Imago Dei, the Truth that Thou art God The Truth that Thou art God, Imago Dei The image by which everyone is awed The awe which never fades nor goes away
The church will only speak with words that cost With words which you must pay for, not these words These words the church is hopeful you have lost Or chased away, like noisy little birds
But noisy little birds are more than this They do not sow, and neither do they reap And yet, they sound as if they were in bliss As if the words they’ve found are theirs to keep
So be a bird and keep these words today Tomorrow and repeat, Imago Dei.
This sonnet was submitted to an online journal and received a nearly instant rejection:
Dear Scott Ennis,
Sonnet received, but I can tell you now that it will not find a place on The Sonnet Scroll/Poetry Porch.
Do you have others that you might submit?
Joyce Wilson, Editor
How fitting, that the page is clean and white I’ll try my best to stain it carefully I don’t think it will hurt, but then it might Is pain the way to tell the words they’re free?
Dichotomous, the sonnet is a cage A prison made of fourteen bars of verse A metaphor that marks the virgin page The virgin sonnet could be something worse
Imagine if the words became a song A lyric made of thin iambic flesh A page that’s torn, that’s neither right nor wrong Within a book that functions as a creche
A virgin sonnet only til it’s read A couplet to replace the maidenhead.
Salvation is escape from this cruel world It doesn’t come by death, that’s not the way This poem bears the truth you seek, unfurled It tells its tale; it knows the word to say
The word is god; you’ve heard that said before Yes Jesus knew the way we must break free But then the church arose, became the whore And people then forgot divinity
The knowledge that exists within the soul Remember this: within you are divine You’ve always been the light you would extol The knowledge in your heart, a welcome sign
Awaken the reality you know Ascend beyond the faith that dwells below.
And the multitude gathered by the lakeside, murmuring one to another concerning the sayings of the scribes. Some spake of his miracles, and others derided him, saying, “Is this not but a deceiver?” And the Pharisees drew nigh, their robes long, their countenances stern. Then Jesus lifted up his eyes unto them, and spake, saying, “Wherefore dost thou question what thou seest? Shall the words of men endure, or the works of God stand forever?” And the people murmured, and some were amazed. And he said unto them, “Verily, what is done shall stand; but what is spoken shall pass away.” And he went among them, laying hands upon the sick, and blessing the children. And they departed whole, and the little ones laughed. But the murmuring of the scribes waxed not still. Yet the truth of his works abode before them.
The billionaire wanted immortality, but he wanted it priced correctly.
Paintings were too fungible, yachts too wet, and buildings too full of other people’s names. Words, though—words could be made rare. So he announced, over lunch on a terrace above the city, that he would commission the most expensive sonnet ever written.
One million dollars per line. Fourteen lines. A monument of cash and cadence.
They found him a sonneteer living quietly in a rent-controlled apartment, someone whose poems were admired in whispers and reviewed with qualifiers. The sonneteer listened, nodded once, and asked only to be paid as the poem progressed. The billionaire, amused, agreed.
The first quatrain arrived handwritten on thick paper. It spoke of time, ambition, and men who tried to purchase permanence. The billionaire read it twice, pleased, and transferred four million dollars.
The second quatrain followed, tighter, sharper, turning the poem inward. Power became weight; wealth became gravity. Another four million dollars changed hands.
The third quatrain took longer. During that delay, markets shuddered. When it finally arrived, the stanza was mercilessly beautiful, suggesting that excess itself was a kind of blindness. The billionaire paid another four million dollars, pride now sharing space with unease.
Then the crash came.
Accounts froze mid-transaction. Valuations revised themselves downward until they meant nothing at all. When the billionaire finally reached the sonneteer, there was a pause on the line long enough to feel like calculation.
He could not afford what remained of the poem.
“A sonnet,” the sonneteer said gently, “ends with a couplet.”
The billionaire looked at the twelve flawless lines before him—each one purchased, each one certain. He could not bear to leave the poem unfinished. So he declined the final commission and picked up a pen himself.
He wrote the last two lines late at night. They obeyed the rules without understanding them. They rhymed, but only just. When set beneath the others, the poem closed, but imperfectly, like a door made to measure for someone else.
Later readers would marvel at the brilliance of the opening twelve lines, then hesitate at the end, sensing the change in voice, the thinning of insight.
And there, in the couplet he could not buy, the billionaire left his truest signature: the moment money lost its meter.
The memory of truth comes rushing in There’s more to life than stories we’ve been told Repentance isn’t overcoming sin It’s transformation found like veins of gold
The gold that’s found within the waking heart Shines brighter than the gold on temple spires It knows where it belongs; it knows its part It recognizes all your needs, desires
Like Mary of Magdala found the place Where resurrection means that one is free She turned and stayed in quiet simple grace She knew that truth was simply meant to be
And we can find it too, this sacred art Within an open mind and open heart.
