From the archives

Here's a poem I wrote in 1997:

Solomon was wise and proud
And often times he had a crowrd
Of revellers, in his royal digs,
To sip the wine, and munch the figs;

And nothing fare escaped his gaze
(He had more wives than months have days)
Yet he himself could never sing
The sad, old songs of his father-king.

For ever sorrowful a thing
Was it for David to be king.

It is not so that every fall
Is by pride prepared withall,
And every bruise ordained to us
By God's objective calculus.

But rather, if we choose to live
Then bruises take and bruises give
Shall each of us, a-stumbling blind,
Illumined, if at all, from behind.

And so, as blessing and as curse,
I look to David as my nurse,
And not the glories of his son
Whose wisdom circumspect I shun.

And may God grant me strength to sing,
So strong as David, sack-cloth king.