how lovely it is to walk down this forest path
underneath the thick boughs of summer’s glory
still though with anticipation i wait for the turn
because these steps i take are not idle ones
but day by day bringing me closer
to that for which my heart longs
forever communion at heaven’s table
that moment when bread is broken and wine is poured
and we share a cup and drink redemption’s story
so as i wait for autumn’s leaves
and for the skies to fill with red and orange and yellow
i say to myself that though i know not what comes
i trust and in faith abide in the vine
oh what incomprehensible peace fills my soul
i cling to that word that so gently clings to me
Penelope For Your Thoughts
I wish I was better at describing the created world. I love to imagine such things as rushing streams and whispering forests and sunlight streaming through the leaves of early autumn. Yet when my pen is lifted and I tilt my head and think about the words to use to describe the blushing sensations that cause a stillness in the air as one walks through the forest, my mind blanks. What are trees? What are rivers? How does one describe light if one has no frame of mind in which darkness plays a part? Why is my vocabulary so bankrupt that I cannot paint a picture with my words? This drives one to reading. I am stubborn, it becomes apparent. If my mind is not furnished with the proper words to pour out my thoughts, then I simply must fill it. Yet I’m afeared that my acquisition process is a bit akin to wandering through a Goodwill at times. Or maybe a comfy used bookshop is a better metaphor. I wander past many friendly paperbacks and fascinating tomes that I let my hand linger on. Yet how many of these do I pick up and take to the counter? Well, far too many, as it turns out. Yet still, I miss the bulk of what is on offer and seem to only enjoy the bookstore in the moment for the moment as my soul quiets in appreciation for the bountiful treasures all around. This metaphor has run to ground. But I think – or hope rather – you get the point that even as I attempt to feed my mind a proper diet that will enable it to pour forth streams of love-wrought beauty, it seems I am instead allowing myself to linger in the beauty of the moment as I dwell on the written word. I am not properly chewing and digesting – no, I am swallowing whole the sublime that I let my gaze gallop across. To continue with the crude, I am simply eating too fast. Of course my mind does not have the time and leisure to wander through the parlor and shake hands with the fascinating words one sees. Instead it’s a mad dash to the buffet table and a piling of the plate with all the goodies that one has learned to crave. Reading is a pleasure yes. But can it also be a discipline? This is what I seek to learn, even as I distinguish between reading that is merely entertainment and reading that is meditative and pointing ones to higher truths and sweeter climes. As I distinguish such, I do seek to alter the ratio of my consumption so that I do not consume such as would upset my stomach and cause me to get used to fouler fare. Instead, ought I not train myself to enjoy and relish the food that is grown by eternal light? I think so. I must be more deliberate about my reading, I do think. Thank you for letting me wander through my thoughts on this in this stream of consciousness pondering. It has been good to share such. Perhaps now as I shut this laptop and allow myself to pick up my book, I will slow down just a little. Perhaps I can allow myself to pick my way through the meadow appreciating the feel of the grass under my bare feet as I notice the wildflowers in my path and the butterflies fluttering past my face. Perhaps I will tilt my head appreciatively as I smell the scent of jasmine and note the changing light as the sun crosses beyond the tree line and heralds dusk to come. Perhaps I will allow my thoughts to think of heaven and of the eternal one. Perhaps I will allow myself to breathe deep and close my eyes as I stand under the darkening sky and muse on the city that rises in my dreams.
Party
She sits cross-legged on the carpet
apart from the others as she doodles
on her post it notes
She pastes one here, one there, and
another on the coffee table
and then waits for us all to gather round
for the show and tell
We told her it wasn’t that kind of party
that we just wanted to eat and drink
and flirt and talk
yet she held her ground and kept scribbling
and said don’t you all want
to see my art?
Well this is awkward a few of us thought
signifying such with eyebrows raised
yet perhaps pity calls for us to scoot over
and let her explain her masterpiece
and so in condescension we drift her way
and as her eyes brighten and she whispers
the story she has devised
we all find ourselves hushing
because we find ourselves wanting
to know how the story ends
and guess what?
It turns out it was that kind of party
for the sharing of art
and bearing of souls
it turns out that sometimes
the two can be one and the same
what do you know?
And so now I find myself scribbling poetry
and seeking to find a friendly soul to read
who will do me the honor?
Bedrock
Devotion to truth and beauty is admirable. But there is a potential for this devotion to sour as one notes a misperception that leads to a devotion improperly placed. In other words, something is called true that is not true. Or something is called beautiful that is not beautiful? Nonsense you may cry. Who are you to define truth or beauty? These are nebulous concepts that cannot truly be nailed down. I agree that I am not infallible and it is very possible – even probable – that my comments stand on sand at times. Yet I am not putting myself forward as the arbiter of beauty or my own poetry held high as the level of truth. No, all I am stating is the statement that there is a standard of truth and beauty and so perhaps this does point to one who may judge such. Is this too far? We may quibble on interpretations and paradigms of course. But is it wrong to posit that there may just possibly be realities that are solid in and of themselves and are far beyond our ability to alter? This is all I say, at this time. Later on, perhaps over a coffee or something more bitterly delicious, I will discuss with you my thoughts on the realities that to me are more truly beautiful than any others I can dare to imagine. And yes of course, these realities are based in the God whom I call my own, the one who is more beautifully true than my mind can truly grasp. It is difficult for the finite to grasp the eternal, yet I try. And so in what I call feeble faithfulness upheld by the infinite united to my soul I lay my head down in sweet peace that I am known by the one of whom nothing greater can be known to be.
