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IN MEMORIAM - - STEVE CARLONE |
I am a native RI’er. Retired and coming up on our 50th wedding anniversary. Spirituality is the context of pretty much all I do, hence publications in “The Penwood Review”, “The Journal of Pastoral Care and Counseling”, “Special Vision” Anthology and some Christian music. Although I have a Bachelors in Biblical Studies, I am a Lay person and not a member of clergy. Journaling, while undisciplined, is a life long obsession and I am starting to think it has a genetic factor. My children and grandchildren seem to have that same “itch."
In memoriam for John P… Poet
Free floating leaves adrift on air
perfumed by a sweet decay:
the fruit of thirsty roots driven deep,
creates the Autumn flurry.
A vagabond heart in expectation
of a languid muse,
borrows the music of wind chimes,
where the deepest silence is an echo of words
as yet unencumbered.
Poetry is the truthful metaphor,
sounds and meter that memorialize
eight billion souls with breath behind shadows,
eight billion lying in quiet furrows.
Together a silent cacophony.
SONG OF THE SAMARITAN WOMAN
The sun has not witnessed days we have not known,
Nor could labyrinthine evening hide the comfort
And betrayal of a kiss. The lips of the needy filled
With all idolatry and measured by the eyes of angels,
Come to embrace the implicit vehicle of suffering.
The immodest blush at the pale of such hope, as
Judas shamed, they founder in pouring spikenard,
Tears of contrition, and toweling hair. Still poor fishers
Come, breaking bread of covenant, drink wine drawn from
The cask of all eternity, till now the well becomes a flood.
Because the heart that longs, for that which cannot be
Contained - the gift of vision is soon shaken by the gift
Of having seen - finds faith and love is a poetry of
Stones, on mountains of shoeless innocence, would be
Prophets miss: from abject dust a profligate holiness.
Spring 2006 - Penwood Review
In memoriam for John P… Poet
Free floating leaves adrift on air
perfumed by a sweet decay:
the fruit of thirsty roots driven deep,
creates the Autumn flurry.
A vagabond heart in expectation
of a languid muse,
borrows the music of wind chimes,
where the deepest silence is an echo of words
as yet unencumbered.
Poetry is the truthful metaphor,
sounds and meter that memorialize
eight billion souls with breath behind shadows,
eight billion lying in quiet furrows.
Together a silent cacophony.
SONG OF THE SAMARITAN WOMAN
The sun has not witnessed days we have not known,
Nor could labyrinthine evening hide the comfort
And betrayal of a kiss. The lips of the needy filled
With all idolatry and measured by the eyes of angels,
Come to embrace the implicit vehicle of suffering.
The immodest blush at the pale of such hope, as
Judas shamed, they founder in pouring spikenard,
Tears of contrition, and toweling hair. Still poor fishers
Come, breaking bread of covenant, drink wine drawn from
The cask of all eternity, till now the well becomes a flood.
Because the heart that longs, for that which cannot be
Contained - the gift of vision is soon shaken by the gift
Of having seen - finds faith and love is a poetry of
Stones, on mountains of shoeless innocence, would be
Prophets miss: from abject dust a profligate holiness.
Spring 2006 - Penwood Review