The Poetry Of.
Harold Lorin..................................................
The Path
The path we made together in our forest
When I could join my hands around your fragile waist
And you were black haired, laughing
Blouse a little torn
Snipping branches from
The trees that had preceded us
In what was just then our forest
And we were becoming its.
Is cleared now of last year’s summer leaves.
Cutting through. We were together cutting through
Leaves and twigs around your unshod feet.
Pine needles in your hair and on your nose
You made a place and path for us
Beautiful and gentle
In this (for me) odd land
The Painted Cross
There's not apt to be a Paradise
Behind that painted cross.
With six winged angels singing
Holy Holy Holy
And Melchezidic waiting to do judgment.
If so what would we do there for all time
Who would we be?
Why would we want to be ourselves
With all the regrets we would bring along
Forever and forever and forever?
Often One Has
A hushed high place and a hero.
Waiting for a white or golden bull
Who comes for resurrection from the sea.
While woeful Prophets wail
Or A Sybil chants dark visions from her smoke
And makes an unintelligible promise or
Angels sing an apocalyptic
Canto of our irremediable fault
We bear our heavy sins
We climb a mystic mountain.
We wear the raiment of contrition
For the morning clutching of an apple.
We bring this from the empty desert
Or from the mythic mountains of the East
Through the forests
To the uncleansing sea.
Our mystic burden
Our cross of irremediable remorse.
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