Pilgrim (ver 2)

[LeoVictorBriones (poetremains)]

Do not fear the kingdom—
even as it looms
in the hot breathe of Golgatha
and you cannot understand
if it’s foundation is formed
of concrete or yellow grass.
Nor why the plastic lilies in the field
do not blow in the breeze,
or clay packed in fist,
with the noble sediments of time,
endures the current of the river
no more than sand and grit.

Do not fear the kingdom—

For it is here that the first child was born
from the womb of a spirit that arrived
from beyond the twinkling universe.

Do not fear the kingdom—

In a cave lined by shore,
free of the ocean torment
where Rock Doves come to nest,
we live like mangy dogs, sustained
by loaves and flat water
think of nothing in the villages
the girls in wild skirts, the soothsayer betraying time,
the gold and silver tongues of merchants.

Still, we are gorged
by the iron spears of countless empires—
of the rape and the pillage: of peasants in leather boots,
of monks in sheep skin sandals, of repentant whores
draped in the garbs of humility.

So we take our flesh and vein
crawl like creatures in search of shining light
on a hill, on knoll, behind a dying oak tree—
we are molded of straw and mud honey,
we are resurrected by sweat and waiting.

We do not fear the kingdom.

[Tina (Firefly)]

Although you have some amazing imagery here and a few really impressive lines (why the plastic lilies in the field do not blow in the breeze..), I find this just a bit too obscure. It may well be me, but , though I get the gist of it, I think it could be a little less lofty.

[Ron Buck (halfshell)]

leo

I had some thoughts... but first... nice grind and the gist is mucho developed. Here are my thoughts and no disrespect cuz I know much less the more I engage this realm.


Do not fear the kingdom—
even as it looms in the hot breathe of Golgotha
and you cannot understand if it’s foundation
is formed of concrete or yellow grass.

Nor why the plastic lilies in the field do not
blow in the breeze, or fist-packed clay with
the noble sediments of time endures the current
of the river no more than sand and grit.

At a cave lined by shore, free of ocean torment
where Rock Doves come to nest, we live like
mangy dogs, sustained by flat-water loaves.

We think of nothing in the villages; girls in wild skirts,
soothsayers betraying time, the click and clack
of silver-tongued merchants.

We are gorged by iron spears of countless empires—
of rape and pillage: of peasants in leather boots,
of monks in sheep skin sandals, of repentant whores
draped in the garb of humility.

So we take our flesh and vein, crawl like creatures
in search of the shining light on a hill, on knoll,
behind a dying oak tree—

We are molded of straw and mud honey,
We are resurrected by sweat and waiting.