"--Ah, we cannot know, in reality, until the afternoon, how much the feast has set out for us."
The book, We Lesser Gods is a record of a difficult compilation of one life, one self - events, sentiments, ideas -- these formed and being accepted or rejected in their come maturity. Ideas are included at many cognitive levels, toward the consensus, said to be a choice, but a forced choice, involving components of only surmisal, balanced by "the forward appendage of thought: hope."
"...I must admit you have a way with words! I found your poetry interesting, and your descriptions very vivid, and with emotion. I thank you very much for sharing your talents with me...best wishes for your continued success."
"...besides literary gifts you have the gift of thoughtfulness. Thank you so much for sharing your talents and gifts with others..."
Sister Dorothea Songeroth
President of St. Dominics Health Services
St. Dominic Hospital
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Read an Excerpt
We Lesser Gods
By Elizabeth Clayton
AuthorHouseCopyright © 2016 Elizabeth Clayton
All rights reserved.
Gold -- the complete fulfillment --
of tender grass, and its many interwoven
turns, casual, erotic entanglements -- these
beside the peaceful content of
that complication of
beauty and good --
not to so much as to attend,
as to approve --
Wrapped, dressed with iridescent stones,
within wheels groomed of fantasy's chariots,
filled with dreams and the strength they
espouse: let this image drawn above all
seasonal coverings, shadowed -- sunlit and
moonglow -- leave they be -- beyond all time of
countings -- that the joy of the lovely lie in a holy
communion of good,
so documented, the very essence of the word "love,"
draped and flowing.
in deepest night
March, 2015, final week
-- written in intermittent wakings, my thought does not
stray, but is in my vigil of beauty -- sustenance, to my soul --
How glorious the lines of the
encaptured, circled matin movement,
in its awareness-- a grace
surmounting extant circumstance --
How the revealing, as its gold becomes,
drawing the gift of day,
the boon of the renaissance of
waiting existentials: these as cognizance
of the crumb to the
foraging cur -- sunrise is!
March 24, 2015
-- watching the sun rise, into day -- not so
much on the reality of the foolish, but
simply those sensing, accepting another sitting at the table,
if for only small portions of the feast --
With satin regularity, knotted or teased; rosets or streaming --
ribbons are like relationships
-- if enough binding
once was -- our days, years, experiences, information -- when
they come together, again -- no matter the time, behaviors;
words not spoken,
touches not embraced;
time, yet, with smallest sentiment, pronounces its
extraordinaire bond of adhesive quality whose touching,
acknowledging, remembering, giving
what can be given, as receiving -- becomes;
with these, occurs therein, a kind of
celestial osmosis, and all is as ever was -- a radiant
jewel of familiarity by a drought of
forgetfulness -- instantly, known, but not made conscious -- a jewel is
come -- surly as the "eye of heaven" --
and it, at its most piercing moments --
and though it be noontime, we are left the softly falling
Christmas Day, 2015 about eleven o'clock am
-- thoughts of our family, as it is today --
Let me lie softly, lightly, upon dusty rose and
lavender, complimenting faded scarlet,
that my thoughts lift into the darkness
to fellowship with old dreams
and memories, together with the
expectation we feel of angels, close
– over our engaging and exciting
glimpses which charm our silent, intimate
Let beautylove, touched gently by the a periphery of
longing, fill my heart with pleasantries
too beautiful to know, kept alone
with their distant intimations.
And let me not know the yearning, in reality
offering reflection, of once melodies
of colorful movement, to find forgotten loss, brought again,
of dramatic, illusive grails, those grande and less,
each fair, and with other comely particulars
– these too removed to clasp, left
past, too many hours to restore.
