Three Motets

Silence . . .
Nothing moves,
No sound breaks forth
In the dark wide expanse of land,
My brain.

All is quiet.
Creation bows her tranquil head in defeat.

The fury crashes forth like a resounding
A word.
A phrase.
A sentence.
And the music of poetry begins
Once again to play havoc within,
Sheets of orchestration roll on and
On and on . . .

But who is the Conductor?
Such music cannot simply play itself.
It must be directed.
But who is the Conductor?
Does He lie above?
Or within?
Or above and within?

Raise thy stick, Conductor,
Whomever you may be.
I will play a proper tune,
A note of poetry.

Raise thy hand, fair Director,
Whether above or within,
For either is good enough for one
Joyous to play again.




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