Decrescendo

The trees play a symphony of color,

With the maples and the sweet gums

Filling in the brass section,

The willows, the graceful, high-pitched strings,

And the oaks, leather-headed drums.

It is September, that unsubtle month,

That must be heard beating out summer,

Heralding fall,

Warning of winter to come.

"These crisp mornings put sweetness in the apples,"

Mama used to say.

And the orchestra plays on--

Sometimes in the raucous sunlight that seems

Brighter because it is rarer than in July,

Sometimes under billowing clouds,

Sometimes softly muffled in the early morning mists.

The song is as sweet as a golden delicious,

But with overtones of melancholy,

Foreshadowing a change of key.

(Copyright 1998 by Sharon Kirk Clifton)

Write on!

Because of Christ,

Sharon

At the Cross

I huddle at the foot of the Cross,
My arms stretch to encompass it around,
My head bowed,
My eyes pinched so tightly they hurt.
Silent sobs wrack my being.

The men are gone.
The Brotherhood, save one, has forsaken the Master.
Other women stand,
Bow,
Lie prostrate nearby,
Each alone,
Forsaken,
Desperate,
Desolate.
I hear their weeping off in the distance,
At the perimeter of my own sorrow.

Roman soldiers stand silent,
Trying to understand,
Yet bound merely to a duty.
Scribes, Pharisees, Sadducees
Cluster together and mutter into their self-righteous beards,
Rehearsing their excuses.
Their mumbling blends, segues into the rumbling of a gathering storm.

Messiah, on the Cross, lifts His head to Heaven.
With one last lingering remnant of strength,
He pushes against the spike that holds His feet,
Pulls up on the nails that pierce His wrists,
Draws in a gurgling breath,
Licks His lips to moisten them, to make speech possible,
And cries out to the Father Whose Face is turned away.

"It is finished!"

A pronouncement that will echo throughout Eternity.

I look up as His weary, abused head
Sinks
To His bosom,
Where so many children had rested their heads
And received His blessing.

A drop of His vermillion Blood
Rolls down one of the thorns
That comprises a crude crown.
In one interminable moment,
I watch it
Fall;
I tip my face downward in shame,
Knowing my own unworthiness,
Yet yearning for His anointing.
That Sacred Drop
Splashes on my head and covers me over.

The Earth begins to tremble.

Copyright 2007 by Sharon Kirk Clifton

At the Cross

I huddle at the foot of the Cross,

My arms stretched to encompass it around,

My head bowed,

My eyes pinched so tightly they hurt.

Silent sobs wrack my being.

The men are gone.

The Brotherhood, save one, has forsaken the Master.

Other women stand,

Bow,

Lie prostrate nearby,

Each alone,

Forsaken,

Desperate,

Desolate.

I hear their weeping off in the distance,

At the perimeter of my own sorrow.

Roman soldiers stand silent,

Trying to understand,

Yet bound merely to a duty.

Scribes, Pharisees, Sadduccees

Cluster together and mutter into their self-righteous beards,

Rehearsing their excuses.

Their mumbling blends, segues into the rumbling of a gathering storm.

Messiah, on the Cross, lifts His head to Heaven.

With one last lingering remnant of strength,

He pushes against the spike that holds His feet,

Pulls up on the nails that pierce His wrists,

Draws in a gurgling breath,

Licks His lips to moisten them, to make speech possible,

And cries out to the Father Whose Face is turned away.

"It is finished!"

A pronouncement that will echo throughout Eternity.

I look up as His weary, abused head

Sinks

To His bosom,

Where so many children had rested their heads

And received His blessing.

A drop of His vermilion Blood

Rolls down one of the thorns

That comprises a crude crown.

In one interminable moment,

I watch it

Fall;

I tip my face downward in shame,

Knowing my own unworthiness,

Yet yearning for His anointing.

That Sacred Drop

Splashes on my head and covers me over.

The Earth begins to tremble.

~Copyright 2007 by Sharon Kirk Clifton

Decrescendo

The trees play a symphony of color,
With the maples and the sweetgums
Filling the brass section,
The willows, the graceful, high-pitched strings,
The oaks, leather-headed drums.
It is September, that unsubtle month
That must be heard beating out the summer,
Heralding the fall,
Warning of winter to come.
"These crisp mornings put the sweetness
In the apples," Mama used to say.
And the symphony plays on,
Sometimes in the raucous sunlight that seems
Brighter because it is rarer than in July,
Sometimes under billowing clouds,
Sometimes softly muted in the early morning mists.
The song is as sweet as a golden delicious,
But with overtones of melancholy,
Foreshadowing a key change.

Copyright 1996 by Sharon Kirk Clifton

At the Cross

A poem for Good Friday

I huddle at the foot of the Cross,

My arms stretched to encompass it around,

My head bowed,

My eyes pinched so tightly they hurt.

Silent sobs wrack my being.

The men are gone.

The Brotherhood, save one, has forsaken the Master.

Other women stand,

Bow,

Lie prostrate nearby,

Each alone,

Forsaken,

Desperate,

Desolate.

I hear their weeping off in the distance,

At the perimeter of my own sorrow.

Roman soldiers stand silent,

Trying to understand,

Yet bound merely to a duty.

Scribes, Pharisees, Sadduccees

Cluster together and mutter into their self-righteous beards,

Rehearsing their excuses.

Their mumbling blends, segues into the rumbling of a gathering storm.

Messiah, on the Cross, lifts His head to Heaven.

With one last lingering remnant of strength,

He pushes against the spike that holds His feet,

Pulls up on the nails that pierce His wrists,

Draws in a gurgling breath,

Licks His lips to moisten them, to make speech possible,

And cries out to the Father Whose Face is turned away.

"It is finished!"

A pronouncement that will echo throughout Eternity.

I look up as His weary, abused head

Sinks

To His bosom,

Where so many children had rested their heads

And received His blessing.

A drop of His vermilion Blood

Rolls down one of the thorns

That comprises a crude crown.

In one interminable moment,

I watch it

Fall;

I tip my face downward in shame,

Knowing my own unworthiness,

Yet yearning for His anointing.

That Sacred Drop

Splashes on my head and covers me over.

The Earth begins to tremble.

~Copyright 2007 by Sharon Kirk Clifton

Happy Poetry Month!

Storytrance

Disbelief
dangles above our heads
while he stands
like a spectre
shrouded in smoke and
backlighted by the campfire.
Haints hover just outside
the ring of light
waiting to creep closer as the
fire wanes.
Dragonbreath
blows away the chill bumps
temporarily
but they return
when giants clamber through the woods
hehind us.
Faerie folk wish we'd leave
so they could claim our circle
and dance their rhyme
but we can't.
We're rooted to log seats
eyes glazed
jaws slack
hearts first slow
then race
all beating as one with the
cadence of the storyteller's voice as
tricksters and troubadours
strangers and waifs
strut among the fire's flame
and ride the backs of
donkeys and dragons.
Then he stops
sits
becomes human again
but another rises
and we're ready.
Once upon a time
somewhere
beyond the Silver Sea
beyond the Azure Forest
beyond the Glass Mountain
beyond the Straw Town
there was
and there was not...

Copyright 2001 by Sharon Kirk Clifton