines the lamp’s pale, solemn ray,
That burns through midnight’s hush and gloom,
As well as the glare of day,
Like the Christian soul, enwrapped in God,
Resigning each vain delight,
Each earthly lure, to burn and shine
With pure love in His sight.
Softly the gentle radiance falls
On a mail-clad warrior there,
Who humbly bows his stately head
In silent, earnest prayer;
It flashes back from his corslet bright,
From each shining steel clad hand,
And the brow which tells that he was born
To pomp and high command.
Say, who is he, that vigil keeps,
Like the warrior knights of old,
Through the long lone hours of the silent night,
Ere they donned their spurs of gold?
A soldier brave and proud is he,
And bears a noble name,
Since Pampeluna’s glorious day
Won Loyola his fame.
What doth he at this lowly shrine?
What mean those prayers and sighs,
The tearful mist that dims the light
Of his flashing, eagle eyes?
They tell of life’s vain pomps and pride
Esteemed as worthless dross,
For the dauntless soldier has become
The soldier of the Cross.
That sword, that once like lightning swept
Through ranks of foes hard pressed,
Now hangs beside Our Lady’s shrine,
Henceforth in peace to rest,—
And soon the penitent’s rough, dark robe,
His girdle and cowl of gloom,
Will replace the soldier’s armor bright,
And his lofty, waving plume.
Well done, well done, thou warrior brave!
A noble choice is thine!
What are the laurels of earth beside
The joys of bliss divine?
And thou hast won, though seeking not,
The saint’s undying fame—
Christ’s Holy Church will evermore
Revere and bless thy name!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Chamber Of 32 Doors
At the top of the stairs he finds a chamber. it is almost a hemisphere with a great many doors all the way round its circumference. there is a large crowd, huddled in various groups. from the sh
G, rael learns that there are 32 doors, but only one that leads out. their voices get louder and louder until rael screams shut up! there is a momentary silence and then rael finds h
F the focus as they direct their advice and commands to their new found recruit. bred on trash, fed on ash the jigsaw master has got to move faster. rael sees a quiet corner and rushes to it.
At the top of the stairs, theres hundreds of people,
Running around to all the doors.
They try to find, find themselves an audience;
Their deductions need applause.
The rich man stands in front of me,
The poor man behind my back.
They believe they can control the game,
But the juggler holds another pack.
I need someone to believe in, someone to trust.
I need someone to believe in, someone to trust.
Id rather trust a countryman than a townman,
You can judge by his eyes, take a look if you can,
Hell smile through his guard,
Survival trains hard.
Id rather trust a man who works with his hands,
He looks at you once, you know he understands,
Dont need any shield,
When youre out in the field.
But down here,
Im so alone with my fear,
With everything that I hear.
And every single door, that Ive walked through
Brings me back here again,
Ive got to find my own way.
The priest and the magician,
Singing all the chants that they have ever heard;
And theyre all calling out my name,
Even academics, searching printed word.
My father to the left of me,
My mother to the right,
Like everyone else theyre pointing
But nowhere feels quite right.
And I need someone to believe in, someone to trust.
I need someone to believe in, someone to trust.
Id rather trust a man who doesnt shout what hes found,
Theres no need to sell if youre homeward bound.
If I choose a side,
He wont take me for a ride.
Back inside
This chamber of so many doors;
Ive nowhere, nowhere to hide.
Id give you all of my dreams, if youd help me,
Find a door
That doesnt lead me back again
- take me away.
song performed by by Genesis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Storm
God in me is the fury on the bare heath
God in me shakes the interior kingdom of my heaven.
God in me is the fire wherein I burn.
God in me swirling cloud and driving rain
God in me cries a lonely nameless bird
God in me beats my head upon a stone.
God in me the four elements of storm
Raging in the shelterless landscape of the mind
Outside the barred doors of my Goneril heart.
poem by Kathleen Jessie Raine
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Journey 1. To the Hollow Divine
I can not follow
I can not find
Of this hollow
Which is said to be divine
Through the maw of the Dragons Mouth
Past the high risen tress head south
Listen for water
Find the moss
Search for the statue embossed with an Albatross
Continue westward as directed
Find the stone where the sword was embedded
Bring light to this stone
and it will show you to the back bone
To the back bone of stone must go
Because this is where you find the hollow
When you see the door covered with vines
You must ask politely to enter in a rhyme
If done correctly you shall enter the hollow divine
Step carefully though, your life is hanging on twine
Reaching the stone, I say, ‘Stone anyone home’?
