Weekend Prayers

Sunday morning.

A warmer day than usual,

Hopeless to less hopelessness,

it floats.

An ancient rite is reoccurring

where I meet my own soul,

eye to eye.

Clearer vision recurs through the opaque sacrament.

Does the soul have eyes, life or passion?

Scores of the past meeting the present says

nothing more than the mantras

-the ripples in a smoky fog-

crowding muses along the familiar cadence.

Perhaps it is far too behind; my seat.

I see no being,

rather a stranded string of unconsciousness

veiling my supposed path.

Whatever they may say,

the way to heaven or haven, or the unknown,

crawls beyond my senses

leaving my poor soul far behind; inferior.

The words spoken to me were soundless

with the blank mind,

I sat there, searching the elegant eyes

for the answers, for the questions.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

we think we have a soul, but if you turn it around and think of your soul having you, it comes into focus a little...even then, it is not comprehensible, because "comprehension" has nothing to do with it...so nice to meet an inquiring mind, thanks to James...

[James Paulin]

This poem reaches far to the eternal and deep within the soul as few others have.
I was captured by the purity and raw spirituality from beginning to end. It is wonderfully insightful.

[PadfootBlack]

I'm not sure -what- to say other than "well done!" Your use of descriptive language is beautiful, this is truly a piece one can savor and enjoy.