The
Poetry Of James Spoonmore
White
Room
I must fall to these knees now
In Gregorian humiliation
To sink my beat into the brow
And stay off indignation.
Oh Death, you jolly bandit
Why knock on me again?
I told you once I am no door
To carry mortal sin
While Celts of every flowering
Have buried me in burden
Alone I slay the many rites
As if I'd never heard them
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Ode
To The Ferry Maids
Where are you now, fair maidens of the
shore?
Whose milky hands and porcelain faces under veil
Illuminate the marsh in which you dwell.
In my quiet recluse I beg for your continence
To share my bed in innocent lay, as guardians
Of the courtship to my journeys far sought.
Carry, please, these bones and flesh within
Your caring hands all drenched with best
Intention and salvation for my bliss.
And now another period of passing over
land
Above the toil down below the fleeting
In the dirty crags and sand.
To some isle far away from eyes and liars'
tales
With walls of pearl and alabaster bridges
Sailing only on the ivory gale's disaster.
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Rocking
On one auspicious evening, while staring
at my Chair,
A circumstance of heaving grace quite quietly appeared.
From some lucky gambler's fortune to me did this arise
In no borrowed form of accident and much to my surprise.
In all the days of walking ground I have friended chance
Enough to see me as a spark up from the fire's dance.
Like a snowflake falling upwards with Pythagorean pride,
An anomaly to all uniques, a twin upon its side.
I had expected to forego reward to my escape
From Earthly realms for any moment brave enough to take.
So imagine my reaction to the lifting of the soul
Past the limits of the possible I thought I could not know.
I stared at grain and lacquer base upon a formless form
Whose purpose knew of nothing, save the coming of a storm.
What value in the blissful death of symbols in my mind!
What radiance of energy in meeting the divine!
Ergo, I became a spirit, timeless in my toil,
To plant the seeds of reason's bind firmly in the soil.
I dare not try to seat myself upon the holy stone,
For I am not yet worthy of the towering unknown
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