poetry, sonnet

Laughter’s Flame

In the shade of a towering oak, in the wavering heat of day,
There came men of the same; they more light than flesh.
There to speak to Nation’s Father, a father to Affliction’s Say.
”Say’t, without mirth, “Ancient will give birth to new flesh.”
The wind blew hard as ancient wife cried out in mirth.
”Now that this flesh is withered, you send this tale, this
Story of new birth.” “To Laughter’s Flame you will give birth.
This time, a year hence, you will swell in your bliss.
And Nation’s Father will joy in Nation’s inheritance.”
The notion that the dead will give birth, is nothing new.
But the tale of Laughter’s birth and a mother’s impotence;
The tale of old father, with now two sons has nations hewn.
This shady towering tree witnessed Laughter’s flame
And saw the spark that give birth to our laughter’s Name.

© rl busséll 2018 – All rights reserved.

Photo by Victor Zambrano on Unsplash


Pomegranate Bells

I can hear the pomegranate bells,
bells, yellow loud with striking tells.

Strike upon the sound.
Light upon the sound.

Listen, to hear the waving
sound shade my burning lips.
Coals of fire heal.

The winds of time shake me.
Kings have come to brake me.
In the light of night,
in the fiery arrow’s blight,
they’ve come and cursed my plight.

I know the true.
I know nations fall with loud
and quiet sound,
with whispered calls,
and pandering pleas.
I know the true.

I must hear the pomegranate bells
amid the smoke and smells,
amid the wails and quiet tells,
amid the shade of whispered thunder.

Let me tell the true to tell.

One day a year,
One man, alone,
enters to atone.
One man carries twelve heavy stone.
One man steps up to heaven’s gold throne.
One man draped in pomegranate bells,
sounds for his people to hear,
sounds for the lamb’s blood to pay,
sounds for the goat to off-stray.

No silent footsteps.
No silent lips.
One day we’re heard.

Now, I’ve been touched with the coal
now, I’ll be sent.
Now, I’ll, with words, do the rent.
I’ll rent father from son and all;
nation will, with words, do the fall.
Men will be flayed
opened and bared;
with bare teeth they will stare,
with dagger’d eyes they’ll kill
and still will I stammer and still.
Still will I mumble and quip,
for I’ve been touched with the coal;
I’ve been touched by the quick.

© rl busséll 2018 – All rights reserved.