Clifford F. Boyle — Essays

Best Friend

Tue, 01 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Like every night she steps upon the porch
To hear the clack, clack, clack across the floor,
An anxious whine, tail thumping like a drum,
And then the yelp when she comes through the door.

She stoops to bring her level down to his,
Bent forward like she’d stooped those years before
To something less than honest, insincere –
Right there to pounce when she came through the door.

Her raven hair meticulously coiffed
Hangs loose against this tangled, matted fur.
The careful colors framing chestnut eyes
Can smudge and run now she’s come through the door.

He’d love her if she’d eaten all her lunch
And missed her morning spin, forgot her core.
The only thing that mattered was the joy
Her footsteps brought when she came through the door.

What freedom lives within the truth of love
As patient, yet expressive, she wants more.
A partner who can love without demands
And pant for her when she comes through the door.

CLASS REUNION

Tue, 01 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

She walks in sunshine, with shadows of friends
Thrown by white painter pants and a whiter smile,
Like sun-glint snow, a brilliant prospect
So near to my heart, my feet grow cold.

There is cold fire in the night sky
Outlining Andromeda, chained to the rocks by the spiteful god.
But I am no Perseus, with no myths to offer
In an age of science which speaks of red shift
As the light fades away, obscured by clouds,
When we had presumed to gaze at heaven.

Yet myths endure as men grow old,
And even time snaps back and forth without regard to space.
For there you are, as dazzling as a dream
Which shows that beauty is so much more than a smile.
And time is no event horizon
Which casts all might-have-beens to darkness.

My feet actually grew cold at the reunion when I found myself face-to-face with a lovely classmate whom I had forgotten I had had such a hopeless crush on all those years ago. Boom! It came rushing right back, at least for a moment, which is one of the beautiful things about a reunion. I figured I would have some fun with it, and write a poem. I did not leave many breadcrumbs to identity. The painters pants are a recovered memory from over 40 years ago. Perhaps she never even wore them. But there is an oblique reference to Stars for A-bars.

Everlasting Life

Tue, 01 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

There once was time that stood outside of time –
No earth, no sky, no water, air, or land.
Then came the Word, the voice of God sublime –
Light through the darkness; life, the light of man.
He separated out the sky from earth,
The day from night, the water from the land.
Gave Adam everlasting life at birth,
‘Till death came to the garden by his hand.
Now women bring us into life through pain,
By Adam’s curse all men return to dust,
So all that’s born must die and what remains
Is what we do with time, and what we trust:
That God so loved the world He gave His Son.
When Jesus rose again death was undone.

It started with a man from Galilee
(A simple land, subservient to Rome)
Who worked the simple trade of carpentry
And made the town of Nazareth his home.
He did not travel widely as a youth,
Or do great deeds, or earn a high degree.
He worked His trade, He labored for the truth,
Preparing for three years of ministry.
His cousin John the Baptist did begin
To herald that the time of God was near.
The carpenter was baptized without sin.
The heavens opened up, a dove appeared.
A voice came from the clouds when John was done,
And God proclaimed the carpenter His son.

Then Jesus first showed signs He was divine –
Made Peter and his brother fish for men.
At Cana He turned water into wine,
Worked miracles, brought men to life again.
The people flocked, He preached from on a mount
Disciples hanging on to all He said
Five thousand showed up, more than they could count,
He fed them all from just five loaves of bread.
He chose a dozen men to do God’s will
Bestowing gifts of power over loss
To heal the sick, to cleanse, and raise the dead
Admonishing these men to bear their cross.
They went through all the world to build a flock,
The gates of hell still helpless ‘gainst that rock.

He had a chance to rule upon the earth.
His Jewish people waited for a king.
They thought he was the one of promised birth
To give to Rome a day of reckoning.
They welcomed Him into Jerusalem
By singing ‘Son of David. Blessed One.’
In hopes He was the savior promised them –
The leader who would see their battle won.
But Jesus put temptation at His back.
“Get thee behind me Satan,” He proclaimed.
Not of the world, but on a different track,
He labored for our souls, not wealth or fame.
In seven days the ancient world would die
And God’s new covenant would come alive.

