A Glimpse

There is so much to be got out of me
Which would otherwise never come out
And thinking hard to no purpose I sit
In an agony of poetical doubt.
As when feelings and flowing thought
Require more to bring it around.
Like the peal of a church bell inventing
Notes on rapture never found.
But it is the reality of my life
In moments of rambling reflection
The creative waters begin to stir
With all the promise of the resurrection.

Midstream

It was not then but it came to be
When an angel put a new soul in me.
An angel with a trumpet to call
On me, silent as a frozen waterfall.

Before that time it was thought to be true
That the woes I felt were all my due.
Hereby hangs the haunting mystery:
Is it truth that grants us immortality?

Edges

In my native tongue
I asked for air -
They gave me a lung
I could not wear.
All I could do
Was look back no more -
The pit I plunged into -
I had been there before.
I drew aside the veil
Which hid my face -
My black eyes fell
Into empty space.
They dropped so low
They fell on the dead.
Down as far as they go
And out of my head.

Saved

Cursed amidst the ruin
The only light I see
Transfigured now in despair
Appears hopeless
to search for thee.
A distant hunger
Summer sun
Beholding yellow eye.
It is glorious
This awesome sky,
So almightier
Than starved misery.

Window Light

At the window looking out from within
I listened, gazed and slipped away again
Past lost islands to communes in the sun,
Wandering in exile, waiting for none;
Full of mad hopes and slumbering regrets
In this pale world of fleeting vignettes.

To Live

To live less than par,
Fail to aid a broken sparrow,
Indifferent to pain,
All victory in life
Devoid of human value.
Merely a single being
Giving one warming pleasure,
All virtuous triumph
In overcoming vain enemies.

Copyright © 2003 Keli Stafford
All rights reserved

About the Author

Keli Stafford lives in Oregon with her husband and children. Her poetry has been accepted for publication in magazines including LYNX, Makata, The Litterateur, Blackmail Press Eight, Some Poetry Words, Waxing and Waning, and The Penwood Review.

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