Archive 07/12/12

 

   

The Psalmist      

 

He's spent the King David lion's share of his adolescent and adult life

Writing highly harmoniously spiritual psalms,

Divinely inspired inhalation by corporeal exhalation,

Line by line, sentence by phrase by letter by syllable by phoneme,

Ever exulting in this visionary, mystical worship

That he's been graced with, gifted,

Though bequeathed for what godly reason

And by which providential miracles and wonders visiting his psyche,

He's never quite been able to identify, quantify, qualify.

And yet, despite all his uncertainty, ambiguity, apprehension,

He's accepted his soul's sole mission, with messianic equanimity,

Believing that destiny has created a resting place for him and his verse,

If not in the cupola of Brunelleschi's sacred Florentine Duomo

Or beneath the steep, circular, inward-curving steps

Giotto designed for its breathlessly blessed campanile,

Worn uneven by the sandaled feet of monks climbing to heaven,

Then at least within the friable papyrus scrolls of the Essenes,

Scripted in indelible lamb's blood,

With infinitely compassionate wonderment, astonished awe,

By the tongue tip of Adonai, Elohenu, the Almighty on High,

The One, the Only, Who ordains the beginning and the end . . .

Believing that whenever he places his penpoint to paper,

Great, majestic expressions of unexpected metaphorical ecstasy

Will break free, from the matrix of time's palimpsest,

Like lightning bolts leaving their signatures on the sky's vellum,

Disclosing the secret of life, decease, eternity,

Sowing psalmic word-seeds, in the earth of mankind's conscience,

Which will blossom into music transposed from the lips of the cosmos.

 

 

 

 

 

                     

07/12/12

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 

 
   
Site contents Copyright © 2017, Louis Daniel Brodsky
Visit Louis Daniel Brodsky on Facebook!