The Sun proclaims a love so marvelous

The Sun proclaims a love so marvelous
That when the murky shroud of Earth conspires
To blot its light to darkness, quench its fires,
Its brilliant warmth blasts through, so glorious,
That every foe adorns it like a flower,
The clouds that threaten freezing, drenching rain,
Transform into a halo for its fame,
A multicolored vestment, beauty’s bower.
That light by brilliance rendered colorless
Takes on the yellow of a maiden’s hair,
Then purple as a monarch’s stately chair,
And orange as the ember’s flaming dress.
These hues revive a bluish, graying sky,
As nature laughs and tears anoint the eye.
-Tyler William O’Neil
-July 13, 2010

A Mighty Mountain

A purple spire rises to the sky,
With sylvan stripes embedded in its robe,
It leers, a massive monster from on high,
It guards, a faithful sentry on patrol.
Its verdant with its purple rows entwine,
A garment shining, as with baited breath,
The silent grays with waking greens combine,
A tapestry displaying life and death.
It grapples with a hidden parasite,
A poison haunts its awful majesty,
It withers from the living all their life,
Eroding every facet’s unity.
While awesome beauty steals the stranger’s breath,
Each trembling spirit strives with life or death.
-Tyler William O’Neil
-June 19, 2010

The Truth

All men are freckled with unspoken urge,
One crafts a city and one sings a dirge,
Though Wisdom cries, ‘tis vanity in all,
They falter not, nor hasten, large or small.

The budding leaves amaze the youthful eye,
The sun delights to canopy the sky,
Yet writhing, do they wither soon away,
As sunlight ages to the death of day.

So wisdom chants to them a silent lie,
Born in an instant, so they live and die,
Yet still they toil on for ceaseless years,
To shoulder boulders at their ceaseless fears.

Tell lawyers that they quibble at the law,
Forgetting justice, thieving with the jaw.
Tell priests they speak what once our savior said,
While all their love and passion’s grown stone dead.

Tell politicians that they steal the bread,
For which the hand of heavy labor bled,
They serve the few, neglecting humankind,
That their contrived injustice isn’t blind.

Tell rich men that they stole it from the poor,
That robber barons bite them to the core.
Tell poor men that they haven’t worked enough,
They lack devotion, energy and love.

Tell soldiers that their glory wastes away,
That battle does not fall their family’s way,
‘Tis wicked to defend your home by war,
And “service” wrecks a thousand to the core.

Tell lovers that they want mere copulation,
That odes and sonnets are but mere frustration,
Tell noble love it seeks a baser end,
That selfishness inspires every friend.

Tell wisdom that, in thinking, it is folly,
Tell prudence that it loses all that’s jolly,
Tell justice that it cannot be authentic,
Tell fortitude its actions are pedantic.

Tell faith it has no object of devotion,
Tell hope it looks for chance and random motion,
Tell love it costs far more than it is worth,
Tell virtue that it has no place on Earth.

Yet still they persevere, what noble hearts!
To brave and conquer all despairing darts,
It takes one passion, one, that cannot die,
This longing wields the truth against the lie.
-Tyler William O’Neil
-December 25, 2009

The Squirrel

The canopy of yellow-greens surrounds
A fervent worker of the forest-wood,
He sits upon a branch, with husky sounds,
Scritch-scratching out the woodland’s greatest good.
With tawny fur he scratches at the nut,
With boisterous hands he claws his knotty prize,
With passioned teeth he bites and works to glut
His epic hunger under cloudy skies.
The frigid air pursues his industry,
Four dazzled humans wonder at his ways,
He gnaws on high, and struts majestically,
As life idyllic blesses all his days.
He needn’t worry, nor does he complain-
Man marvels at the beautiful mundane.
-Tyler William O’Neil
-October 14, 1009

149 The Gift of Poetry

The writing I perfect is not my own,
A gift, it was, from Heaven’s Holy gate,
A geist of Holiness in it is shown,
As is a gem, for which I cannot wait!
For poetry, a vision quite sublime,
Is nothing when compared with what’s to come,
When silent bell doth ring at end of time,
A glory, all shall see, excels the sun!
And thus the greatest gift is given me-
I am a chosen prophet of the light,
I am the herald of the majesty-
Through all the beauty which I have to write!
Although the words I speak are not my own,
My spirits medium yields joy unknown!
© Jerusalemrising
Written February 27, 2007

147 The Lost Love

The deepest love in me is that of land,
All other joys indeed, are second best,
The world of Old is where I wish to stand,
Historic gold and iron as my guests.
My ancestry did live on British shores
Across the sea, the balance they maintained-
The peace they did receive through gloried wars
Gave time for one to see that Earth is stained.
To walk through ancient walls, and ponder deep!
True beauty ever calls where kings have strode-
Though beauty fades, the memories ne’er sleep,
The ended age is music to the soul.
Europa sweet, now naught but memory-
I ask to greet me in eternity!
© Jerusalemrising (Tyler O’Neil)
Written February 20, 2007

114 The Mockery

Awake, ye slumb’ring spirits of the night!
Awake, ye little dove, your lord returns!
Awake, and see the beauty in the light,
Ignite the soul, until your passion burns!
By never-ending slumber were you caught,
The wicked silence of the modern soul,
With foolish merriment you once were bought,
Your spirit, to be lively, was made cold.
May vivid light of beauty shine again!
May bliss of heart and soul be shown in flesh,
Contrast the horrid mockery of sin,
And shine the light of love as from the creche!
Oh truer love, true sensuality,
True beauty shine, and mock the mockery!
© Jerusalemrising (Tyler O’Neil)
Written December 10, 2006

110 The Defeat of Poetry

The length of time is much too short to tell,
Barbaric rhyme is much too coarse a form,
To beauty so divine, mere words are hell,
The cage of passing time, a horrid norm.
The arrogant alone would now attempt
To carve in lasting stone the tale so loft,
To speak in word what beauty I have dreamt,
To kill a bird so lovely and so soft.
This tale above the riches of the earth,
Is full of love, yet never known in slight,
I mourn to never tell of greatest worth,
I rage and loudly yell my loss of sight!
No ear can hear, no word can close describe,
The softest tear does fall for broken rhyme.
© Jerusalemrising (Tyler O’Neil)
Written December 4, 2006