The Crescendo

I rage, I toil, I cower and sweat.

I have not met my maker yet

and if I meet him I shall say,

‘Please come again another day.

I am not ready. I am not ripe.

The times not right!’ I’d wail and gripe.

I’d beg of him right there some sign

that he was fair; that fate aligned

and gave me all that I deserved

not less and from the path I swerved

by some dark power ill beset

to full crescendo of regret.

And in the whisper there I heard

the tempest break at silent words.

I knew, and he reminds me now,

that I deserved much worse allowed

for fate is held by piercèd hands

that save each one from fair demands.

From instant darkness, ash, and flame

and takes upon himself the blame

So God the Father please forgive

my angry heart; my will to live.

Teach me—slowly—how to die

that I might live for more than lies—

not what I see but for the hearts

That beat for thee—in distant parts—

a tune you love to hear and share:

The music of the lives you cared

enough to bring out from the dark.

And each that beats and stills you mark

as yours—this orchestra of strings.

So take my heart and make me sing:

Now in life and then in death,

may all I do; may every breath

be all for you my Elohim—

the Ever Greater Than He Seems.

The Grand Risk

And I said that if they don't
then you will
leave...
but I knew that the truth doesn't
break
down so simply,
because there
at the breaking
and in the moment of
retreat
the tale of the steps you took
and the hearts that
meet
are lost in the blur of the 
momentary.


Before the smudging
of present sufferings
there was love and
hope
smiles and
laughs
and eventually
those things that will last on
into life and memory. 
And we look back
and see
and know
it was worth it to
go past this 
flickering hesitation. 


Go past this and don't
build those comfort walls
of fluffy cells
in the cold institute of your 
self-embracing solitude. 
Go past this into that
grand risk
of a heart open to 
greater loves than this.

My Choice Draught

I’m inebriated on life

And all it has to offer

I keep taking big gulps

—Coughing, spluttering, spilling—

Rather than sips and swallows.

There is so much music

Sights, smells, things to try

Tastes to taste

Feelings to feel

Thoughts to think

There are so many books,

Sports, jobs, games, skills, responsibilities

And the people!

The people!

There are so many of them

So many of us

So many stories,

Tales of families, sorrows, joys

Of evil, good and all that’s between,

Friends, acquaintances, lovers, and all who could be...

Why is it that so few will touch my life?

So few... and so many...

I am drunk on presence

And thirsting for presence

I vacillate between extreme loneliness

And a desire for solitude

But the people

I wouldn’t give them up

I wouldn’t go sober

For while they kill me, enrage me,

Love me, challenge me, seduce me,

Question me, inform me, teach me,

Learn from me, touch me, strike me,

Enable me, analyze me, judge me,

Forgive me, kiss me, speak to me,

Destroy me and rebuild me

I know that I would not be me

Without you.

Let us get drunk on our presence

On our very being, and that being

Together.

The History of a Book

I love used books

with their crackling spines

and musky scent

their easily turned pages

and caressingly rough texture.

But most of all I love it

when there’s a name

written with care on the front inside cover.

Or when some handwritten note or dedication

remains like a precious artefact

speaking of another place, another time

some memory of a person I never met

some legacy of one I may never know.

I wonder where they are now

What kind of life do they live?

Do they have children?

Do they have a warm place to call their own?

Do their friends call them often?

I wonder what caused them to get rid of the book

Did it get accidently thrown in with garage sale items?

Did they grow tired of the words?

Or did it simply mock them from the shelf?

—Saying, You’ll never read me again

you never have the time to read anymore.

I wonder if perhaps they died

and the book was sold or given away

and passed from hand to hand

until it found its way into mine

to share with me some piece of that person’s life.

What influence did the book have on them?

Did it make them cry?

Did it make them angry?

Did it make them want to share it with the world?

I write my name

right below theirs

never crossing out the history of a book.

The book is mine now

but it will not always be.

It could pass down generations

leaving only the fading list of handwritten names

the yellowing pages

and the creases in the spine

as memories.

I hope that one day someone will pick up an old book

see my name

and wonder who I am.

If I Knew That I Loved You

If I knew that I loved you

I would tell you in some grand ridiculous gesture

Something out of a Hollywood romance

Flowers and chocolate would not be enough

A dinner and a movie would seem too easy

No, if I knew that I loved you

I would write it in seven scripts

I would write them in seven places

Seven permanent locations around the world

Each continent would know my love for you

If I knew that I loved you

I would go on three quests for you

To the ends of the earth

To the bottom of the sea

To the very centre of your heart

If I knew that I loved you

No wall, minefield or gorge

No sea, mountain or stair

No cliff, army or void

Could keep me from getting to you.

But I don’t know if I love you,

I wonder and question and wait.

I don’t know if I love you

So let’s just get coffee at 8.

Reason Ends at Love

I.

All reason ends at Love

And there, at the borders and the foothills,

The cyclical train halts

To let the world weary and adventuresome off.

From the station they depart

Solitary or in twos

To cross the wastes and crags

Of false starts, betrayal and broken hearts.

Many lose their way, become sick and hard

Head back to the station and wait...

But reason’s train is difficult to resume

Once quit for the high domain of Love.

It stops to let off passengers

More often than pick-up

And many stops are in darker realms

Than the daybreak lands of Love

Yet those who pass through wastes,

Shadowed valleys and icy streams

To reach the stretching, rising roots

Of Love’s great mountain wall

Will see their trials multiply

At entering fair borderlands

Some will tire on a cliff face

To fall beneath bright mists

Some will turn for laziness—or fear

To wander back through lonely wilds

Some will fold before the crest

And sit and wallow—heedless of how far they’ve come.