The city was a-bustling with crowds;
The Jewish feast of Passover at hand.
An air of revolution was allowed
In those who thought the Christ would free their land.
The Jewish scribes and Pharisees were scared –
They feared unrest, they feared the Romans more.
They planned to capture Jesus unprepared
And kill Him, hoping to avert a war.
The Son of God knew he would be betrayed
By Judas, a disciple of the Lord.
Just thirty coins of silver was his pay –
Eternity of torment his reward.
While Jesus wished this cup would pass Him by,

The Father willed it. He prepared to die.
He gathered the disciples for a meal,
Made bread His flesh, He broke, and bade them eat.
“This is My body, given you to heal
The sins of man.” A gift of finest wheat.
He took a cup, gave thanks, and blessed the wine.
“This is My blood, a covenant anew –
That sins may be forgiven, God’s design:
Restoring everlasting life to you.”
His heart was heavy, death was at His door
He asked that Peter, James, and John stand by.
He did not want to suffer anymore
Yet knew that He’d be lifted up to die.
The three men fell asleep while Jesus prayed,
Their spirit willing, flesh too weakly made.

The high priest’s minions came in stealth by night
To haul the Son of God before the scribes.
While Peter tried to keep his Lord in sight,
His faith in Jesus Christ he thrice denied.
The Jews bound Jesus, charging blasphemy.
The spit on Him, and brought Him to be tried.
While Pontius Pilate thought to set Him free
The crowd demanded he be crucified.
Then Pontius Pilate tried to wash his hands –
A thousand years of prophecies fulfilled.
He found no fault, but caved to their demands,
Gave Jesus to his soldiers to be killed.
Barrabus was a murderer set free.
When Jesus died for him, he died for me.

The Romans put a crown upon His head
Of twisted thorns, and bent down at the knee.
“King of the Jews!” they mocked as Jesus bled,
As if they’d serve a man from Galilee.
They beat and scourged Him, spit, and whipped Him more
‘Till blood rained down like water off His back.
He agonized beneath the cross He bore,
The sinful weight of man’s brutal attack.
He bore the load until it broke Him down,
Then Simon from Cyrene helped bear the weight.
As women wept they dragged it through the town.
He warned the women to bewail their fate.
They nailed His hands and feet unto a tree
And crucified Him there on Cavalry.

The soldiers stripped Him, cast lots for His clothes,
Mocked him by writing, ‘Jesus, King of Jews.’
The scribes scoffed, “He could come down if He chose.”
They mocked His trust in God, and heaped abuse.
They nailed two robbers with Him, on each side.
Some say they mocked Him too, some say one prayed.
“I ask you to remember me,” he cried.
The Lord said he’d find Paradise that day.
The land grew dark. The light was fading fast.
The Lord cried, “Why have you forsaken me?”
There on the cross our savior breathed His last.
The graves were opened up and saints set free.
So let us pause, remember Him who died
So we might live – this man we crucified.

The chief priests knew that Jesus said He’d rise
And so they put a guard upon His grave.
They didn’t want disciples spreading lies
That what they killed, the strength of God would save.
The first day of the week began to dawn.
Two Mary’s, loved my Jesus, saw the tomb.
An earthquake rumbled, strange phenomenon
Made guards shake like they’d seen their very doom.
And angel said to Mary, “Do not fear.
I know you seek out Jesus – crucified,
But He is risen. See, He is not here.
The dead has come to life, now death has died.
And then they saw a man – they knew His voice.
They fell at Jesus’ feet. He said, “Rejoice!”

