The Pilgrimage: Part 2 / Phillip Neal Tippin

Historical scientism 
Beguiles, dreams subjugate 
Fallen reason, fallow imaginations
Of future, project.

To delight in the face of it

Take to the oak hills partridged aloft 
For there are quiet sounds to enjoy

Ruminating floor and walls
Which grant my passing frame.

Noble blendings

I fish, follow, reflect in
The streams of 
Persons and place.

Avail myself of this wind
To sail past the point
I meant to make in turn.

The soft green scene
Is no careworn thing.
I had morn’d the dead-end
Trodden sod, which is lost 
Upon the all-willing Spring.

I have received that cup 
Of cold water as one 
Of the least of these
By one who would ask
When?

Diviner of feeling, so gives
Both air and skin
Takes up the gift to bear
Both lash and tear

If hands are left the crust of the day
And with that lay a table for two
What does one expect
But to mumble
At best


All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2020 by Phillip Neal Tippin. All rights reserved.

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