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The Bell Tower That Leaned In

I. The Pastor’s Hand

At dawn’s brittle cusp—
  he climbs, each step
    a nail in time’s coffin
  breath ragged
    a Psalm torn mid-hymn.

The rope tastes of incense and myrrh—
  Liberty’s fracture
    braided through its fibers
  a wound
    that never quite healed.

He pulls—
  clang—

  a bell toll
    from Poe’s cathedral of despair
     a hymn of blood-ink
      and rusted breath.

The shadows coil;
  scripture frays.
Faith flickers—
  does anyone still hear?

Each toll
  an exorcism.
Each silence—
  reproof.

II. The Town’s Celebration

Midnight’s spine splinters—
  rockets scream
    like seraphim undone.

The bell convulses in bronze jubilee
  a copper throat
    ruptured with Hemingway’s dread.

“For whom,”
  it mutters beneath the blaze—
    but no one listens.

Children suck sweetness
  from sulphur
lovers cling beneath the clang,
  their shadows etched
    in cobblestone fog.

Old men raise cracked chalices—
  liquid memories.

The tower disrobes.
  It dances.
    It bleeds.

III. The Lovers’ Tryst

(overlapping the Pastor’s sermon)

Here—
  the world blurs
    to charcoal.

They carve names
  in limestone flesh
    a scar older
     than forgiveness.

Their memories
  thread the bell’s
    unspoken prayer—
a psalm of mouths
  and ink-stained breath.

It does not toll.
  It listens.

Their hearts throb
  against the rusted must
    pulses striking time
     like flint against flint.

Below—
  the town melts
    into watercolors.
Moonlight spills like wine
  over copper skin.

The past folds
  like origami cranes
    left in rain.

IV. The Tourist’s View

He climbs—
  camera held
    as relic or rosary.

Light breaks
  between lancet panes.
Streets below:
  runes, scars, equations.

He speaks the town aloud—
  each name
    an invocation.

He is dizzy
  with witness.

The bell does not toll.
  It withholds.

The silence
  is not absence—
    It is prophecy.

V. The Final Ascent

(voices blur — Pastor fades, Lovers pulse, Town distorts)

Night, hollowed
  to bone.

Hands claw at stone:
  brittle gospel.

The rope—
  untouched.
The bell—
  unswung, waiting.

He climbs
  through the relics
    of devotion—

Vows crumbling in lichen.
  Prayers wrapped
    in rust.

The bell looms—
  a maw of iron
    swallowing liturgy
     and hallelujahs alike.

  No blessing.
    No rebuke.

He steps
  beyond breath.

The bell does not toll—

  but the tower
    leans inward.

Not in judgment.
Not in mourning.
  In final witness.

VI. Metapoetic Echo

(outside the tower, outside time)

The bell tolls still—
  not in bronze
    or rope
     or lung

but in the trembling script
  of memory.

This poem
  folds itself
    around the silence
     echo chasing echo
      word chasing wound.

A bell is a mouth.
A poem, too.
  Both toll.
    Neither forgets.

VII. The Universal Toll

For whom does it toll
  when time buckles
    under relics?

The tower holds us all—
  pastor, mourner
    lover, pilgrim
       birth, life
          death.

The bell answers
  not with clang—

but with
  heartbeat
    muse
     word.

The toll
  is not theirs.

It is ours.
  It has always been.

Copyright © Daniel Henry Rodgers | Year Posted 2025

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Date: 7/11/2025 5:19:00 PM

Outstanding. You have become a new favourite to read.
Date: 7/11/2025 12:50:00 PM

Daniel, you have a deep philosophical view of aspects of life. Our relation to time and events so does depend on our aim and desire at the time. We certainly hope to be kind and let the world's bells ring true in each situation. Many things actually ring, but we're just not aware of it. Even an incandescent flashlight rings when first turned on...we just don't hear it without special equipment. Take care!!!! and smiles too!!
Date: 7/11/2025 11:02:00 AM

Very thoughtful and profound seeing things from several distinct perspectives. I can see this as the type of poem published in a reputable literary magazine
Date: 7/11/2025 10:25:00 AM

Beautiful presentation of your poem dear daniel, as always your wordplay and use of diction and how youv delivered so much here is just beyond impeccable and exquisite. Worthy of several reads. I read slowly few times and i must say its not just poetry but it is art, you paint with acrylic in such a way that readers are left in awe of not just the poetic nature of your words but also the depth "Below— the town melts into watercolors. Moonlight spills like wine over copper skin." Gorgeous and soulful! A definite fave for me! Pleasure visiting you today! Sending you light always
Date: 7/11/2025 9:01:00 AM

The rope tastes of incense and myrrh… He pulls— clang— a bell toll… Vows crumbling in lichen. Prayers wrapped in rust...just a few of the great verses here! Yes, the bell tolls in whispers, clangs and silence, etc… each part important to listen to. Hugs ~ Kim
Date: 7/10/2025 7:42:00 PM

I'm just wondering, as someone who is simply not capable of writing such epic poetry. How long did it take you to write this masterpiece, Daniel? Amazing!! ~ Gershon
Date: 7/9/2025 9:18:00 PM

Wonderful use of the bell as a metaphor, Daniel. Like life, there are so many functions one may serve as and so many things one may share with others of their observations of life and experiences in life. Your life must be full for your thoughts are full in scope. Thanks for sharing them with us through your poetry, my friend. I see below you've been on vacation ... glad you took some time to enjoy life with your wife. Your poet friend in Texas, Bill
Date: 7/9/2025 2:51:00 AM

Dearest Daniel, this poem left me breathless. The way you've captured the bell's presence and the stories it holds is hauntingly beautiful. Each section is like a piece of art, and the way they fit together is just masterful. I felt like I was right there with the pastor, the lovers, and the tourist, experiencing the weight of history and emotion. The ending is very thoughtfully deep, "The tower holds us all—pastor,....death". You're a brilliant poet, so glad you are back, welcome back :) Hugs
Date: 7/8/2025 12:28:00 PM

This is a highly spiritual piece. It hit like the bell in the tower. You write with such emotion and power, Daniel. Always you give us something to remember and think about and take with us, a truth. I love how you seemed to hint that the bell's muse is poetry-
Date: 7/8/2025 12:22:00 PM

Fascinating point(s) of view you present here. The last stanza of part 1 is of interest. At one time it was thought the clanging of church bells warded off evil spirits. My fave part is the lover's tryst in the bell tower. Sounds like something I might have done as a teen. Glad to see you back and at it Daniel

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