The followers of Jesus were afraid
That they might be the next ones to be killed.
They huddled in a hidden room and prayed,
When Jesus came – His prophecy fulfilled.
He’d said that if they tore the temple down
That He would build it up in just three days.
His body is the temple – holy ground.
He showed his hands, his side, they were amazed.
He gave the Holy Spirit in his breath,
And deputized. He taught them to forgive.
They feared the Lord, no longer fearing death.
Most gave their blood so that His word might live.
The martyrs gave their flesh and blood for me,
To light a lamp for all the world to see.

The Lord called Simon, Peter, which means rock.
He said that if you love me, “Feed my sheep.
Feed my lambs, be shepherd to my flock,
And teach that what they sow is what they reap.”
Upon that rock a temple wall was laid.
A church was spread abroad across the earth.
He rose, and a new covenant was made:
In Jesus’ flesh and blood we find rebirth.
The temple that He built is not of stone,
But of my eyes, my hands, my pen, my head.
Of course it is not built of me alone,
But all who take His body for their bread.
We’ll live with Him if we can hear His call:
Love God, and love your neighbor. That is all.

How Might a Love Be Likened to a Rose

Tue, 01 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

How might a love be likened to a rose,
A pure pink passion plucked on Friday night,
Soft petals brightened by her smile’s glow
To open like my heart she set in flight?

Is it Adam’s Curse that we must toil,
Or else that words like petals fall and die,
Peeling to more beauty ‘ere they spoil –
A dirge mistaken for a lullaby?

Whispered words are briefer than a flower.
Can dates upon a cork bring back the wine?
Love alone does not possess the power
To grant eternal life or make her mine.

Surrender comes, oh nothing gold can stay.
Today I had to throw the rose away.

MARRIED LOVE

Tue, 01 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

My love is not some fancy in the heart,
A rush of blood, or coursing through the veins,
A heated passion tearing me apart,
To leave a hole when nothing else remains.

It is not depth, nor breadth that soul can reach,
For even souls cannot to love’s height rise.
It is the trusted feeling, each to each:
Your bones, my bones, one flesh, to each a prize.

And then a child’s laughter, or a cry,
A late night feeding, or a wound to kiss,
An anger that you stifle and let die,
A jealous pang, or passion you dismiss.

My dreams now walk the earth, walk straight and tall.
My love, you are my dream, and that is all.

PICTURES OF ETERNITY

Tue, 01 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

A man stands high above a rippled lake
Its leaden surface brightened some by clouds
Where whiter still a host of swans patrol
As trees flame brightly in their dying song.

A fish breaks free, bright droplets in the air
Forever captured in that morning sun
As cormorants, too far to have their meal,
Look poised to break their perch and dive in chase.

Below the man a lawn rolls toward the shore
Where ruddy children tumble on the grass,
With unheard laughter ringing from their lips
As if they know they’ll be forever young.

Who paints the masterpiece, who wields the brush?
Who holds those sparkling droplets in the air,
That otherwise would fall, since all must end?
Which signals, then, that something’s missing here.

For all the years of muscle, bone, and sweat,
Might paint a sylvan scene of earthly bliss,
Yet who can stop the rain, the march of time?
Paint streaked like tears upon dissolving cheeks.

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield
Pays tribute to the restless heart of man.
To live forever in a sightless song
As vivid as the picture we draw here.

Yet who sings praises of a man alone?
Who brightens when he sees Ulysses come?
Rude ancient warrior with an unknown tongue
Who made a name abroad but not at home.

Might he have looked across an unknown lake
And seen that what he’d found he could not hold?
That richer was the man who could be held.
To strive, to seek, to yield his heart to love.

Take the Bait

Tue, 01 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The question on your lips, ahh fire, not kissing on my mind.
You ask again, no words, but that pleading in your eyes,
What, what, what light, so white against your skin.
Lashes frame a beauty that is bluer than the skies.

Do I, do I want you? Bozhe moy, you leave no choice.
The red, the blue, the glow, with a whisper in your voice.
Do I, do I want you? I was born to take that bait.
Babe, you paint a picture, and that don’t come down to fate.

