Sky Flower

With my back to the sunset, I face the looming dark,
And watch a thunderhead bloom.
Pink, magenta, and grey petals surge upwards,
Mingled with subtle streaks of gold.
Like the growing sky-flower before me,
My emotions swirl inside me,
Stunned by such ominous beauty,
I feel small.

Summer Moon

Black against the dark night sky
The needles of the pine form a bower.
Hot and heavy hangs the air, like a thick blanket;
All is still and lazy
While crickets sing the moon to sleep.

December Moon

The moon is framed by a silver shroud,
Glistening, cold and remote – the Queen of the Night.
I shiver as there moves a wisp of cloud,
Winter trees with grey fingers grasping high.

The Dark Night of the Soul

The night is cold and dark,
A wisp of cloud shrouds the moon
A man sits, and shivers in the cold
His thoughts racing, dark and looming
Fear
Why such fear? He cannot say, but knows it senseless, yet real
Such twisted thoughts, anguish, terror, despair
Fill his mind
He stands – flight he seeks, but finds it impossible
His mind sits, and scorns his attempts, and bids him yield
Despair
Intense stretching and pulling, pressure mounts
How to grapple with the Unseen? He frantically thinks,
Dreading the impending madness
He cries with his very soul –
“God, help me!”
Silence
He wonders if God has abandoned him to his pain
His feelings agree
But his knowledge tells him this is not so
He remembers the promises of peace, and again he cries
“O God, You promised peace to your children.
Why then do I feel so weak?”
Then, a still small voice says
“Peace, be still.” The storm ceases and
Calm
But he goes on, and in mere moments
The storm rages again within
Crashing, fears, explosions of anguish
Mental torment wrecking havoc
Again the man cries, “Why, Lord? Why the pain?
You gave me peace, and so soon it is quelled
What am I to think? The Almighty is not weak, is He?”
Again the still small voice gently murmurs,
“O you of little faith, if you only have faith as small as a mustard seed,
You shall move mountains. Trust my Word; forsake your unbelief.
This storm is ever near, and you can always bring it back – the choice is yours.
You must choose to look at me or at the storm. Now trust in Me,
And peace be still.” The night is calm,
The stars shine in the crisp night air.
The man is calm; the madness held at bay.
He sighs slowly, relieved
Peace

Explanation to "The Dark Night of the Soul"

This was written at a time when I was going through a difficult time in my life. One night, while I was working late, these thoughts came to me and God gave me peace about the thing that was troubling me. I immediately wrote this poem about my experiences.

I named this poem after a poem and subsequent book by St. John of the Cross, a medieval Spanish monk, though I did not follow the meaning of his poem. The poem starts with a man being afraid and his mental/spiritual state continues to worsen, but he does the right thing with it and cries to God. Eventually, this decision is for the best, and he is given peace. At the end of the sections, there is a single word that sums up the emotions in the previous lines. This is done for emphasis and shows the progression of the poem, and really my spirit that night as well, from fear to peace.

Introduction

"Sceopes héafodwóð" is an Old English phrase loosely meaning "voice of the poet".  In actuality, the word "sceop" signifies much more than a poet.  It can also be translated "singer" and contains the idea of creating.  The sceop was an important person in Anglo-Saxon culture, one who had given his life to the preservation of ancient legends.  He performed songs and told stories.  Some of these he repeated to keep the oral interpretation alive, changing it as he saw fit to match his style; other songs he created himself.  As a beginning poet and musician, I feel a strong connection to the ancient sceops.  Although I can never live up to the standard set by the great poets of the past, creating is a natural part of humanity.  I hope to create poetry that reflects at least some of the beauty contained in the ultimate Poet, Wuldor-Fæder Himself.