And let me not, the flame of, my pining for,
my lovely images, about, declare a stillness in all others;
for I wish to keep them, all, vestiges, and whole, that
I live in the joy of my
salvation – Thy handmaiden, but
student of psalms echoing the glory of
relationship and its joy so promised.
first week of October, 2014
deep wishes in deepest night
Small Prayer, at Bedtime
-- the flowering closing, beautifully
spent through the early
warmth of day --
I have stepped beside the movements,
as their first radiance was born.
wonderful, the life of beauty, for it portends
and if this be my day of debuting white,
or lightly blown neutral of the
concluding shroud --
I die to Thee, contentedly, in praise,
thanksgiving, and petition of
small prayer at bedtime
two o'clock am
April 12, 2015
A full flowing of beauty came at the
earliest entrance of light;
like a queen descending, to be seated
in her waiting glory,
the day of resurrection began.
Hours processed, moments knew small
splendors, and at beautiful
parameters, the magnificence of spring
Time, gracious, exacted all that was,
and as the afternoon grew,
reflection, courting the gradually concluding
sunlight, began the feast to come again.
And finishing twilight blessed the
the day whose bright is commanded by
Dante's stars, God's presence, His warming
love shown to grace us all.
Easter Day, 2014
– the verse covering the anguish drawing a
wish that should have been –
the reference to Dante is from The Divine Comedy, part, the Inferno –
"stars" appear throughout his work, indicating the
the warmth in God's love – a lovely metaphor –
a true knowing of the passing of time, prompting a verse –
Star-kissed bubbles in effervescent spirit have lifted
with an innocent expectation, from earthened
browntones into ochered, favoring
into examination of the towardward;
they have nourished me, led me with wide
softness, through thoughts of the strange and familiar,
from the raven into the silver of my life;
in morning's sparkling pastures into a time of
quickly gleaming sunlight,
and quickly, around the dark; light has processed --
sunlit day – and filled my reservoire of
memorable passings of time until
morning's leften hours.
Peace, unless in unusual discovery, an illusion,
can become true, banishing,
often, concrete, mundane realities,
and gives over to farewelling, white – cold,
into the gentle knowing of falling
rain, warm, and anticipated green.
Then, now, in these days, it may be that in hope is the
movement to our wills, from conclusion
and the self, for in us are the veins, such as those, in palest blue, of
the Madonna's breasts, fair, to, in sympathy,
fashion us, expecting of good,
and lined of sweet – for in this source be acceptance,
and content of mind; in them stand
knowings that lean into the
With both hope and an angst, I looked full into the
balcony's glass, to see its affording of a greeting (tall
and very meager) black – rising in an arranging
in the small light, gathering
behind – behind in its upward movement of the
They had, again, come in, to a communion, almost
immediately, an awareness of our familiar terrestrial.
– Ah, we cannot know, in reality, until the
afternoon, just how much the feast
has set out for us.
near morning's six o'clock, 2015
my references to the blue veins of the Madonna's breasts can be found
in the several suggestions of R. Browning's work
(one of the two major Victorian British poets),
the verse above, especially, "The Bishop
Orders His Tomb." The color, the image,
and the reality it brings to the
inward eye indicate the care of the holy by
the holy -- in life, in death --
Into the Morrow
I will laugh into the morrow,
its now darkness into early morning's bright;
and there, in pleasant dalliance, review my
oil and meal, all in continuous
I will stand, a matron queen, in robes
of golden wovens,
and let my eyes find light in sunbeams,
my cheek caressed by passing winds
of gentle breath.
And in the morrow, I will wander, to internalize
ancients' postulates, but most, consider the all
of my days, as they settle down
into my truest self.
How does one bide with conclusion and loss,
and honor placed, in the histoire of
all, in lesser portions –
she lives freely in the hope in tomorrow,
and once within it, gathers the laurel, beside
the vinegar and thorns.
