Ordinarily I don’t publish so much poetry at Theoria-press, and instead try to provide mostly essays with an odd poem or sonnet occasionally interspersed among them. But the Muse’s visits have outstripped my ability to keep pace with prose pieces so readers who prefer essays should peruse the archives of this site, which are replete with them.
WHO commands each blade of grass to grow
the Earth to turn, the Sun to rise,
and pour forth the light that fills our wakeful eyes,
the vaulted sky to hold the evening glow,
the songbirds chirping, flitting to a fro?
who composed the lilting melodies
that waft in summer air like butterflies?
who makes the seasons run, the wind to blow?
who preserves the past, prepares tomorrow?
who perennially is born? who dies?
abounding life, but who is it that lives?
my own life can hardly be called my own
it seems poured out as through a sieve
that I call “me,” yet springs from source unknown
indeed it seems the source of life that gives
only ever gives itself, and gives on loan
a transaction I never will outlive
but one day I shall crack this heart of stone
and know this secret even as I’m known
is this an original?