Grasping
Look my friend see the lighthouse standing friendly on that distant shore
these seas are choppy the wind is perilous the dark approaches
yet somehow I can’t feel anxious anymore
let me put my arm around you and hold you close to me
and perhaps as we draw near to the jetty you’ll understand
just what it is that resonates within my soul
as i consider the beauty of this grey sky over this grey sea
but maybe you won’t and that’s ok
for it took me a while to fully grasp the complex interplay
between the immanent and the real
yet now perhaps I can describe it if you’ll lend me an hour or two
or perhaps not for these concrete words that pour from this mouth
cannot do justice to the ineffable of the divine
yet for some reason I can’t help it
with all my eloquence or lack thereof i’ll try
come with me my friend let’s disembark and feel the dry land once again
and come to this table and on topics of philosophy and metaphysics
and on good red meat and potatoes roasted let us sit and dine
does that sound alright?
take off that rain-sodden sweatshirt and take this towel and dry your hair
and follow me and come inside
Indwelt
she walks down the sidewalk as she processes
the last hour on the phone
and replays every moment
every syllable
every change of tone
her face grows ever more still
as the tears track down
and she feels her heart begin to calcify
and begin the metamorphosis to stone
but is this the end or just an intermission?
she has not read the playbill
so she cannot say
but it feels like a death she mutters in her head
and so perhaps not another resurrection moment
at least not today
perhaps though if she wanders down to that coffeeshop
just maybe there will be an open table just for her
and she’ll fill up the pages of her notebook
with all the lines that burning fill her mind
and then with the ashes of their bonfire
her grief will float with the breeze to heaven’s door
she hopes so oh she hopes so
for she can’t take this anymore
Still Waters
Oh how wonderful it is to have a spare few moments to sit and breathe and think on the abundant mercies of my God! I sometimes write in poetry and sometimes simply prose but for now I don’t think I have the energy about me to write much of anything creative this night, alas but is that really such a bad thing? Sometimes it is most beneficial to my soul to simply read on lovely things that are true and meditate on what God has done for me. So I will now shut this laptop and cease staring into a screen that I cannot quite commune with even while pouring out as many words as I write now. This outpouring of my thoughts from my head to this empty white space may seem grandiose at times but can it truly capture the flickering of the candle that is my soul? I know not but oh still I try. For now though, I am off for true. Farewell my friends and be at peace this night, I pray. Peace and love.
Breathing Deep of the last Aching Notes of Summer’s Song
A quiet Friday night is upon us. A lovely little end of the week walk was enjoyed and even though it was rather hot – as is typical for September! – I did enjoy just walking along the trail and enjoying all the blessings my Father has bestowed upon me. And now! A couple of quick book reviews. Yes. They shall be quick. I promise.
55. Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Could not finish this one. There are some lovely parts to be sure and some rather fine writing and I’m sure there is value to be found in this book. But in the end, I could not stomach another second of Florentino Ariza.
56. Anne of the Island by L.M. Montgomery. A jewel of a book and one of my favourites of the Anne series. I always approach this one by with joy in the anticipation and I have never been disappointed as I turn that final page. This book is one that is just a perfect delight of a read. There is a tinge of melancholy in this book and perhaps that is what gives the whole book such a well-rounded air of the true, I’m unsure. But apart from that, I simply adore the descriptions in this book and the way Montgomery shows so poignantly some of the feelings that come with growing up. Also? Montgomery always needs a character that pulls her away from that dangerous saccharinely sweet ditch and here she comes up with a brilliant one in Philippa Gordon. Phil is one of my all time favourite Montgomery creations and I smile every time I read one of her lines. We all need a Phil in our lives.
Incarnation
purple sky darkens as chaos threatens to fall upon the earth
so I cry save us save us
oh Jesus save us and grant us
thy second birth
so witness the account that history has given
and consider the potentiality
of an intrusion from the heavens
what some today name a miracle
and if it is possible that we know not all things
can you believe that perhaps just maybe
there was a descent from heaven
and that with the hovering of the divine
Jesus came
and in humility proclaimed
that he was the last and first
and testified of glories beyond our ken
so that even as he prayed to heaven’s father
we knew something was different about this man
and perhaps this was an instance
of heaven reaching down to remake and heal
for God knows we need it
and even now we plead it
that God give us a second chance
and he says I have
believe in the Son of Man
and eternal life I’ll grant
forever and forever
dare you chance?
this is life I say to myself
to know the God who knows me more
than I know myself now or ever will
and so of course I cast myself upon this shore
and dance upon this lawn and sing once more
for hark my friends there is none other
and naught better
than the true rest and bliss
that comes from resting your eyes upon
the very face of God
and knowing you are found within
the meeting of humanity with the divine
for in Christ our life may now be hid
oh brother oh sister
taste and see
rest in Him.
Intermission
she bends over the little secretary desk
and scribbles with all her might
outside the thunder bugles triumphantly
but Emma doesn’t fear the night
for all the raging of the cosmos
only fuels the maelstrom in her heart
and she bleeds messy prose onto the paper
witness this faltering house of cards
but it’s ok she says to herself
for surely soon this candle will go out
and on my pillow i’ll lie down and
lie awake and for hours muse on art
and the way the wooden crosspiece
struck my eye as the autumn light
fell just so upon that old red barn
i remember that afternoon i wrote
a poem upon my scratchpad as i
leaned against that tree and breathed
deep of pine and felt the comfort
of the old withered bark against my back
cozy in my sweatshirt and my eyes alive
with all that was on the page unturned
now alas i’ve seen too much and i fear
that perhaps all my best lines are burnt
but at least i can’t say i haven’t written
even if the pages are all fluttering
in the wind
and who knows what backstreet alley
they’ll end up in
alas my soul comfort yourself with what you know
and rest in those old promises
i have nothing else
