Bugle-call...A Rubaiyat

I.

The sky is old; as old as Day and Night

Yet we are still dumbfounded by the sight

Of stars, or how dawn breathes yon gates ajar

And dusk returns to gather up the light

II.

Nature does not forget; a Faultless Hand

Refurbishes the fortunes in its strand

They slumber, bedded in earth’s umber deep

Waiting to waken in Spring’s Promised Land

III.

Both morning-tide and eventide convey

A hierarchy greater than Night and Day

It decorates the dust with mighty hills

That spill blue shadows where light ebbs away

IV.

Man plans but his scope of vision is small

His grandstands hosting boast-and-toast soon fall

Like leaves beneath tall trees, their birthright spent

Where time’s attention span outgrows us all

V.

The spigot whereby mankind seeks his quaff

That God turned on and has not yet turned off

Is a Terminal and Terrible Thing

Which only fools disdain with aimless scoff

VI

Sometimes we bloat ourselves with ignorance

That clothes itself as Knowledge and we dance

In glass slippers until the clock strikes twelve

Then, suddenly we see Time’s crass romance

VII.

Ah, we should often look up at the stars

To marvel at midnight’s unbroken bars

Where words unuttered by daylight appear

In dialects not tainted by ink jars

VIII.

The resting place of seasons none can breach

Its everlasting breadth evades man’s reach

Yet as we grapple with these laws of loss

Life’s albatross renders what it must teach

IX.

This exhibition-place of greed and need

This hope-and-grace dependent human-breed

Would be a living hell of want and wish

If by its bread alone we could succeed

X.

A fool in his own eyes seems very wise

He drinks an elixir of well-dressed lies

Then forgets what manner of man he is

…a ready prey for wolves in sheep’s disguise

XI.

Go to the ant, thou sluggard; learn their ways

Lower art thou than the bug who obeys

His Maker; then, do not forfeit The Crown

By languishing too early on Death’s chaise

XII.

Hand to the plow, the spade, the pen, the broom

Already the exploit of moments bloom

Upon the midday clock that holds the key

That will unlock the Gate to God or Doom

XIII.

Did the Lamplighter of Time’s wick detail

The Very Tittle of its last exhale?

Ah yes, but not even the angels know

When He will crush to naught Time’s Awesome Grail

XIV.

Because of Calvary God made a way

For fallen man to hope through That Last Day

This groping-coping interlude of strife

That we call life is but a little Stay

XV.

Time’s tick and tock ah, gossamer transport

To a goal made for souls none can abort

Its countdown is like a holy bugle-call

‘Oh who will come and who will trust the Lord?’

XVI.

The sky is old; as old as Day and Night

And we are still dumbfounded by the sight

Of it; a drop within eternity

Come, bow the knee before God snuffs the Light

© Janet Martin

Sasha's Interlocking Rubaiyat poems lured me to try a Rubaiyat, 

then after reading The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyan

 I couldn't resist!
Not quite as alluring as the Interlocking Rubaiyat but still, an enjoyable form to write to...