September 4-5, 2014
writing intermittently through the night, having begun a
new Bipolar mood stabilizer medication –
embracing the forward appendage of thought –
Is not eternity, in fullest awareness possible, an extended
tomorrow, without fences and seasons –
(place and time)
Evening with the Sky Gods
The winds outside, tonight, suggest the
wandering of the sky gods, in sport, with
that celestial, inside darkness;
insects, with their continuous cadences fall,
gracefully, like dark, golden brocade around the
seams of the gods' robes, as they dance to
These beauty, entering out my thought, caught inside
my lighted, familiar rooms,
echo the joy of loveliness, with power and happy presence, a very
issuing need out my soul.
The day had been difficult in that my spirit could find no
peacefulness and light, together, into dusting dreams –
only constant September and its backward
glance to summer's radiance, a longing ever
present, yet when we are imbibing, freely.
Time is a heavy taskmaster, for it remembers as
well as seeing to the forward; that lost
cannot be brought again, just so,
except, if, perhaps, memory of yesterday,
and sentiments rise out their rest to cognitions
of past beauty – its glory, its majesty – most often, event
and instance, to hold until recapture – these are, then,
quite flown away into the beyond.
Andso, sky gods, with robes of glowing moonlight,
among garlands of laughing stars, and dances that step
between planets, graciously garnish my rooms,
lighted and familiar, settled into the night.
waking to the wind
September 26, 2014
Thou whose Person I have known, always,
yet cannot bide myself enough in Thee –
take my heart, its paltry whole,
only small givings to Thee;
let its povertys be entrances,
arched and blessed, into the presence of Thy grace.
Give comfort when none can be,
And give hope as a purest light;
Give redemption to Thy porcelain doll
in whose hands I have always been kept.
But in emptiness of love and charity have I wandered,
of my own complexities, my need for reason in
matters of faith which had not grown,
as the impoverished seed.
Forgive and accept Thy prodigal who has been lost
to Baels and reinforcers who I thought
more favored my own being in the moment.
in deepest night
September 22, 2014
A great many losses can appear, and all loss,
then, can appear in every milieu, for
generalization is a basic learning concept,
from childhood, forward.
Waking, in a very early rising, of which I did
not note the time, I slept, again,
necessitating restoring as to time, place and person –
a proper in establishing well thought; I was able
to identify inconsistencies, and righted my steps,
but with each step echoed the question, "Why."
Brambled knots form in troubled thoughts,
and my surmise which arrived is
that nothing, now, for me, has properties for
me, with which to establish time,
color or any one entity. It bears for an emptiness,
unmeasurable, and the joy of the
once known feast – passed.
Just how we come to this unexplainable circumstance is similar,
probably, to the death of will, what must become the
final altercation of the two absolutes, will and circumstance;
the will becomes outdistanced by particulars combining
in our lives, leaving a brambled knot of the
complete, but it finds a faint memory of
time, one of joy, peace – peace that has
existed before, graciously, to come, again.
November 3, 2014
the idea present in this verse is one taken from
Tennyson: "We come from God,
and we return to God; (W. Wordsworth,
"Intimations on Immortality")
Quiet, Still of Thought
The world is mine, when night is secure,
when light, movement --
come -- the quiet still of my thought,
and steps, to, now, the fore.
There is nothing I cannot effect, inside this
ambiance, under the smile, surly of the happy Pleiades,
and on prancing, roan stallion's air, in;
from sentiment and thought,
new dreams come, and
they wander, with purpose,
fragrances from summer warmth, to marry
together all yesterdays' and tomorrows'
and our heart, found weary in the struggle of Turnus,
comes to rest the sage's
Beauty lays out her fair linen in the
absence of light, and
beside our knowings, beside our quieted struggle,
we pass over, with eager fatigue -- over into the come
it of forgotten, and newly found dreams --
these like marvelously dressed carriages transporting
those lovely to that lovely --
these our forgotten dreams -- supplanting, igniting,
together their full legacy, those
to become, again, new, and more.
August 1, 2015
Much of my darkness rises out dreams with which
I so much spend energies -- beautiful thought and feelings --
now past the mark
yet -- and yet -- perhaps some dreams are
meant to evolve and change -- to better become the
soul of which even I could not have thought,
or known, their wonder.
