The Poetry Of.
Harold Lorin........................................................
Focus
Galaxies are the substance of Creation
Their birth and death and resurrection
From stars the rudiments of that odd dream.
The waste the trim the flotsam the detritus
The unintended shreds and splinters
That form planets and the germs they breed
Called life, could not mean less
To Who whose life is out of nature.
Could it matter if on this debris
We give evil for good.
Darkness for light or
Bitterness for sweetness.
Remorse
Some rows from the lectern and the cross
I sit with my remorse
And hear assurance of forgiveness
For care withdrawn.
For love not given
For deeds and thoughts I do not dare confess.
I come here now to hide from sins
And bathe in a fantasy of grace.
The hands of the pastor in the fountain
Indicate I am now cleansed..
What I have done or not
Is now undone or done
The pain I caused has never happened
Subway
This poem on the subway card
Speaks now of recall and regret
And says
Love regretted is not true
Love remembered is trivial love.
Vera Pavlova, of my ancient origin
How come you to speak this way
Of that for which I tremble?
Singing old songs alone
Dreaming poetry to invoke a voice
And seeing moons too long ago to matter.
Nothing to desire
Ah, nothing to regret
Nothing to forget
The message of these clever words
Is mere philosophy
Rising but not as Phoenix from the ashes.
