Poetry for Mornings without Coffee

After spending last night arguing about life in general with a large group of philosophers, I decided to unwind with a poem. This one comes from a small purple book I keep called "Poetry for Mornings without Coffee":

You Can't Drain the Sea

The golden chalice gleams aloft;
would any man dare fill it with his blood,
The cup that for a thousand lives was lost,
two thousand years of mystery?

Would that the flesh was crumbling bread,
would that your crown not prick with thorns,
how easy 'twould be to drink the sea;
when the serpent lies slumped in your drinking horn.

But no! The rocks don't lie, they keep silent watch,
as stars wheel by and nations hatch,
as kingdoms grow and good men die;
The stones sit still and the rocks don't lie.

Oh the ancient heaving hills beneath us hear,
they listen to every folly we breath beneath the sun.
They watch with craggy eyes and wonder at our fear;
for though our theories multiply; their origins stand as one.

The hills keep guard and the rocks don't lie,
God rebuilt his Word on the blessed morn;
would that giants fall from aching eyes,
But you can't drain the sea with your drinking horn.


And here's a smaller bit from a poem that used to be much longer- until my great aunt spilled coffee on the page. (Thus is the reward of unworthy readers.)

Enoch's bones never feared for rot,
Elijah rides in the pillar of flame;
Would that the fire consumeth not,
when the bush must be pruned for wise men's shame.

From A Monk

While visiting a good friend and viking historian, (a scandinavian nis, to be exact,) I had the rare opportunity to examine some interesting documents found within an excavation site off the coast of juteland. Buried in the turf amongst the various waste products of the Viking culture, (old bowls, sheep bones, select remains of one's enemies, etc...) there was this curious little scrap of vellum dating back to the eighth century, and carried a little poem that we can guess was written by a captive briton.

Since we hold the truth that this particular briton could write to be self-evident, we decided that he must be a monk, and so I call this particular poem "From a Monk".

"From a Monk"


The restless breakers toss and roll,
I think they will not sleep tonight,
the sullen clouds above them pour;
deep water hides my home from sight.

The ocean rain whips her guests with hate;
O tremble beneath my sodden  hood,
I have felt sharper whips of late;
the restless hunger for harmless blood.

Blood on axes, fire in houses,
unshaven men on the holy isle,
they're red with laughing, red with killing,
all golden grins and ruthless smiles.

Three the sacred Godhead rule,
yet our Christ alone cleansed Calvary,
Three of the brothers were bound like mules,
I alone survived for slavery.

I know not what purpose I'll fill for them,
whether altar blood or sweating hands,
but the fire of God has found dry wood;
so I'll light this land with burning brands.