She rose from her chair and walked to the window, trembling. The rain still pattered down upon the sill yet the thunder had long ago ceased its grumbling. The sky had begun to lighten. He had promised, he had said he’d be there before the end. But that was hours ago now. Her phone was silent and still. She turned her back on the window and went over to the coffee table and lit the candle. The room was clean of course, though she still let her eyes dart to all the corners to verify for the seventeenth time. Why did it matter though? She did not know how this conversation would go, this face to face. She sometimes stumbled with her words and he always seemed so confident. Perhaps this time her words would be clear and her face would be calm. Perhaps this time she would know what to say in the moment. But what would he say? Would he approach in humility and purpose? Or would he come full of himself and hollow of all else? Her insides writhed and she sat down on the edge of the sofa. She didn’t know what she wanted. She looked over at her phone on the chair. It had lit up. She couldn’t see from that angle if it was him. She rose slowly to her feet and swallowed once. Then outside footsteps and his profile at the window as he passed. There were flowers in his hand.
Tag: creative
Renewal
The two of them sit at the table and let their eyes proclaim their fears. Their words waver, their sentiments at times difficult to read. And though his hands go through all the motions, hers stay still as granite along the shoreside path. Their back and forth seems almost rehearsed at times, as if a matinee showing of a play that’s been running for years. But that’s not quite fair. There’s real emotion in his words. There’s agony in her silent tears. The table is not sturdy enough to bear the weight of their once hallowed expectations. Yet it’s enough to bear the weight of one hand stretched out to the other reminding once again of that sacred oath. She puts her hand in his and in the stillness lets out a breath. This talking about all the things was good and necessary yet the thorns still tore their clothes. But remember, he says in a low voice now. A cord of three strands. The smile in her eyes says it all.
Glimmers
Ah majesty! she sighs to herself and proceeds immediately to trip upon a loose rock in full sight of the rest of the tourists wandering about afore the castle. Well that will make me memorable at the very least. Thankful that no ankles had been sprained nor knees skinned, Emily gets up to her feet grateful that her pride had long ago rolled its eyes and withdrawn into some deep dark cave. She was a lost cause after all. A little bit of Irish dirt clung to her jeans but other than that, no damage done. And even the dirt was only a souvenir at the end of the day.
Now Emily walks off the path and onto the grass, approaching the edge of the cliff, the view that had caught her eyes moments before and so precipitously tossed her to the ground. There is something inherently majestic in the way the three realities collide. The solidity and gravity of the cliff and the ground under her feet sound forth in pompous solemnity. The whimsy and fanciful airs given by the sky and its train of clouds scurrying to and fro whistle jauntily in their place. And of course the sea. The wild angst and sheer power of the waves below her soar forth as strains of the violin, haunting in their beauty and aching in the rawness of their tears. So a symphony is born. The cliffs, the sky and the sea. All a part of something greater yet to be.
There is a sparkling in the air as the waves crash into the cliffs and throw up a spray into the sky and proclaims that this moment has arrived and that in its very temporal nature there is a beauty that signals the eternal of the divine. Emily doesn’t recognize all this in words, at least not in this very moment. Later she would write upon it in full, at least as much as her conscious mind can comprehend at a moment far removed. Yet now, though words escape her and only a silent exclamation hovers in front of her lips, Emily comprehends now more fully than she ever will again. The spirit within her resonates as if strummed by an invisible hand. And perhaps it has been. There is in this moment a knowledge that she has witnessed a creative act that is far beyond her. Emily stands at the edge of the cliff and whispers a prayer. It is good for her to be in this place and worship. It is good for her feet to stand upon this solid earth as she gazes upon the sky that stretches over her and the sea.
Panhandle
To create is to breathe is to let loose a thought a prayer into the winds of time.
I pray now and ask for such grace as might be given one who longs to pen words that point to farther glories and future songs. I pull up my small kayak to the shore and jump out, wetting my shorts in the process. I wade to the shore as I heave the kayak aside me. Do you see the sun setting over the wind-blown palms? It shall be dark soon, this I know. But for now, there is still light to see by. And enough light to even scribble a few words before their memory puffs away. Once written, the pages shall be kissed and sealed. I will then trudge up the dunes to approach the house that lays on the other side. Perhaps dinner shall be waiting, a simmering pot of tomato sauce perhaps, scents of oregano and parsley when I open up the kitchen door. For now though, in the last glimmerings of summer’s sun, I pen what my muse whispers in my ear and I wonder if the words tomorrow will look as good as they sound now. Who can say, who can say. I’ll let future me be the judge. For now, I breathe deep of wood-smoke and smile in repose. If one looked at me now, they’d see green eyes shimmering in the light of heaven’s touch. I have no other longing this night than what I whisper now under my breath. There are some myths that are true, do you know?
Twenty Four
Heralds of Heaven – heed my Cry!
