Frail Virtue

“Lady in a Green Jacket” by August Macke

 

(This expressionist painting has always fascinated me and gave rise to my following poem.)

 

what more can be said
when apologies cannot suffice
when all charity drains
from mean wounds to the heart
the aggrieved turn away
leaving evident guilt
unrelieved unforgiven
alone with the sin of itself

a contemptible factor of loss
now condemned to sustain
psychic pain of abandonment
punishment served
without pretense of piety
grace all too frail of a virtue
untenable so it would seem
for the most of humanity

Pangs

 

“Hidden Guilt” by John Terwilliger

 

 

astringent elixirs

abrasive with punishing pulp

wash the mortified flesh

of the soul

peccant and thirsting for mercy

knowing its only source sleeps

in the tissues

of conscience

 

 

Atonement

“Repentance” by Nicholas Roerich

 

ripping reams of apologies
demonstrates nothing
they die upon heartbroken ears
blow away on the stench
deep transgression emits

remorse draws no mercy
unless and until it’s performed
over gradual time through
repeated acts of repentance
despite their repeated rejection

wounded trust can’t be healed
without proof of sincerity
promises must persevere when
you’re lucky enough to have
even a slim second chance

best would be to remember
the motto that hangs in the streets
over doorways to life
if you can’t do the time
then don’t do the crime

otherwise
the hairshirt
is yours
my friend

Touch the Tear

“Sad Man”
Painting by Ayse Deniz
From fineartamerica.com

one tender gesture
conveys fifty years’ worth of
love and commitment
sweet silent reassurance
that mistakes are forgiven

Shriven

“A Cleansing”
Painting by pearl82980
From deviantart.com

turn the key
drop the chains
from the heart
open up
the pale skin
let the anger
and bitterness
drain from
the veins
leave the past
in a puddle
abandon the
pain pluck
the nettles
forget how
the blame
came to birth
disown guilt
through remorse
become soft
with tomorrow
enjoy these
new few
freshened days
look to bloom
in this sweet
final season
ready for
dying in
rose petal peace
clean at last

Il Pranzo

Photo from williams-sonoma.com

(75 word micro-story #6)

(Lunch)

The house smelled divine, like the intense rustic kitchens of the mezzogiorno. Broccoli rabe and garlic sautéed in olive oil, preparing to join fennel sausage and orrechiette al dente. With a crusty hunk of brick-baked bread and a glass of Chianti, a meal fit for peasants or kings.

She ignored his unshaven smile, his contrite caress of her bottom, knowing that before he would eat his next meal, she’d be gone. This time, for real.