Proverbs in Anima Humanis or Vice, in Verse

I thought I'd try my hand at writing proverbs...those pithy aphorisms King Solomon and Ben Franklin were given to penning. These are liberally seasoned with simile and metaphor baked in savory verse.

Care fetters the mind
as shackles, the imprisoned bind
but expression frees the heart
as manacles, a goaler's key

Doubt sows tares in good intentions
and beats plowshares into swords
whilst faith tends the Gardener-given patch
gladly, gently, peaceably, and with love


Deception perverts truth
as a wasting sickness cripples and deforms
yet honesty gives wings to the earthbound
to take itself heavenward


Gloom wrenches the mind
like stones, causing the foot to stumble
but a smile clears the path
and helps the sojourner on her way

Loneliness corrodes the heart
like acid on a blooming jonquil
but friendship is heart's-ease and balm
soothing the sadness and meeting the need

Fear corrupts the soul
like mildew in rising damp
while trust dries up encroaching mold
blowing it nowhere to harm no one

Strife ignites the stomach and
heats the blood, like flame to tinder
laughter, also like conflagration,
spreads and warms without burning.

Anger charges the choleric to
take up arms and duel to death
but tolerance inspires the sanguine
to put passion to healing

Hatred impales, decapitates, silences
like a guillotine or pikestaff
while Love embraces, enfolds, protects

repairs, rebuilds, resurrects and renews

as Man, once dead, lives again

Taskmaster

Taskmaster


the muse will not be
mitigated, satiated, filled
restlessly, he bids me always
to pen when i would sleep

i call him "he" tho'
in fact, "she" he may be
or even "it"-- as bestial
he often devours me whole

Phantasm? Demon? Harpy?
Fury? Friend? Foe?
Muse at my shoulder
monkey on my back

all senses or affect
any tranquility I may possess
or long for, any serenity I demand
is always answered "nay"

"Legion" he very likely is
for he or they never sleep
or take ease or allow it
driver driving the driven on

he takes my spirit to task anon
Quixote, questing, dreaming impossibly
haunts my wakings, troubles my night
tilting at windmills and at nothing

like Poe's eternal Raven
not imprecating "Nevermore"
but exhorting me "onward"
"Excelsoir" and "evermore!"

Not bird, nay, but yet hawk, even vulture-like
in wary watchfulness
knelling, compelling, opining
of what? je ne sais quoi

would that he were,
my night companion,
as Poe's winged fiend
made of flesh and feathers

Like Dickinson's thing with wings
for then I could perchance parley some
converse, rail, inquire, implore
enigmatic possibly, but living

Or, in greatest travail
cease his eternal bullying
silence his endless harangue
plunging my quill in his breast

but ever, mine is Petra-still
implacable, immovable
a fixture, with only orbs
and zeal alive and probing

all-seeing, omnipotent, still
pity-less, remorseless, relentless
like water on a stone
encroaching, eroding, erasing

further still, a millstone
of justice and retribution
a nemesis, revolving slowly
grinding steadily finer

wearing me down to
thought, emotion, specter, bone
taxing, teasing, telescoping resources
to unreachable reaches

would that my demigod ever
commended or even acknowledged
my passion-drained self
my craft-weary, word-heavy soul

Under his ceaseless, scalding stare
I will 'ere be apprentice
journeyman perhaps, but never
master, magistra, beladonna

In ages past and times to come
I will tarry not in slumber
while decomposing, I compose
in composition, no repose


~marilisa, 2/22/12 Ash Wednesday