‘I have come a long way and without further delay.
would enjoy to go through and venture this hollow’
As the directions did spake, there came an earthquake
And cracked the stone in two
Timidly and cautiously and looking about
I tip toed silently through
A wondrous light and marvelous sight
Was beheld before my very eyes
Nothing was here that I detest or despise
Only the dreams I had the wishes I made
As if crafted by God and was gently laid
They were real, they were living
And in most cases breathing
I ran to them quick
I ran to them with glee
Although I sensed that I must flee
After three steps, my dreams turned on me
They became nightmares, evil ghosts and spirits
I must leave now I have forsaken my visit
I ran to the door
Which did not stretch evermore
Back to the forest through hole I see
I could feel the nightmares breath trailing behind me
With a jump I leapt
Through the whole where dreams are kept
I slid on the ground and quickly turned round
To see the stone with vines wrapped around
I looked to the stone and sank to the ground
Realizing the mistake that was bound to occur
I asked to come in, that was not obscure
But I did not thank the hollow for that I am sure
Thats why my dreams turned on me, with thoughts of murder
This quest is over, the next shall begin
But back to the inn, where tonight I shall din
I don’t know where after I shall go
Though definitely not here, back to the hollow
Written: October 13,2011
by Ryan Collins
poem by Ryan Collins
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Ballad of the Old Cypress
In front of the temple of Chu-ko Liang there is an old cypress. Its branches
are like green bronze; its roots like rocks; around its great girth of forty
spans its rimy bark withstands the washing of the rain. Its jet-colored top
rises two thousand feet to greet the sky. Prince and statesman have long since
paid their debt to time; but the tree continues to be cherished among men. When
the clouds come, continuous vapors link it with the mists of the long Wu
Gorge; and when the moon appears, the cypress tree shares the chill of the
Snowy Mountains' whiteness.
I remember a year or so ago, where the road wound east round my Brocade
River pavilion, the First Ruler and Chu-ko Liang shared the same shrine. There,
too, were towering cypresses, on the ancient plain outside the city. The paint-
work of the temple's dark interior gleamed dully through derelict doors and
windows. But this cypress here, though it holds its ground well, clinging with
wide-encompassing, snake-like hold, yet, because of its lonely height rising
into the gloom of the sky, meets much of the wind's fierce blast. Nothing but
the power of Divine Providence could have kept it standing for so long; its
straightness must be the work of the Creator himself! If a great hall had
collapsed and beams for it were needed, ten thousand oxen might turn their
heads inquiringly to look at such a mountain of a load. But it is already
marvel enough to astonish the world, without any need to undergo a craftsman's
embellishing. It has never refused the axe: there is simply no one who could
carry it away if it were felled. Its bitter heart has not escaped the ants; but
there are always phoenixes roosting in its scented leaves. Men of ambition, and
you who dwell unseen, do not cry out in despair! From of old the really great
has never been found a use for
Marley Medley: Guava Jelly/this Train
(laughter)
Yeah...
Baby I really want to know
I think you should stop your cryin'
Use my 'kerchief to dry your eyes
You know I love you
Ruby, here I am
A rub upon my belly like some Guava Jelly
Damsel, here I am
A rub upon my belly like some Guava Jelly
This Train, is Bound For Glory
This Train
Hear me talkin' about
This Train, is Bound For Glory
This Train
This Train, is Bound For Glory
This Train, will carry no unholy stone
That the builder refused
Shall always be the head cornerstone
Stone that the builder refused
Shall always be the head cornerstone
You're a builder baby
Here I am a stone
Don't mean to confuse it girl
'Cause the things you should use
Are the things we should choose
And you hear me
Hear what I say
This Train, Bound For Glory
This Train
This Train, is Bound For Glory
This Train
This Train, is Bound For Glory
This Train, carry no unholy
'Cause I
I just can't be scared...
