Poetry / Poets / Writers / Writing

3 Poems by Thomas Soden



Sitting still, beneath the sunlit sky,

The shadows from tree-tops above appear

On green grass, patterns form, where insects fly,

The rabbits feed, all eyes expressing fear–

The sound of traffic, passengers who look

Like friends and lovers last in other eyes

As Icons likewise do, texts in a book

more than the memories of poorer cries

seared deep into the mindful eye behind

the forest of symbols and their exchange,

the vision goes as meaning now: who finds

the other itself, if looks could kill, outrage!

My letter kills but one Spirit gives

the other resurrection. Thus, we live.



Don’t trust the Pharisaic old men, and those,

Who still, are blaming it all on the dead.

The price of worlds–intoxicating rose:

Impassioned–their assumptions always said.

Accusing, taking ‘way my dignity

Self-righteous, solitude without allot

Of individual feeling–suddenly

Beginning, in the mud and mire, and sod.

Entangled, up and start, may my cries,

Beyond the passage suffered, of broke faith,

–Noetic Catholic bells–our Father’s eyes,

The salmon crowding silver river paths,

Help me to walk without a sullen look,

All mindful of one ancient living book.






Love’s Interval 


Now’s the time to love the present you

Have lived on bits of boyish bays and tears.

Now is the time in this our world, not new.

Old cloud-shapes overhead cause my fears

to chill my spinal liquid, stop my veins

as morning finches cease uncertainly

to sing, ‘till camouflaged in light again

on blue electric wires sit pleasantly.

Their tiny limbs seem immaterial.

But Angel tears can swell beyond compare

beyond the sensuous material.

Their eyes are burning. Eden’s guard is there;

the body-vines, unburnt–the burning bush.

The retinue of fruit returns a blush.





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