Thoughtful Succour Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

The hand extending covered mine
three times of girth and width
dark shadow blocked mid noon sun's ellipse
guiding that lone step toward newly opened eyes

Self's comfort feigned of steadiness
worth hid a frangible truth inside
soul's look once locked between two minds
twin bade duo's identity, man's blooded kin arise

Greeting's grip one fragile life's seduction
releasing living's pain as bond was formed
fate relinquished the profiled target teased
forever lost, that sword with which all else is gained

What is man's truth; is it life's recrement
shame an es'perance and both core to Alcides
demands held to youth this day deny
what in two faces smiled beneath

Believe then in that which quickly passed
taught in mind through that mid noon's sun
thoughts not spoke between two gentlemen
ones burned soul bleeds into the younger's hand

Power drawn from darkest deeds once done
provide for a future bright to this founders son
accoutred thus this touch imparts that mystic pedagogy
life's labour instill the task; subdue that urge to kill

Clearly then this vision pure
soul's touch a corundum's fleshy transparency
to own in memory the moment's stand
truth's seed, the grins between twinned kin

Friendship's gift, that flaccid shine
without the buff of providential spit
strength wilts within compassion; cleanly said
in minds so blind one's wish; therein implied eisegesis

Instead of pride, provide those solemn works
through words that build a soul's lone hope
befriend this thought; the cope is more than a life time's top
a culmination known, planned before conceptions blend

Tomorrow's twist now reveals the cicatrice
that shows as genetic loss of those now dead
trust in that which rests in an opened hand
the mentors gift of hallowed gold and silver pens

Guidance lent to words thus wrote
through read to read a wound soon not forgot
earned of conscience, this image urged
truth in the testing words, of one hopeful fool

Future's thirst, that trust between all minds
this mendicants gain a sip, on which a life survives
grace and or time, this sketch of words at work
resound humbly, in ides of thought upon the poet's stage.

In Memory of John McClaverty