lightly she galloped up the mountain
her feet barely touching the rich green grass
instead she soared and leaped and yes
even flew
as her eyes focused on the still higher
quickly moving stream
for if she dared to cross it
and win the alpine meadow for her own
there’d plenty of wildflowers to pick and treasure
perhaps even a wild mountain rose
and then when she had a full and hearty bouquet
then she would be happy to descend at pace slightly
more leisurely
but wonder do you what she did when all a sudden
clouds sprang upon the scene
and thunder bellowed and lightning struck
and rain soaked her head to toe
perhaps her fortitude would be sorely tested
and her spirit promptly damped
but instead her eyes shone all the greater
and still up the mountain she danced
for a little rain was not enough to thwart her
and into the teeth of the storm she laughed!
and soon enough the clouds gave up the onslaught
and the drenched young maiden continued on
her hair wet and dripping down her back
but who cares for that when again
shone the sun!
and finally near dry she crossed the little streamlet
and let her feet feel all nice and cool
but not to be too distracted
she kept her gaze pointed at the wind tossed rainbow hue
her flowers were here and hers alone and enough for an armful
and many more to spare
oh but what is that whistle that sounds from the hut on the horizon
is it another little girl now coming out to play?
perhaps they can gather flowers now together
and sing and dance and laugh and pray
and then a hearty supper of stew and boiled potatoes
and lots of berries black and sweet
for though flowers are nice to look at and truly very lovely
a bouquet is not at all for one to eat!
so now the maidens tired at last from all their toils
sit around a little fire and look at their flowers dear
and eat their fill and a little more still
and whisper of things they fear
for the night has come and dark has fallen
and ghost stories are fun to share
yet the girls hearts are full
and their feet are warm
and they have flowers in their hair.
Tag: poetry
Fountains
once upon a time in a world not so different from our own
spoke a man to a woman of truths of things unseen
and though for a moment she hesitated wondering if perhaps
he spoke in a way that seemed insane
instead she listened for a moment more
and in that moment for eternity
her life was changed
so why now would we not think more deeply
on the myth that just might be true
and consider what it means
to believe in the one
who died and rose
and even now stretches out a hand
to you
Banquet
pay closer attention to these things your ears have heard
rest your eyes upon these green and lush pasturelands
through the gate which before you rises
enter in for your salvation!
for chief is this cornerstone
this festal sacrifice upon the altar laid
light of the world in whom we have true and perfect rest
oh blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!
do not drift away from our solemn and most sacred faith
feast on sweeter meats that are passed down the table
and rest your soul upon this precious faith of which
author and perfecter is
our good shepherd
Jesus
Wildflowers
i yawn as the early light tiptoes through the blinds
breakfast is really simple today she says
and that’s exactly what i’m in the mood for
scrambled eggs and toast with avocado spread
later as i sip my black coffee i say
these quiet springtime mornings
are my fav
Silverlight
the ever changing rivers flow westwards
emptying in the ever changing sea
and in a moment as I kneel above
i think of the differences between
you and me
and it is comforting to know that though
even though for peace i unceasingly strive
my mind is manic and not a bit static
much as the water falls from the mountains high
and crashes down below on rocks unyielding
the wet spray reaching even to my wet eyes
so too recognize the fact most strange
though i recognize my chaotic nature
that you yourself do not cannot change
this wonderous eternal truth blossoms full
your very divine immutability
and so i take a breath and sigh
and look out over the waves that dance in the sea
for indeed in gratitude i have no other choice
in you unshaking
still sorrowing yet
i rejoice
Memory Falls
i sit down upon the precipice
lording over all my shattered dreams
for which i see now were simply pieces
of the road as it was meant to be
and see now say now why not now
would i write this song how
i heard it in my head that autumn night
so many years ago found
on the bench under the lamppost
as the snow came drifting down
for as the scars upon my back attest
my fear and shaking hands drove me harder
than the clinging to my innocence
and i cannot rest now even though
the wounds are not quite healed
but for example take a whiff of this
on my hands this rose i hold dear
and you’ll understand that even
in my darkest years
i clung to something greater
and still do so perhaps i can now sit
amidst the wildflowers
and watch the stream wind to and fro
perhaps i can now in subservience rest
upon this sacred mount where olives grow
Sychar
the sun dazzles above my head and i lean down
to look at the only source of relief i have
in this lost and abandoned age
down below far below perhaps below
is the water that i seek
does it dazzle or is it only a mirage
perhaps one day i will be satisfied with less
though now i can never get enough
always thirsty for more and more and more
so i come here again and bend my back and strain
for that which i crave yet never
enough
for that which i need or so i say
perhaps there is nothing more
and there is no new and dawning day
yet the song i sing turns
to the refrain
as i go back to that well once again
why do i thirst?
