Casting Diamonds

Sweet prince, I ran across the
lakes on the sun,
casting diamonds
into its mirthful sky.
All this time in holy ascension
I prayed your name and danced
in happy apprehension.
Alone I stand
in the pastel shadows now,
Keeping my breath to
a delicate rhythm,
Awaiting the familiar sound
of your footfalls
across the solitary landscape
of my love-pierced heart.
Take my hands, both of them, and
like wet clay press them
to your precious face...
no lonely day then
nor trembling night near, will I
be without a fond reminder
of your tender grace.
Sweet dear darling prince,
these hands unworthy though
Stay here guarded at my side,
Abiding only your sweetest
command, make me obey...
and obey I gladly will
what your love has beckoned.
- r. h. langen

My Brother Comments
The Pressure of Words
All writing, as you know, is a tentative contract of sorts with an imagined reader. Poetry is the toughest contract. The writing itself is the most demanding, absolutely the hardest to do; and finding the reader, who must be extremely discerning, is a great challenge also. Your writing, I have always found, is most effective in the public sphere of rhetorical commentary - at its best, in my experience, in pithy letters to newspaper editors. But there is a poetic background to it - perhaps a spiritual background - which I see operating in what you have shown me. I don't think I've seen poetry from you before.

Here's my brother holding a picture of a war hero, our dad.
I have never imagined myself a poet. I don't think I am one now. But I have of late been feeling the pressure of words. I respect the fact that you are my brother and have been feeling the same pressure also, probably for a lot longer than me.

Thank you for sharing.