song performed by by Sublime
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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She Glided Through The Doors
My young love said to me as she glided through the doors
'My mother would mine and my father showed a lack of care for your kind'
Then she stepped away from me and then she did say
'it will not be long love until the wedding day'
She stepped away from me and she glided through the doors
And finally i watched her with the need to massage away her sores
And she made her way forward and stopped to find her reflection floating on a nearby lake
As time ran away from her mind - i stood in front of the church and wondered was she purposely making me wait
Last night she came to me
She glided through my door
So lightly she came with the moonlit glow in her eyes
Then she laid her hand on me and then she did say
'love, we can't hold off our wedding day'
Still i wait for my swan at the head of the aille
As the silence grew tense i peeled away my smile
Then when it was past four- the rushing wind came speeding in
And finally where my bride stood - she glided towards me
poem by Tamisha Bellamy
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To a Pine Tree
Crowned, lofty scion of the pine
Whence Gothic architect’s design
Derived the grace and power
For churches planned in noblest style,
For Notre Dame’s majestic pile,
Westminster Hall, or Münster’s aisle,
Or Pisa’s leaning tower, -
In this dark valley laid aside,
Thou in thy grief thy crown of pride
Dost in the clouds retire;
And far thy somber glance ahs flown
To spires like pine-trees shaped in stone,
Perceiving, with a wistful groan,
The portrait of thy sire.
The dastard axe awaits thy wood:
Like Hercules in dragon’s blood,
Thou in slow flames must die.
Yet perish proudly, pine, for know
Not all of Europe’s skill can show
How such a pyramid may grow,
So stately and so high.
Lament not thou, for many a heart,
Fit model for the loftiest art,
Unknown in rags has pined;
There, brooding over work denied,
Some hero sits, some Tell Untried;
A Byron, Plato, oft has died
Unnoticed by mankind.
You Tell, for lack of tyrant foe,
Wars on the sparrow and the crow,
And he whose brain could soar
To match the master-minstrel’s lays –
Some trumpeter usurps his bays,
While on his rustic pipe he plays
For alms from door to door.
Like theirs, my pine, obscurely placed,
Thy nobleness must run to waste,
With lowly village spires –
Unworthy hovels – must contend,
Thou, Nature’s temple! Fortune send
Thee first a Herostratic end,
Immortalised in fires.
Thou stand’st a nobler temple there,
Thy dome the leaden clouds of air;
No Lateran tapers fling
A beam so radiant and so fine
As those dew-spangled boughs of thine,
What sacred strains are so divine
As those thy linnets sing?
Beneath what temple arches are
Such trophies of victorious war,
So honourably won,
As are these pennons pearly bright,
Flecking thy darkest twigs with white,
Which spiders, in a hard-fought fight,
Have stablished where they spun.
Dim spaces filled with incense fine,
A choir thou hast, a holy shrine,
But ne’er an image there;
For sinless Nature, who did base
Thy root, to God speaks face to face,,
Nor needs, like man, who fell from grace,
To mediate her prayer.
Upon thine organ-pipes the storm
Its wild Te Deum can perform,
So awful, yet so fair:
Join thou, my soul, that anthem’s strain; -
“The house of God is Nature’s fane;
No moss so small, no weed so plain,
But builds a chapel there.”
poem by Henrik Wergeland
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Archaic Torso of Apollo
We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,
gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.
Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast’s fur:
would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Before Dark
Dusk right before dark is my favorite time of each day
The dim light feels as if I am only in this world halfway
Right then it is time for shadows taking over the light
And colors fade slowly to shades of black and white
Sometimes I see the sun bathing all in an orange glow
And I wish I could touch the heat before it let go
During dusk I want to have you close and not be alone
In the fading light your features turn to marble and stone
Right then I want to bring back life into each inch of your skin
I want to touch you and feel your strong heartbeat within
Gently I want to glide my hands over your neck to your chest
Feeling gatherings of hair against my palm if you are undressed
The light of dusk kindles a low fire and put sparks into your eyes
Right than I love to be close to you and renew our strong ties
That time of day brings a natural melancholy to my heart
And I am most responsive when you are gentle with me to start
I know you rather see me passionate demanding and strong
Therefore I want to say thanks for running with my mood along
© 2011
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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“Lucky Larry” (A Tale of Lost Love)
It was 'High Mesa' country,
A place between two worlds,
Once explored by Hernan Cortes,
During his quest for fame & fortune;
Larry stumbled onto a hidden temple,
He entered...