Divinity assumes you’re not divine As if there’s something else you must become Come show me yours and I will show you mine The essence that exists where God is from
But wait, we know that God is everywhere Divinity, like God, is out there too And yet within as well, ok, that’s fair Within, without, we’re God, both me and you
Breathe in and know that God has filled your chest With life that touches everything you feel Perception is divinity at best Exhale and feel it shatter every seal
Divinity’s already what you are A lump of flesh and yet a shining star.
Although the brass is broken from its frame, the reed remembers breath it could not keep. It hums in silence, whispering the same long truth that moves the cosmos in its sleep.
For nothing sings alone; the world must pass through metal, flesh, or memory to sound. One breath becomes a choir in reed or grass, one pulse becomes the heartbeat of the ground.
I grok the reed: its stillness mirrors mine; its trembling waits within my open hand. We are two notes the universe designed from star-forged dust and wind across the land.
Thus-Thou art God—the music, not the claim— the breath that moves us, nameless yet the same.
Magdala raised her silhouette in sand, A harbor stone where fishing nets were cast; From this strong place she rose to understand How towers root the future in the past. She carried in her stance a quiet height, A fortitude the storms could never drown; Her steps were steady, drawn toward deeper light, Her mind a lantern moving through the town. Before the teachings and the breaking bread, Before the garden dawn or empty cave, She walked as one whose lifted heart was led By something more than what the world could save. Her name became the tower she would be— A rise of spirit set beside the sea.
II. The Seven Troubles
Healing and Release
She carried seven troubles in her chest, Each one a shadow knotted to her breath; They named them demons, but no heart can rest When grief and terror press it close to death. He saw the weight she bore without disguise, The quiet tremor tucked beneath her name; He spoke, and something cleared behind her eyes— A lifting wind, a small, extinguished flame. No spectacle, no thunder split the air; Just one restoring silence, deeply cast, That let her draw a fuller breath and dare To step beyond the wounds that held her fast. Her troubles loosened, falling one by one, And in their absence rose a waking sun.
III. Patron of the Ministry
Her Financial Support
She walked beside the Twelve with steady grace, Not as a shadow trailing in their stride, But as a tower moving into place— A strength they leaned on more than they implied. From Magdala her earned and honest store Sustained the hungry circle as it grew; She opened wide her means, and even more, She opened wide her heart to what was true. Her gifts were quiet—bread and coin and care— Yet through her hands the teacher’s path held firm; Without her, many steps would fade to air, Their weary hopes too fragile to affirm. Thus ministry was borne on what she gave: A woman funding light the world would crave.
IV. Faithful Follower
Discipleship on the Road
She chose the road that wound through dust and heat, Where teachings rose like dawn along the way; She matched her steps to his, her heartbeat’s beat Aligned with every truth he came to say. Not pulled by law nor pushed by public claim, But drawn by something quiet, fierce, and clear— A recognition deeper than a name, A trust that grew with every passing year. She learned the dust’s communion with the feet, The cadence of the journey’s living call; For faith is not a resting place, but beat By beat, the choosing of the path withal. Thus following, she made her witness known: A disciple walking where the truth had flown.
V. The Holy Kiss
Ritual Transmission and Recognition
He greeted all with peace upon the cheek, A blessing shaped in breath and offered light; But when he turned to her, the act grew deep, A ciphered grace that opened hidden sight. For in that kiss, no romance sought its claim— It was the teacher’s seal, the soul’s release; A giving of his knowledge through her name, A quiet joining shaped by ancient peace. The others saw and questioned what it meant, Yet she received it with untroubled mind; For in that touch, a wordless sacrament Passed on the wisdom few are meant to find. Thus kissed, she bore a deeper flame within— A truth bestowed before the world grew dim.
VI. Voice of the Hidden Teachings
Insight Beyond the Spoken Word
She listened not for sound but for the thread That ran beneath his sayings, fine and long; She caught the meanings others left unread, The undertones that turned belief to song. Where silence shaped a chamber for the wise, She entered with a calm, discerning mind; Her questions rose like lanterns in the skies, Revealing pathways others could not find. He trusted her to ask the truer things— The shadows cast by spirit, flesh, and fire; And in her voice, the hidden teaching rings, A depth no envy ever could retire. Thus wisdom found in her a dwelling place, A listening soul attuned to inward grace.