I know that’s not the question, not the thing you need to know
Baby, baby, baby, You’re a vessel. I’m no crew.
There’s an emptiness inside you, that you were born to fill.
All you are is what you give. All I am is what I do.

Do I, do I love you? Do you really want to know?
It depends on what you mean, ‘cause I love the things you show.
Do I, do I love you? I was born to cheat that fate.
Babe, I know you want it, and your hope becomes my bait.

THE BIRTH OF CHRISTMAS by Clifford F. Boyle

Tue, 01 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Can you name the great English and American poets? Who comes to mind? Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, Whitman. Perhaps Carl Sandberg or Robert Frost? Can you name one from the last 50 years? Is anyone still writing poetry? More to the point, does anyone still read it?

Poetry at its best is the most artful form of language, meant to elevate the mortal to sublime. We have all been elevated at some point by mood, or worship, or budding love, to a point where our being feels greater than the sum of its earthly parts. Art attempts to recapture, or recreate that experience, providing if not a road map, at least a signpost pointing toward an elevated, spiritual consciousness. Not all language is art. Most is more mundane (though not necessarily less important) communication. Not all verse is art. That which tears down, or degrades to no purpose is not art. That which does not attempt to rise above the common is not art. That which seeks merely to convey information, even the most important information, is not art. Only that which works to move us toward a better sense of ourselves and our beings is art.

Readers are not fools. They do not need an essayist to tell them what moves them. They will not believe that verse which does not move them is art because a panel of judges has awarded it a prize, any more than they will believe a colored rectangle on a white canvass is art because it hangs in a museum.

For art to inspire it must seek for truth, and strive to relate that truth. I chose a sonnet form for THE BIRTH OF CHRISTMAS because the story of the birth of God as man deserves all the pomp, circumstance, style, and respect that language can provide. Regardless of whether or not you share the Christian faith, you surely understand the search for meaning, and truth, and our place in the cosmos. Ultimate expressions of how we relate these questions, and our understanding of the answers, whether they be secular, or religious, are worthy of the highest respect, and deserve the most stylized form to acknowledge and buttress that respect.

And so this is my plea for poetry, for art. Allow yourself the guilty pleasure of believing in absolute right and wrong, even if we cannot always distinguish a thick, dark line between the two with our necessarily limited human understanding. Allow yourself a moment to grasp at something greater than yourself, greater than your earth and sky, regardless of whether or not you believe you will reach it. Seek to understand the unknowable, and enjoy the expression of another who has asked his God to empty him of all but God’s word, to allow him to express that word as God has willed. Laugh if you find it silly. Smile if you find it foolish. Share it if you find it beautiful. And by all means, pick up your pen if you feel you can do better.

We need you. You’ve been too long gone.

THE HALLS OF MERCY

Tue, 01 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

We walked the silent halls of Mercy
Beset by whispered ghosts of Kentucky,
Of plaid-skirted girls giggling down corridors
Decaying now like leaves well past their prime.

The world was new when the auctioneer’s cries
Died off to silence across the wide Ohio,
And the offspring of Civil War dead
Marched these halls like legionnaires of Rome.

To justify the ways of God to man.
Oh not to man alone, but too the weaker sex,
With vigor now in lux et veritas
To learn the strength that knowledge brings to all.

The Value of Life

Tue, 01 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

I believe that all life is precious. Life by necessity must fight the elements of chaos and disorder to remain alive and to pass on life. If life did not act like life itself was precious, life could not be maintained. Life acts like it has a will. We see it in a blade of grass growing up from a crack in the sidewalk against all odds. Life will take root given any chance at all.

Humans are the only life form we are aware of that understands that life has will. That are able to reason. This is what Christians mean when they say humans are made in the image and likeness of God. Not that they have physical characteristics like God, but in some small way they approximate and /or understand at least something of the will that must have engendered life and sustained life out of what was not alive. Humans, in some small way, are like the author of life Himself. They are unique. They are precious. They understand love, and they are loved.