Well of Sorrows

By Douglas Wilson

They leave the shrine without regret,
But they will long remember when,
They came to cleanse their darkened souls,
And they shall not return again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663228680

Douglas Wilson

Douglas Wilson is a senior fellow of theology at New Saint Andrews College. Wilson isthe author of numerous books on education, theology, and culture, including: The Case for Classical Christian Education , Recovering the Lost Tools of Learning , Mother Kirk , and Angels in the Architecture , as well as biographies on both Anne Bradstreet and John Knox.

Book preview

THE WELL OF SORROWS

Near the desert village of Barrim,

You will find the Well of Sorrows,

Along the winding pilgrim’s way,

And the road that they must follow.

Its age is numbered in untold years,

It’s built from ancient stones,.

Its belly swells with human tears,

It is garnished with sun bleached bones.

Its depth to man remains unknown.

There is grief and sadness there.

From within,

Comes wails and moans,

A crushing weight that one must bear.

They don’t know what draws them here,

But in the crucifix they trust.

So, they set aside their fear,

And they kneel within the dust.

They leave the shrine without regret,

But they will long remember when,

They came to cleanse their darkened souls,

And they shall not return again.

2021

I AM SORRY JIM

There was a chill upon the wind.

The rain in a mist dampened my coat

and muddied the polish on my shoes.

The Color Guard, but faint shadows now,

stood straight in one long row.

Pale faced, tight lipped, with red swollen eyes.

When they finally blew taps, my vision blurred,

a lump formed in my throat.

I forced a cough, for fear I’d choke.

In black your mother standing by,

clutched the flag and wondered why,

the son she loved was asked to die,

but no one spoke, nor even tried.

Oh, Jim it could have been so good.

So long it seemed so right,

the honor and the glory,

the reason for this fight.

The New Frontier, The Great Society,

The Peace with Honor.

Where did we go wrong?

Across the Great Lakes to the north,

some of the boys are drinking beer,

though they must be homesick,

they are reasonably of cheer.

In Washington the message to late,

is now sadly clear.

There is no good reason for us to be here.

(nor our sons in Canada either)

Oh, Jim it could have been so good.

So long it seemed so right,

the honor and the glory,

the reason for this fight.

The New Frontier, The Great Society, The Peace with Honor?

Where did we go wrong?

What took so goddamned long?

(To learn the French lesson, the words to Country Joe’s song.)

Such a pathetic eulogy to a friend.

One who took my place.

Those that burned his flag,

the government that slapped his face.

Oh, Jim it could have been so good.

So long it seemed so right.

And what of all those countless faces,

Who died in all those nameless places?

For what?

The New Frontier, The Great Society, The Peace with Honor?

We lost!

Lost at such a terrible cost.

I’m truly sorry Jim!

For Jim

1972

SNOW BOUND IN SARASOTA

Muggy humid, almost heavy muggy.

A half-moon shines through yellowed blinds,

a restless breeze through avocado trees.

At my back door the tide is rolling in.

The screen door torn at its corners,

no longer keeps out the swarm of gnats.

Oh, the calendar lies of the season.

It goes unnoticed like so much else.

Nobody stops by anymore.

No coffee, no cards, no conversation.

The north wind is so unimportant now.

I long for the chill,

for the fragments of evergreen and snow.

The downy snow.

Whirling, twirling, sheets of white, falling slowly, silent in the night.

The frosty art upon the windows.

Carolers singing at the door.

The merry bells ringing, icicles tinkling, the taste of warm hot chocolate.

Oh, let the winter howl and bury!

I have forever to be snowbound.

Just give me the crackle of a fire,

the bite of an old pipe,

A hunting dog’s head in my lap,

and a passing glimpse of her.

The flower I picked one spring.

Oh, this refugee with his memories!

An old fool with his pictures,

Collecting dust upon their shelves,

Alas, he amused only himself,

Lost in the heart of the south.

1973

WHAT DO YOU DO

What do you do, when you can’t stay, nor go,

When time drifts on so terribly slow?

There is no place that you can run, not to, nor from,

And All roads lead to where you’ve come.

So, the heart longs, the soul cries out,

But the voice is silent in your throat.

The outside becomes as porcelain,

As the inside is now hollow.

There is no direction given,

Nor a course to follow.

Each new day and coming season,

Comes and goes with little reason.

So, the actor continues his mad charade,

his life an endless masquerade.

With no reprieve nor intermission,

Sinning only from his own omission.

What do you do, when you can’t stay nor go,

When time drifts on so terribly slow?

There is no place that you can run,

Not to, not from,

And all roads lead to where you’ve come.

1980

AN AUTUMN MEMORY

Like a shadow during twilight,

She passes across the room.

Her figure a charcoal etching,

Her face is a veil of gloom.

Slowly she dips her hand,

Inside the upper drawer,

Within the roll-top desk he gave to her,

So many years before.

She clutches the yellow envelope tightly to her heart.

The words no longer legible,

Still she knows each part.

Between these wrinkled pages,

A memory lingers on.

It brings a smile to her lips.

It lives again within her mind.

Her once in a lifetime moment,

Would come in lonely Autumn,

When all that is beautiful dies.

It swells a lump within her throat,

And lives in her longing sighs.

Together beneath the maple trees,

They embrace and kiss once