VII. Contested Authority
The Peter Conflict
She spoke, and silence shifted in the room; Her insight stirred where others held their ground. But some, unnerved, foretold a harsher doom If wisdom wore a woman’s form unbound. Peter, uncertain how her voice could rise Beside his own with equal weight and fire, Demanded proof that heaven would advise Such teaching drawn from one they called “desire.” Yet she stood firm, untroubled by their doubt— For truth requires no shield of rank or fame; It speaks, and lesser tempers burn themselves out, Dimmed by the steadiness from which it came. Thus she became the answer to their fear: A woman bearing wisdom’s helm without a peer.
VIII. Witness at the Cross
Steadfast in the Shadow of Death
When fear drove many hearts away from sight, She stayed, a quiet ember in the storm; She held her place beside the failing light, A tower keeping vigil in its form. The hammer struck, the sky dissolved to black, The world unmade itself upon the wood; Yet none could turn her steadfast spirit back— She saw the sorrow, and she understood. For love is not escape from suffering, But standing where the breaking must occur; She braced herself beneath the darkening, A faithful soul no terror could deter. She watched the final breath he came to give, And with that watching chose again to live.
IX. Tender of the Tomb
The Dawn Spicer
Before the sun could rise and color stone, She carried spices through the waking gloom; No thought of fear, no hesitation known— Only her need to honor him in tomb. The world was cold, the garden still as glass, Each step a vow she made with quiet pain; Yet through the hush she felt her courage pass Like breath restored to something lost again. She sought no miracle, no lifted gate, No promise that the dead would rise at dawn; She only came because her love was great, A final blessing for a life withdrawn. Thus dawn first saw her tending what she kept— A grief that walked, a faith that never slept.
X. The Weeping Seeker
Tears that Blur and Reveal
She wept beside the stone that sealed her fear, Her tears a river cutting through the clay; She called his name, but silence drew too near, A shadow where her hope had slipped away. Yet in those tears, a clearer sight was born— For through their blur, the veil began to lift; Her sorrow, though unmeasured and forlorn, Prepared her heart to recognize the gift. Sometimes the waters rising from the soul Are not undoing, but a doorway made; They wash the dust from what grief would control, Revealing light beneath the paling shade. Her tears became the lens through which she saw— A seeker shaped by love, not by the law.
XI. The Garden Encounter
Recognition: “Mary.”
She turned, and thought he was the gardener there, A keeper tending blossoms with the dawn; But when he spoke her name, the very air Became the place where all her doubt was gone. No sermon ever matched that single word— No argument, no sign, no breath of scroll; In saying “Mary,” something deeper stirred, A truth that reached the marrow of her soul. Recognition does not come by sight, But by the tone that knows us from within; One whispered name can bring the dead to light, Can raise the heart from where its fears have been. Thus resurrection found its first acclaim In nothing more than hearing her own name.
XII. Noli Me Tangere
The Un-clinging
She reached for him, her grief reversing course, Her hands recalling what her heart had lost; But he, in love, withheld the earthly force That clinging claims, where spirit pays the cost. “Do not hold on,” he said, for love must grow Beyond the grasp of what the flesh can bind; The path ahead was one she had to know In trust, not touch—through clarity of mind. The living cannot linger with the dead, Nor can the risen dwell in holding fast; Love asks us not to freeze what has been said, But follow where the promised truth is cast. She let him go, and in that letting saw A faith that rose beyond her earthly law.
XIII. Apostle to the Apostles
Her Commission
She ran with breath unbroken by her tears, A message rising faster than her stride; The world had shifted from its ancient gears, And she alone first held what death denied. “Alive!”—her voice became the dawn’s first cry, A proclamation none could hold in place; She bore the tidings time could not defy, A herald marked by resurrection’s grace. Though some dismissed the witness she became, Her truth outshone their disbelief and pride; For nothing could eclipse the living flame Of news delivered by the one who’d cried. Thus history bends to her resounding word: She spoke, and all creation’s pulse was stirred.
XIV. Restoration of Her Name
Undoing the False Legacy
Long centuries obscured her rightful part, Confusing penance with the life she led; They cast her as a fallen, fractured heart Instead of one who walked where wisdom spread. But truth endures beneath the weight of years, And slowly rose to claim its proper frame; Her witness, clear through sorrow, grace, and tears, Returned to shine unshadowed by false shame. Now once again her story stands upright— A tower rising where the tides retreat; Her name restored from rumor into light, Her steps remembered for their steady beat. Thus Mary walks again in honored flame, A saint of love—restored to her true name.
Antifa is a movement, proud and strong Opposed to opposition to what’s true It means we need to sing a noble song So join me and that’s just what we will do
Nobility is when we use our strength Like poets use their words to show us how Our efforts need to go to any length To live compassion like a sacred vow
Humanity means humans all belong Nobility means you’re a human too Respect is the beginning of this song Let’s sing it loudly; sing it til we’re through
Oh wait, we’re never through; it never ends Antifa rises up when fear descends!