Yearning
one seeks to walk upon the shoreside
and gaze upon the chaotic sea
and in the meantime
hear the waves rhyme
somehow peace whispers in harmony
and if you wish to know their secrets
you may need to travel oceans far
yet listen closely
don’t yet ghost me
for in these fogbanks rises a star
and i hug my arms to myself and sigh
thrill to ancient revelation
in dawning anticipation
stand in the sand
tide tickles my toes
First Cup
she tiptoes down the stairs
trying hard to think only
of the warmth of
steaming coffee
not of the cold that lingers
in her bones
she sings a few bars
of the verses that even now
haunt her dreams
sweet ones to be sure
as that which sits on the downstairs table
a chocolate frosted doughnut
not quite fresh yet still not stale
sugar rush to the spirit
as one thinks of truths
beyond the veil
That Which We Confess
Would that I were not currently sitting in front of an empty desk centered in an empty room bathed by the sweetly luxurious outpourings of the fluorescent lights mounted in the recesses far above. I could wish for another fate this late winter day I suppose, but perhaps it is not a bad thing to be in the stillness and in the quiet when so easily might I be in a shrieking cesspit of calamity and chaos. Is this harshly sanitized environment in which I sit not a respite from the nightmares that howl in the greater world outside? Perhaps it would be desirable to sit in this cheery sanitorium if only I believed that the world outside was truly as uncontrollably monstrous as some cannot help but preach. Instead I think that perhaps I do wish my feet were falling in rhythm upon an old stone path as I ponder the fresh air that piles in from the sea and brings the breezes that so often soothe my weary soul. I cast my mind away from this vacant island of pretense and script that vision of reality that so often sweetly haunts my dreams.
In this staging I walk in an old and hallowed courtyard, one lined by brick buildings laced with ivy and a few nodding northern elms who stand proudly in their nakedness. I have an important appointment to keep with a dear friend and though I don’t particularly want to keep her waiting, I do stop for a moment to admire the way the early morning sun filters through the grey clouds above to grace me with a small slice of beauty. I would love to spend a bit of time sitting against one of the trees and writing in my little notebook, yet I cannot spare the time today. Perhaps tomorrow. I put my feet back on the stone path and urge them back into some semblance of pace as I resume my walk. I feel almost as if I could be alone even as I know there are many souls in the buildings that surround me. Yet in the windows that I peer up at I see no signs of life. Only old oaken furniture and a few fluttering curtains in windows that have been left open. Perhaps my friend was leaning out of one of these same windows earlier to watch the sunrise. I know that she likes to do such, even if the sunrise does not promise to be momentous. Ah but there she is now. At the far end of the green I see her sitting on one of the wrought-iron benches that line the path. She waits for me yet makes the most of the time. I see her scribbling away in a notebook of her own. A poem or treatise on theology? Sometimes they are one and the same. Is not a true poem a very reflection on the reality of God? I like to think so. And that’s why people find poets so pretentious at times, for the fact that we seek to impart the deepest of meanings to the most mundane of words. But what are our words but grasping after the most profound realities that our souls ache to know in full? We know how feeble our words are. Yet still we write, in futility and dreams. Now my steps slow as I crunch through the frosty grass. She looks up and smiles.
Let’s talk about all the things and reflect on what our God has revealed to us this day. Let our hearts sing in harmony with the song of heaven. Let’s fill our minds with thoughts of beauty, for vanity unfilled will tends toward chaos and I’d rather not have that. Instead of vacant half-acceptance of the tossing waves of this raging world, let’s set our course by the star we know and firmly with resolve look towards the horizon where the far country grows. We see it now yet dimly. Yet in faith we see it true.
Something Weird 