I sit down at the end of the row
bowing patiently before
storm approaching
stars bemoaning
all the raveling
these times are suffering
for the pattern groans
the lines deepen
upon her brow how long
oh lord how long
the corn’s a tasseling
lift up your heads
and keep the oil at the brim
not long now
will you sing with me oh stars
will you cry the chorus
the answer comes back cold at first
then clear as heaven’s night
we will sing yes we will sing
no one will be able to stay silent
the everlasting gates fly open
some will wail and some will shout
we the old ones tell this story
yes we will sing when comes
the king of glory
Alleluia Amen
Bricklayer
The ocean sings to me this night. I sit on the porch and watch the moonlight play over the face of the waters. The waves bob and swell and crash unceasing. Their music is soothing my pain. I reach to the side and pick up the glass from the table and take a sip. The cold liquid feels good going down my throat and I am grateful for small blessings. I lean back in my chair, pulling up my legs and curling into a smaller ball. I pull my hoodie up and feel a bit like a bird fluffing its feathers in preparation for the storm to come. But no storm here. Not yet. I take another sip of the drink beside me. Perhaps I shall read just a few minutes out here after all. The light of the moon is enough to read by, I think. Beautiful words tripping across the page will be good for my soul. The song of the sea in my ears and I feel an aching longing in my soul. Perhaps tonight I will feel peace. Perhaps tonight I shall feel that love as I dwell on that for which my heart longs. I think I hear the call of the heavens. Or is that only the far away cry of a bird wheeling across the face of the moon?
Worship
The sky lightens. There is music in the air. The trees quiver in anticipation and the woman raises her face to the eastern sky in silent prayer. It is good to meditate on what has come and it is good to look forward to that which shall be. Even so all the more, it is good to with trepidation step across the grass towards the dunes that rise. The woman trembles at the slight chill she feels this early morning. Soon enough, the sun shall dispel the cold and she will shed her jacket to feel the warmth upon her skin. But for now? She hugs herself and continues to think on the blessings that are hers. What a gift this morning is!
No sound but the song of gulls and gentle crash of waves. No duties but gratitude and singing the lines her heart aches to say. No fear but that holy awe which thrills her bones as she considers the love which overwhelms her frame. She now sits upon the sand with her knees drawn up to her face and she over and over again whispers praises to the Name. Glory be to God the Father, glory be to God the Son, glory be to God the Spirit, praises praises to God the Three in One. What a joy it is to worship this day in this cathedral divinely made. Yes no better place to worship than this plot of holy ground, floors of rich sand and ever moving waters and arched ceilings of whirled oranges and purples, pillars of cloud and flame. It is good to be here in this place. The woman sings the doxology once more. Her face glows with holy fire.
Honeycomb
the forest meadow calls to me
in all its sweet wildness
in all its raw simplicity
so i heed the summons
let’s dance amidst the butterflies
let’s soak up the last of summer’s sun
perhaps you hear the thunder roll
and wonder at the storm resplendent
but please my love don’t tremble
i’ll do my best to keep you warm
we sit on a log at the end of years
fingers interlaced we talk of this and that
perhaps you’ll turn to me and smile
rain on canopy above goes rat-tat-tat
today you’re soaked in autumn’s tears
tomorrow perhaps you’ll turn to me and laugh
Lighthouse
Attend to that light upon the horizon, my friend or else-
you know the tales of course
crashing upon rocks and cries of the doomed
fire below and fire above
and on high the keening wail of angels
so what say you so what?
Attend to that light is all I ask
Trust the keeper and keep a firm hand
Dawn comes but not for all
Attend my friend, attend.
Path Meditations
Why do all my songs of late so often mention that pilgrim path? I like to think of the forest green and beautiful and then that path that winds ever on and on through the thick of the trees and brush to end up on that far shore that calls my name. The path imagery is an old one and indeed one that has been used often throughout the past ages. One thinks of life as a journey from birth to the far unknown and there is no more natural metaphor than that of a path. So I suppose I could say that I am not being particularly original with my creative prose and poetry when I so often go back to that ancient well. Yet sometimes the tried and true is best. There is no confusion when I talk of the pilgrim on the path and the trials and travails that may beset him as he walks on. There is a nodding of the head and an echoing in the heart. We all have walked on paths through the forest before – or at least most of us have, I daresay – and we are all of necessity making our way through life as a pilgrim who comes from dust and will end as dust. So of course. One could use other metaphors of course, and I often have. I like to imagine one sailing on a ship towards that far horizon and that eternal shore. Of course, this is only another angle of the same pilgrimage. We are still going from one place to another, from one time to another. Only the setting and scenery change.
So at the end of the day, as I reflect on the fact that I perhaps use this imagery of a path too often to express the longings of my heart, I come to the realization that I don’t really mind this. I do not believe I am exposing my creative vacuousness. Instead, I believe I am expressing a simple faith. I know I have been created from nothing and though on this earth I may also appear to be progressing towards eventual nothingness, I have a hope that this is not entirely so. Instead, I look forward to the resurrection of the body, a resurrection that is prefigured by the resurrection of Jesus Christ himself, who even now stands in heaven above and advocates for me his little brother. I have a hope and faith that someday I will in my own body stand before my God and with my own eyes gaze upon his glory. This is my song, my salvation!
And so? Perhaps my writing may start with a path, but it is not a path in isolation. There is a destination and a place where the walking stops and perhaps a fire on the beach to welcome me to my eternal rest as I prepare to feast with my Lord God at that wedding supper. I do not walk without purpose. And I do not walk alone.
Something Weird 