Deep within stood an altar of stone,
An eerie glow filled the chamber,
Atop the altar two orbs hovered,
Reaching for the one nearest,
Eager hands encircled a golden orb,
He filled at once with feelings of love
A vision flashed through his mind;
Two young lovers stood before him,
But he saw only the beautiful maiden,
Auburn hair, bottomless brown eyes,
A smile that made Angels’ blush,
Pulling the orb close to his chest,
It happened…
As if a fine mist, the orb disappeared within him,
Ignoring the second orb he ran from the temple,
He must have the body of this precious soul,
For God had smiled this day on “Lucky Larry”
Within a short time he found, wooed & they wed
Larry knew not, he’d broken a sacred bond;
Abandoned forever…the second soul,
Left to wander aimlessly, sad & lonely,
His only comfort…
Was knowing that when his body released him,
Twin-souls would reunite once again,
In a place between two worlds.
poem by Ray Lucero
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ballad Of The Old Cypress
In front of the temple of Chu-ko Liang there is an old cypress. Its branches
are like green bronze; its roots like rocks; around its great girth of forty
spans its rimy bark withstands the washing of the rain. Its jet-colored top
rises two thousand feet to greet the sky. Prince and statesman have long since
paid their debt to time; but the tree continues to be cherished among men. When
the clouds come, continuous vapors link it with the mists of the long Wu
Gorge; and when the moon appears, the cypress tree shares the chill of the
Snowy Mountains' whiteness.
I remember a year or so ago, where the road wound east round my Brocade
River pavilion, the First Ruler and Chu-ko Liang shared the same shrine. There,
too, were towering cypresses, on the ancient plain outside the city. The paint-
work of the temple's dark interior gleamed dully through derelict doors and
windows. But this cypress here, though it holds its ground well, clinging with
wide-encompassing, snake-like hold, yet, because of its lonely height rising
into the gloom of the sky, meets much of the wind's fierce blast. Nothing but
the power of Divine Providence could have kept it standing for so long; its
straightness must be the work of the Creator himself! If a great hall had
collapsed and beams for it were needed, ten thousand oxen might turn their
heads inquiringly to look at such a mountain of a load. But it is already
marvel enough to astonish the world, without any need to undergo a craftsman's
embellishing. It has never refused the axe: there is simply no one who could
carry it away if it were felled. Its bitter heart has not escaped the ants; but
there are always phoenixes roosting in its scented leaves. Men of ambition, and
you who dwell unseen, do not cry out in despair! From of old the really great
has never been found a use for.
Another Translation:
In front of K'ung-ming Shrine
stands an old cypress,
With branches like green bronze
and roots like granite;
Its hoary bark, far round,
glistens with raindrops,
And blueblack hues, high up,
blend in with Heaven's:
Long ago Statesman, King
kept Time's appointment,
But still this standing tree has men's devotion;
United with the mists
of ghostly gorges,
Through which the moon brings cold
from snowy mountains.
(I recall near my hut
on Brocade River
Another Shrine is shared by
King and Statesman
On civil, ancient plains
with stately cypress:
The paint there now is dim,
windows shutterless. . .)
Wide, wide though writhing roots
maintain its station,
Far, far in lonely heights,
many's the tempest
When its hold is the strength
of Divine Wisdom
And straightness by the work of the Creator. . .
Yet if a crumbling Hall
needed a rooftree, Yoked herds would, turning heads,
balk at this mountain:
By art still unexposed all have admired it;
But axe though not refused,
who could transport it?
How can its bitter core deny ants lodging,
All the while scented boughs
give Phoenix housing?
Oh, ambitious unknowns,
sigh no more sadly:
Using timber as big
was never easy!
The Sea and Me
Light a lamp inside my home
so I may feel welcome from whence I roam.
For I have been gone for much too long.
I yearn to hear your sad sweet song.
The light of the lamp will say to me
that I have been missed too much by thee.
Such is the life of a man of the sea,
torn between work and his family.
I've missed the smell of food just cooked
and the taste of it and how it looked.
The time I've lost with you by my side
brings me all the tears I must hide.
The sea is my home away from you.
It's what I love. It's what I do.
But when I return from ventures on high
I know where my heart also does lie,
Between the sea and you, whom I love,
beneath the stars and the sky above.
Be patient my wife and pray for me
and keep the lamp lit so I may see
the warmth of the lamp that fills my heart
and keep it lit when I depart.
For the sea is calling and I must go
out where the waves and the wind doth blow.
Such is the life of this family of mine
as I sail the sea and they do pine.
God, grant them peace. Let the lamp stay lit.
For this life I love I cannot quit.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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