poems by Joel Schueler

Homage to the Lark

The dark rims of his glasses support the magnification of a world of darkness all his own. If I crawl to the vacant church falling emptily from love lost, a loneliness less empty commences per the congregated silences to have fallen through the years. Voices in a sacral act echoing a pact of trust, whispering if they could, quiet in the library of God; love is the purest noun.

 

 

 

all else ego forgot

 

I place the bowl in front of me

to fill it with ego

 

the latter like cereal

is not nor could be,

no matter

empty as it seems.

I leave ego

ego leaves me

re-entering fullness.

 

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