Thursday, March 22, 2007


Poetry by John Kenna. Permission has been granted by "Cousin John" to post his poetry here.


   In the night my flowering apple tree has been changed, has become an angel
   dressed in a pink so fine no tongue can lie about it. Maybe it's the hue of truth
   or the stuff of the soul. Her blooms stop all my words. A dusky fall of magenta
   petals scatter from her limbs like hundreds of cerise birds. As she spreads her
   wings to fly, they land on the grass just coming up from winter's lengthy doze.

   She speaks an unknown language to the moon. Around her roots the very void
   crouches inside itself and begins to brighten into a beauty that comes right up
   to my eyes and stops. It is too large to come inside me, too glorious for my
   all too human dark, and I must turn and go back down the dusty mountain.



Athos said...

O my, brother Porthos. It's been some time since I got to read any of Cousin John's poems. I used to receive them via email, but somehow got off his list.

Thanks for the offering.

Porthos said...

Thanks, Ath. I'm really not much of a judge of poetry, but it seems to me Cuz has a gift, especially for religious poetry. I can get you back on his list if you want.

Don't be afraid to share any verse of your own, Ath. As for me, I don't write poetry, and if I ever did, you definitely would not want to read it.