Poem: The Hundred-First Psalm
A psalm of David.
The city of your love
sings through me
before you, My Lord
you hold my writing hand
that makes my living
creative act
won't you come to me?
I sit here in my house
with an open heart
no willful image
blocks the door,
I just won't see
the theatrics of personality
crowding
the openness you allow
this art that hurts
those with ears for only jewelry
they go far away
locked within themselves
their self-flattery
I've reduced to silence
their narrow eyes
inflated pride
blown away
I'm always looking
for your people
to share this space
the contact of imagination
inspired
by necessity
beyond the stage doors
of weak characters
cut off from real streets
no more precious actors
costumed in sound
to litter this town with cliches
every morning
I silence with your light
desperate images
they run away
from the city of your name
that calls an open heart.
- David Rosenberg
The city of your love
sings through me
before you, My Lord
you hold my writing hand
that makes my living
creative act
won't you come to me?
I sit here in my house
with an open heart
no willful image
blocks the door,
I just won't see
the theatrics of personality
crowding
the openness you allow
this art that hurts
those with ears for only jewelry
they go far away
locked within themselves
their self-flattery
I've reduced to silence
their narrow eyes
inflated pride
blown away
I'm always looking
for your people
to share this space
the contact of imagination
inspired
by necessity
beyond the stage doors
of weak characters
cut off from real streets
no more precious actors
costumed in sound
to litter this town with cliches
every morning
I silence with your light
desperate images
they run away
from the city of your name
that calls an open heart.
- David Rosenberg
