I wasn't really sure how I would personally tackle this theme, as, while being very open to numerous interpretations, I thought it important to truly peel back the layers within and try to find such an instance to draw upon, as I believe everyone experiences this type of sensation many times throughout their lives, and I knew I had done just that, so the real project for me, was connecting to that moment. I was having difficulty for a while, but then this memory was recalled that I felt fit the theme perfectly. It was many years ago, when I went to church with my mother, who happened to have been serving as a Eucharistic Minister that mass, and in so doing, she had to arrive a good twenty minutes prior to the start of mass. So I sat in the pews and would do like I'd done many times before, stare intently upon the magnificent stained glass artistry that were in full display on each of the church walls. This particular time, instead of simply appreciating the artwork and taking in the scenes depicted there, I was overtaken by a sadness, one that I never truly did understand, yet, it wasn't the type of sadness that keeps you in bed for days on end, it was different and that's the best I can do to explain it here. Well, that's the backstory, hope you enjoy.
After reading the piece, make sure you head on over to D'Verse, read Stu's excellent article, and then most certainly dive right in to all the pieces linked up to the site by all the amazingly talented poets that often participate in the D'verse poetic community. And, as always, if the inspiration strikes you, by all means go ahead and compose your own piece, and then link it up to D'verse for all to share in your creation. Cheers.
The
rhythmic patter dictates impetus
as
eyes scan each brightly colored
platelet,
donated for all to bear witness to its both, as I’ve since learned, piety and
penumbra.
Vivid
yellows partition scenes shared with
blues,
reds and ancient greens, unlocking
sensations
within you never knew
To
truly understand the compass of depiction,
one
must allow every representation to marinate
fully,
collecting seasonings oftentimes misunderstood
The
tales are those of healing, sacrifice and the purest
illustrations
of love, pronounced to and for man. Its methodical
illuminations sparkle from apse to nave, the random
patterning
of light’s voyage, in and through, should produce
A
genuine sense of thanksgiving—an overwhelming awe steeped though, strongly, in
uncontrollable feelings of guilt, for being, when so many others perish before
their very appellations, ever truly get the opportunity to tickle the
consciousness within
To
get lost within such artistry, the mind can perturb the actualized
experience—allowing deception to embrace the connotations, in what can only be
contrived to be, nothing more than an entirety of observation, permutated by
the rationalizing of pristine tenets of belief
Of
all the many incarnations that have passed generationally, one would think the
devout practitioner would have heard all the allegories, all the various
possibilities of understanding, the fantastical meanings and messages—yet,
tears stream through me, very much the same
In
a way explanation will neither assist nor aide, calming the nerves of those
ignorant to the internal processing beneath the eyes, therefore, allotting intuition
to show how the spirit has taken hold of your earthbound frame—
Never
considering, the salt flows mysteriously, for reasons I could never
know—outside of perceiving, that somehow, someway, in shape and/or form, you,
in such a realm of spiritual impact, have become the recipient, of what I’ve
deemed to be, a conglomeration, of all that is wrong and right. For what began chaste has grown soured, for
what first piqued purity’s interest had also stoked melancholies unwavering
flame, and in such moments, you cannot avert your glance from the painted
windows masking the outer world askance—while the sermon stirs the air itself,
and as the psalms then sing and thus possess the atmospheric verisimilitude—where
even in such instances of innate tactility, you, and you alone, are living in a
completely different state of being, saddened when elation should take hold
your leash, leading you into an uplifting indoctrination of fullness and belief
But
instead you remain, solely within the qualms of confine—where the world that
enthralled you in, preserves your ignorance—as it creates an antithesis of
living dream, an incongruity to replicate a balance amongst ballasts deep
Your
tears collect in pools that do not dissolve with immediacy. The then lost maze of disillusionment has
since past, refraining from truly illuminating why in such grace you were
presented with such a sad and mourning lapse—
It
is here, that you return to the celebration’s living call—and by now being left
alone, you understand why these portals of beauty, these windows to inner and
outward poetry, could be referred to as ever being stained.