Myriads lose all they are

On the mountain walls of Love

Still those who lose themselves upon

The mountain’s sunlit face

And yet continue chanting strong

“Further up and further in!”

These pilgrims cross the peak-tip’s blade

Not noticing its bite

And entering will find an inn

For their journey’s earned respite

II.

“Don’t pillow long your weary head”

The innkeeper will say

“You still have many lengthy miles to travel on the way”

At the summit you thought you’d found

Your journey’s ending place

But in the distance you can see

A higher mountain range

And all your efforts seem to be

A child’s mere bouldering

How can I climb those mountains there?

—I barely made these hills

My weak and fledgling efforts have

All but drained me of my will

“Fledgling? Yes, but don’t you fret”

Said the innkeeper with a smile

“I’ll guide you further on your way

Just walk another mile”

I thought it would be easier

I dreamed of a plateau

But now I see it’s harder still

There’s many miles to go

“You entered Love down at the roots

Of this great mountain wall

And those who failed to make it here

Retreated to their fall”

This journey ever upwards, inwards

Is harder than I thought it’d be

But I cannot imagine turning

That just might be the end of me

“So keep on going upwards, inwards

To the lands above the clouds

And when you cannot go on climbing

Call for me and don’t be proud”

Ridiculous! How can he come

To raise me up from the abyss

If he is here within this inn

While I fall off the precipice?

Then with a twinkle in his eye

The innkeeper did say:

“These lands are mine and I’m the King

I’m sure I’ll find a way.”

The Young Astronomer

One night a young astronomer

Did gaze upon a star

And saw it glowing brightly there

Like the antithesis of tar

He gathered up his scholar peers

To ask what it could mean

But they all said, “it’s meaningless.”

“Ask again if it turns green.”

They jeered and mocked him as they went

Not looking with their eyes

To see a star in daylight blaze -

What could it symbolize?

Yet two did stay to speak with him,

The young astronomer,

One who studied the histories

The other literature

They spoke of tales and prophecies

In some far western land

Of a coming king and saviour

Who would rise to God’s right hand

They asked the young astronomer

If he could lead them to

The place beneath the star’s zenith

Without further ado

The boy surprised to hear all this

Began to hesitate

But in the end he chose to lead

Their long adventure great

The men they packed their camels high

Provisions stacked in cliffs

And yet the boy said, “One more thing!”

“A king deserves some gifts.”

The two rich wise men thought to give

And spare no small expense

Thus they found the most lavish gifts

Purest gold and frankincense

The young lad wished to give as well

A kingly gift like myrrh

He worked and saved and sold his scrolls

His small means did not deter

He bought his gift and then they left

Just guided by a star

And through the desert and the plains

They journeyed from afar

After questing lengthened days through

Lands barren, burnt and wild

They came to a small Jewish town

And found a Jewish child

“This child,” said they, “Will one day be

The King above all kings

Great joy and mercy, justice too,

Love and hope is what he brings.”

They laid their wealthy presents down

At the small boy’s tiny feet

And Mary with her husband watched

Them give a royal greet

And then the young astronomer

Said “these our meager gifts

Laid at his feet are naught compared

To He who heals our rifts”

And if they entered in that day

Two magi and a boy

They left that place on homeward paths

Three wise men full of joy.

In Them, In One

In darkened shacks on blood soaked soil

Warm and cozy in caring arms

It lies

In twilight hours of punishing poverty

Wrapped in blankets bundled

It sleeps

In sparkling towers of reckless riches

Woken at the sound of singing

It smiles

In hovels built by hurting hands

Warned calmly to be careful

It crawls

In fungal homes of suburban sprawls

Weary from playful pouncing

It sits

In a chill cave full of assorted animals

Waiting for its momentous mounting

It cries

In them all

In one more

A miracle lives.



http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/2010/11/poetry-potluck-magic-miracles-wonder.html

Our Loss (Leavetakings II)

 

She was surrounded by those who love her

Her life stretched behind her like a red carpet

Leading onwards and upwards

It could have been much longer

But it got into her bones

It stole into her lungs

And robbed us of her

She was gone but not into the dark

She had left the shadowland

To live in fields of light and warmth unknown

Leaving us darkbound, black clad grievers

To ponder mourning

I know

And he knew

Grandson

And son

“How did you mourn her?”

Someone so good, so pure

Yet so aware that she was not

Aware of the stained rags she wore

Yet still smiling upwards into the face of heaven

How do you mourn her?

When she is somewhere better

And you are left alone?

I don’t know how

I cried at the celebration of her life

That euphemism stuck to my tongue

Like the hot wax of the candles burning by her coffin

I cried because I miss her

Because I will not hear her warm sonorous voice again

Because she will not wake me up

By gently rubbing my back

I mourned the loss of her

I mourned the state of the world without her

I did not mourn for her

For what she might miss

She traded her ashes for gold

“I don’t know if I ever properly mourned her”

He said

Son to grandson

And I understood

Broken Dreams in Otherside

When love’s façade breaks

And crumbles

Like a wall of shattering glass

Leaving a thousand tiny mirrors

And you find yourself

Looking amongst the settling dust

Deeper in

You begin to notice

That you played deceiver

As well as deceived

In this bleak charade

Dancing on the tips of fingers

And the blades of shoulders

With hearts and eyes locked

Beneath forgotten combinations

She or he

Was a fractured mirror for your

Secret desires

And the goals you’d deny

(Even to yourself)

To toe the line

To trip and fall

Down to Otherside

Lines that cannot be

Uncrossed

But they can be

Recrossed

Again and again

Oh, and again

And when the crossing becomes

Redundant

What then?

…

An awkward pause

An awakening after sickened slumber

A clearing of filmed and grimy eyes

And the tears

Shed for loss of property

When love’s façade breaks