Letter to my followers

Dear Friends,

As you know, I take my work very seriously, as we all should. This includes being completely dedicated to one’s art through reading and writing. In our journeys to become better writers, we meet fellow travelers along the way. Some with more experience than ourselves, some with less. It is up to each one of us to learn, as well as it is to help.
Unfortunately, not everyone who we encounter is gregarious. They may seem so at first, perhaps to advance their own position in the field of literary works by pretending to really ‘like’ our style, our writing. One such incident just occurred. I won’t go into the lengthy details, and although I was a bit weary of their claim to boost my poetic presence abroad, I agreed to have them proceed (this was why I had intended to put my efforts into this venture, to take time off from WordPress). It was a complete farce, a ruse.
I am deeply indebted to each and everyone of you for the beautiful thoughts and comments that you have written. Without your most generous support, there would be no poetry. You greatly inspire, uplift, teach, and motivate my writing. Thank you sincerely.

Warm wishes,
Lance

The Book of Isaiah

I am that which began, the soul of god,
equal and whole.
Yet, god changes the man,
his colored flesh,
his firm limbs,
much in the way he changed the land
and sea.

Out of me a woman, and the fruit,
and fate
forgotten as the plough of earth,
the dust which is god
wrought from water and iron,
communed and sold
to the peasants of Jerusalem.

They are neither prophets or poets,
nor a throne;
mothers forsake their children.
Their labor is the
red fruit of death, blood and breath;
servants to the lord,
slaves to the master.

The shadows of clouds furrow
a kingdom,
their darkness is in the bud of life;
pity and passion.
Worshiped as a sun until the
sun rose.
Its light is in the deep root of trees.

Its tongue is the winds tongue,
barren streams and
clay mud land,
death worms are below;
they have their part in me,
as I have my part in them,
it is a pilgrimage of death and life.

I have not need of prayer. I do not
behold that god made me;
his miracles are shod,
he trembles in heaven.
His anguish is here in Israel.
Our truths are slayed and unforgiven.

My beliefs are the seed of my soul,
equal and one with me.
My brethren are hostile, it beats
in the darkness,
their beliefs live in empty skins;
they clutch at an empty god.
I shall be glad of their deaths.

I am alone in the kingdom. My
misery is three thousand years of
unsheltered contempt.
Almighty, why have I shared the
shame of tyranny,
nailed to its cross- dark,
dead, unmeasured.

O Mighty god, insect or beast,
all-beholding heaven,
have you not heard my agony?
Alas, pain, pain forever.
Your ever piercing arrows have
burned cold into my bones.
In their hoar frost I kiss death.

How my soul, riven to its depth
with terror
gapes like hell within; no
exultation, for I hate no more.
My misery has made
me wise. God’s curse no longer
breathes on me.

The Book of Isaiah