NOTAE INRITAE

A couple of poems by someone, for what they are worth, possibly nothing more than notae inritae.

Liturgical Wilderness a balding peak near the house of God of eyes that speak a shimmering pond a pine scented wind and a divine thought you may apprehend an image uncaught a glacier settles the valley responds for blue flower petals how the heart longs to rise to new heights to be in a cloud to be in God's light to feel oneself proud wild roars a river stronger grows the heart a reflection to consider the life of a new start a liturgy of birds a trickle of rain water this beauty confers the mind of its maker 1995 Messenger descending from the eternal finger of love descending on the mysterious day of election from the divine whiteness of the dove came to me the soft touch of selection a choice that is a mystery in itself for who would choose what is so far from best yet the finger traced all the titles on the shelf and chose the book which was dirtiest thumbing the dusty pages, the finger on the hand of the one who knows all tore sheet after sheet from the binder and at his feet, forgotten, let them fall and now the book reads but one thing "his will be done and nothing more" the selfish, lusty pages crushed and lying as the small gray waste of a life forlorn "to choose A is renounce B", they declare but by then renounce was what I wanted since to have my own twisted will was my fear for to myself I seemed so weighted now his selection has become mine too he chose me first and then I him if one detail of his choice I may construe it's that he has a special touch for those in sin 1996 "Madonna col bambino" of Filippo Lippi the eyes look calmly out at you it's been centuries now without a blink I feel they are living, seeing in lieu Of their painted stillness on the skin so pink their sparkle seems less than bright eyes shaded over with melancholy motherly love and a mother's plight painted therein mournfully a mouth that doesn't need to speak for it would not be able to express the sad thought I wish to seek behind those brows sighing sadness your skin's smoothness looks like silk your hair with jewels beautifully gathered but over your gaze something is spilt like a veil hiding an ideal tattered the babe in your lap a little finger lifting gripping a pomegranate seed with his thumb his eyes upon your face inquiring if you read the seed of his pain to come 1997 - before the Filippo Lippi painting   "Virgin with child and scenes of their life"