Updated: Jul 14
I thought to try, for once, for all, a new
Pattern of poem, one seeped in tradition,
Yet trodding its own path, like a new born,
Its wobbly first steps heartening us all.
But with the vast array of techniques, styles,
Constraints on the flow of precious words flights,
I gave up trying to shake Shakespeare’s spear
And instead settled for rattling about.
The certainty of knowing in my soul
The Designer’s Design, vast yet sublime
Was leading me where I needed to go,
The image of Chiron inspired my search,
Giving it meaning which before it lacked.
The immortally ”Wounded Healer” he,
By Hercule’s hand hurt, chose death for life,
Prometheus unchained, legend has it,
Freed him by taking his place at the rock
To which Zeus’s eagle would daily dive
And snack on that poor God’s liver which would
Heal just to be reconsumed, a pattern
Sisyphean which Camus would applaud.
So, the Centaur cured himself by dying
To existence, to healing stopped trying.
We are all mortally immortal.
We are all immortally mortal.
Our souls will return; our bodies do not,
Becoming one again with our Mother.
Our spirits, like Christ with our Father,
Strive to become the “I AM”, “THE WORD”, ONE.
May we, like Him, heal, not Chiron model,
And from the cradle endlessly swaddle.