Blood-Moon: The Eclipse

As embers blacken, smould’ring red,
Living fire from what was once dead,
First they grow dark, to burst into light,
So have we seen the Moon tonight.

It scorched by light’s absence,
Then ignited in the lonely undying cold.
Whispers across the cosmos bare,
Shuddered for fear, trembled the air,
And pale wights turned their mindless eyes,
To the star-struck heavens, though fearing the skies.
A tremour they felt and by fading light,
The warning was passed – “The Moon bleeds tonight”.

No blade nor shaft by one was seen,
To cause the fading of empearled gleam,
From radiance of ice to a fiery shell;
But the spirit groaned and faded to hell.
Wraiths turned about swiftly, gloating mid-flight,
Flew off to spread words – “The Moon bleeds tonight”.

The light which ever fluctuated slowly,
Now yields its pure beams to the fire and blood,
Reflecting the woes of humanity’s grounds,
For but this short hour, remorse it has found.
All peoples stopped living, were rooted in fright,
“How is it that this – the Moon – bleeds tonight!”

In those little moments, our history’s laid,
With light we percieve what our misdeeds have made.
From full shining glory, to fading then black,
From blackness to bleeding, what hearts we have lack,
And Fire! the Blood! What a fate lies ahead,
The misery, torment – Oh unholy dead!
So surely ye die! all fall in your plight,
And doom is so certain – The Moon bleeds tonight!

And Hope never finds us, if what skies portend,
Spoke wholly of fate, as if we could not mend,
What was rent by the first, who started the eclipse,
Still stand all! Heedlessly bound in watching the fall,
Every soul speechless views with delight,
The anguished moon rising – And bleeding tonight.

But hold. It passes, is fading away.
Mournful that the evil could not stay,
We move back to living, by hell bound no more,
And the souls are not transfixed as they had been before.
Oh foolish children, if only you’d seen,
What under the mysteries, all of these mean!

The passing of gory signs in the sky,
Speaks out that not all ever must die.
A coming is not an eternity,
But beginning has ended, and reading we,
Could know such a horror as this that you saw,
Was the passing of the ancient demoniac law.
From white, black and red, from living to dead,
And red then to black – life, but purity lack,
The moon’s a reflection – humanity’s soul,
As war is waged ever, eternally won,
So now is again reflecting the sun,
A pure orb glist’ning, both shining as one.

Though for a short while mankind was ablaze,
A-lost in the gore and the dread ruddy haze,
And yet it may fall back into ancient rites,
Always returns to as it was before,
You may know, all you warriors, God’s winning the war:
And search out the grace from Lucifer’s blight,
Rejoice and stand fast when the Moon bleeds tonight.

Ichorian Slumber

Slowly moon-rise wakes the stars,
Throwing webs of dew across
A field, a cloud, a tired mind,
Creeping along like waking moss.

Clouds burn red behind the sun,
Black clouds, like embers smouldering,
Smoking and fading into the sky,
A fire of heaven consumed but not burning.

The sky was open, stars and clouds,
The failing sun, the misty shrouds,
And mortal minds were twined within,
Falling between ancient images.

The noise of the tomb deafened the world,
And through the stars like thought was hurled,
A ray, cold beam, last fleeting gasp,
Of this day’s light, like a finger groping,
At a mind’s resting, or warm wind breathing,
Heart pulsing slowly, beating out grieving . . .

Every day ends in such hallowed prose,
Heaven soft-shaded with blood from a rose.

Holy Saturday: The Wait

What does a tomb sound like, in the peaceful deadly evening,
While a burial ends quickly before the close of day?
It sounds like heavy footsteps fading away,
Mingled with sobbing of a childless mother.
The tears being sucked dry by the thirsty ground,
And echos of the same through rock rebound.
It sounds like the flutters of a final heartbeat,
A centurion’s armour as he leans on a lance,
Spirits writhing and the thoughts of angels waiting,
And the clouds and stars in a deathly dance.

What does a tomb smell like, as the light fades to dusk,
And stars glow brighter in spite of the sorrow?
Like blood – so much blood – and ancient rites,
Of new-turned soil and hard-bought sweat,
Of heated metal, death and thunder,
Battles and slaughter, loot and plunder,
Hard-won victory in spiritual fights,
The bone and the blood together abiding,
Pulled back to the soil, under darkness hiding,
And tremours of hope and new unknown life.

What does a tomb taste like, with the full moon rising,
When the sun has vanished and the soldiers are sleeping?
Like the smoke from Hell’s contract enkindled by Love,
And the soft breath of wind rising, pulling and creeping,
It tastes like the fear of the body, soul leaving,
The tear-drops of each of the countless dead grieving.

What does a tomb feel like, in the cold and voiceless night?
Like anticipation, and pulse quickening,
Soldiers sleeping, blood thickening.
Mossy rocks and frozen bone,
Of unhurried flight where thorns ingrown,
There trap the dew and freeze in frost,
The crown there, black with gore and fright.

What does a tomb look like, in the hushed silence,
Moments before another day?
A place of holy dread and dwelling,
Mound of ennobled dust and rocks,
With deep red stains embalming chains,
Where Life and death have come together,
Awaiting tomorrow to be sundered again,
And like the stable, the door for new Hope
From whence Love is to rise forever.

The White Rose

One silent evening, towards Summer’s close,
I walked alone through darkening fields,
Saw by chance, hidden by trees
A group of bushes, gnarled and thorned,
But looking closer, was pleased to see,
On each thorned branch rested a rose.

Several rose-trees together growing,
One flowering blood-red, another gold,
But the one upon which I rested my sight:
The rose of shimmering, pure white.
Reflecting in it’s simple hue,
All colours bound and intertwined,
Symbolic of every virtue:
A rose of white, for purity,
For courage and eternal love,
Reverence and humility.

I heard as though it spoke to me,
And knew then, what I ought to be.
I shed a tear for my past sins,
Asked our Lord from me to take,
The thorns ’round my soul,
Their roots to break.

Long stood I there in fading light,
Pondering over this simple flower.
A gift from God, precious and sweet,
Growing from the ground at my feet.
Breaking rock, barren and dry,
Reaching out to sun and sky,
Growing, climbing towards God’s throne,
Doing that which His men will not,
Living always, Heaven to own,
While His great love, we all forgot.

It still is wonderous to me,
That man to make a choice is free;
That we alone, of all God’s creatures,
Have ever sinned and shunned His love;
That I see proof of Virtue’s power,
By looking at this little flower.