POET, The Gift

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POET,
The Gift



He was a boy who sang Ave Maria
With clarity and perfect pitch,
It was as if angels had arranged his vocal chords,
His lungs filled with a breathe, so resolute and full,
Many felt it must have come from Heaven,
His gift transported those who heard him,
His voice opened door to celestial level.

One night in early winter,
He walked home after church,
About him was hoarfrost,
And world enveloped, everything bent and drooping,
It was laden by the weight of ice from freezing rain.

Yet the cold, that cold Chicago weather
Could not withstand the heat,
Nothing was greater than the warmth of his singing.

And the dreams he dreamed upon the pathways,
When later he came to compose them,
Releasing their cadences, their images and similes,
They were bold, like the Ninety-Five Thesis.
They had weight and proclaimed new religion.
The old ecclesiastical order fell to great commotion,
The narrative compelled, hear it, and choose your side,
Either pro or con, neutral ground no longer possible!

And when he read from his verses
His voice was the same, the same
That marveled all as when he began, his singing,
Awestruck reverence fell upon those who heard it,
It reverberated, and rang like the bells of the steeples,
The crystalline delight, the tintinnabulation,
Euphony voluminously welled, a music, which
Lifted ordinary mind to outsized conception,
It increased devotion, and advanced praise to rapture,
Why it brought grown women to their knees!

And the dreams he dreamed upon the pathways,
When he later came to compose them,
Releasing their cadences, their images and similes,
They were bold, like the Ninety-Five Thesis.
They had weight and proclaimed new religion.
The old ecclesiastical order fell to great commotion,
The narrative compelled, hear it, and choose your side,
Either pro or con, neutral ground no longer possible!