Endlessly Swaddling

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.

7/11/2020