Biography of John May
My longstanding interest in philosophy and theology- both sparked by my interest and belief in God- are what brought me to poetry, hence here.
John May Poems
Because the morning sun is gold Because the smell of loam is bold Because there's warmth within the cold I know that I am Spring
Of An Angel
I never thought that mortal eyes Could peer upon an angel's face Much less see one from vault'd skies Descend in splendid grace
The Killing Of A Spider
The killing of a spider's right If not from fear, then yes, from spite For be it even ever small A dot upon a wall of white
It hugged the pillars of that pier With trumpet waves that crashing sprayed And low above it seagulls sang To I, the priest who by it prayed
THE VAULTED blue above the girl, Who hand in hand with father went, Produced in her a happy twirl- A dancing she knew not what meant.
Beneath A Starry Gaze
There, just below the moon's ascent, Ethereal a figure went- A silhouette, a dimly shade, That moved towards him with clear intent.
I walked (eleven-ish or so) A kid amid blue snow and slush, When lo! that golden orb aglow Ascending made the blue-air blush!
On The Brink
He clamped that heavy weapon tight And aimed that steel that seemed a ton And just before a life was done A humming bird was in his sight
Beneath the skies of goddess Nuit There lies my passion's sole pursuit … It's her- whose flesh is beauty's claim- A Nubian of Pharaoh's name:
When times of desperation greet me With tempest and with livid storm And violent winds wish to defeat me And swallow me within their swarm
When Children Die
When children die what grief is more What sorrow measurable compares So deep the pain that cuts us through It changes everything we view
Those Evil Few
With wealth, the likes of Helen's Troy, There are these few that think they're coy They seem so modest- but I warn, Their modesty is but a ploy
The end of love is never well The pain it brings what soul can tell Still all will know its lovely sting And for a time will with it dwell
Those Evil Few
With wealth, the likes of Helen's Troy,
There are these few that think they're coy
They seem so modest- but I warn,
Their modesty is but a ploy
They hung two ‘thieves' the other morn-
In fact, the day my son was born.
Their crime: some stolen fruit, some grain …
Two homeless, hungry men forlorn.