Tiger tiger, little lamb --
with a fierce tenderness thou
hadst helped bring me through the fire,
and with patience, and under care, thy
wisdom has provided sentiments to keep
that which houses the lovely and good,
beside hurting calluses that established perseverance through all
wanderings in the wilderness, to find, safe and whole.
Strength has been given through beauty, and
the annals of wounded thought, provided
by a flow of love, and utmost care
of a benevolent Master -- from within my heart
movement of love toward the sounds of generous grace.
Thy imaged messages, thy responses, in sweet, unheard words,
imbue me, and hold me close to the love of good, the
thought of true, the hope in faith --
Thy innocence pours out love over me, that I, as the
instructed child, be made
wealthy in holy wisdom,
altogether safe, and content.
early morning, July 21, 2015
images from my studies, and lectures, later
(professionally), coming to me upon
waking: William Blake, a favorite imagist and his
famous, small verses -- "Tiger, Tiger, burning bright ..." and
"Little Lamb, who made thee ..." -- these verses
brought thoughts of this gentle, at times
emotionally ill, English, early Romantic
poet, who worked with grave
intensity at establishing an acceptable, to him, relationship to his God;
his engravings survive, also, and are remarkable
efforts in this life-long endeavor --
-- initiating many warm, positive feelings --
In winter's chill, and about, more, cold rain,
blossoms can be purchased from far away climes
which know, everyday, summer's
and in thoughtfully tender moments, melodies
can sound, intensifying
sentiment, the mourning dove's last lament
of the Southern summer's day.
Yet, creekside Honeysuckle of the Rose's
hue, of Pater's thoughtfulness, and the green
flame of Bamboo, in very freedom –
these are gifts which can come, in especially
lovely, noble moments – of those, true, fraternal and familial.
Ah, the moment – brief, unexpected, at times,
first, a circumstance adversarial, curious, critical – or beginning
can become the splendid reality of the Lily's
rarest, purest smile.
And then, we are content until reflection calls out
our attention, and we wander into the past,
often darkly; into tomorrow, with the gift of anticipation,
and the scourge of angst.
Our thought is a cosem of paradoxical valences, to be
a struggle for a peaceful constancy: we love, and we
will lose; we create, to be masters for a brief day;
we accumulate to give away, and
we live, to die.
That we continue past noonday is a remarkable feat,
but then, the moment is its own "reason to be."
– beautiful and intense, potentially good with understanding –
as stars appear to move and twinkle, in our
approaching their countenance – then, we gather
an intensity of a felt array of sentiments which are rare, if humble –
a foreshadowing of the glory to come
to us, at the close.
July 8, 2014
images, and the company of moments, insistent,
beautiful and constant in reflection –
Stars always appear in Dante's work when God is especially close in love,
emerging from hell, part The Inferno, The Divine Comedy
Rediscovered "Nice" Lines
at twilight, March 17, 2012
Only "acceptance" is full, if, yet, in emptiness,
and brings enough, even beside our dreams.
In haloed moments, when pleasantries fall about
like luted pastoral scenes, to face futile
unknowing is only a cloud
that passes between us and the warmth
in sunlight, a coming aperitif to
a sweetest cordial, of standing, full being inside small belief.
Silent rose of Rose, leaping emeraled Bamboo;
fullest skies draped of constant
ivory – these hushed into our
personal solitude –
thought in this company offers a repast to
transcribed Mach 11, 2014
Excerpted from We Lesser Gods by Elizabeth Clayton. Copyright © 2016 Elizabeth Clayton. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
ContentsA Prefacing Addendum, ix,
A Pensive Accompaniment, xiii,
Part One: The Pastoral Construct, xxxvi,
Part Two: Dissonance, 48,
Part Three: Anguish, 94,
Part Four: Acceptance, 150,