|
I’ve found the sacred spectacles
That open the portal to things unseen. And every morning, I put them on my nose And stare out a world reborn. And if you want, I’ll conjure you a pair From my sacred imagination. And there. Now they’re yours. Just believe that it is so. Believe that things are not what they appear And you’re halfway there. It’s your choice. You can keep seeing the world Through darkened eyes Or start to believe That there is something more. And if you can imagine a brighter world, If you can refuse to see it As anything less, Then you have found the sacred spectacles.
0 Comments
Moon rocks, I suppose, are like any other rocks.
Yet they come from so far away. And that makes them something special, But only to those who care. And I don’t care for rocks so much As for the things that can’t be hauled away. Like the feeling that you get looking at rocks With friends who are there to stay. And yet, at end of day, I wouldn’t mind a trip to the moon If I could make it there and back in a few days. But I don’t think I would fill my pockets with rocks Unless the friend I brought Thought that they were beautiful. Behind the steering wheel of life,
So many places I could go. Luckily a still small voice Whispers What I really want. Otherwise, I might choose differently. Toilet paper, how fine an unneeded necessity!
Woven through the culture Like silk. And what would we do without it? Do without it I suppose. But it’s nice while it lasts! :-) God, please help me to say NO
When the bigger YES is calling. I eat a lot of bananas,
But I am not a monkey, Just a guy with a weak heart. A weak heart means less blood to everything Including the parts that digest the food. And so to keep things moving I have had to adjust. I have had to choose a gentler fare. And I wonder if that’s how life is for all of us. There is no “one size fits all” prescription for life. We do our best to keep the machine running for as long as we can. And perhaps that is a good reason to be kind to those Who do not eat bananas. I like to see people more than things.
And it’s so often things that are portrayed When you glance at the cover of a magazine. And the famous sell themselves off for parts When what interests me is the whole. All the same, now and then, I search for it in between And now and again, I find it, But most of the time it’s fallen through By giving the world the thing it thinks it wants. Perhaps it is a mistake to look for a soul where there is not. Surely. Surely. And there are plenty of wholes hiding In my daily walk. But even there, sometimes They’re hard to see, for so many Advertise their useless parts, Covering up the whole I long to see. And would to God That I saw more people and less things. I stand upon the beach of time
As the tide of stars and space Roll in and lap up on my feet. They soothe the memories of my fate And remind me of sacred promises Whispered in the night sky of my dreams And there I see, out on the horizon The sacred unseen streets Of cities built without hands And the angels that walk there Call to me to step out upon the mystery Of the great ocean of space, and to believe That the impossible is possible. “Walk upon the water,” they say. “Come home, Adam, to the memory Of the thing that you once were.” And I step out upon the stars and space. I leave the beach of time behind, And enter into the wilderness That lies between worlds. And I walk, walk, walk, by faith. Until the beach of time disappears And I am alone with the sacred memory Of the call of angels. My life did not turn out like a Hallmark Movie.
But in my heart, in my mind, it’s something like that. I like surprises.
Not everybody does, but I do. I like not knowing exactly where things are going. And I prefer to believe that things will turn out just right, Better than just right, in fact, that they will result in a thing Far better than I can expect or hope for, or create Through my limited means and wits. And I like to think that I am not The creator of the good fortune, But that it is just that: good fortune, And that it comes from above, The divine reward of faith and trust. And that seems to work for me To spite the times when it appears that it has not. And to spite even that, I still like surprises. I read the books that you don't write.
I peruse the verses written In subtle glances This way and that. And in the forest of your dreams I sit for hours in the quiet of your library of themes. For there are books you do not write. And it is my job to take them down From the dusty shelf, To air them out in the sunlight for all the world to see. I write the books that you don’t write. And then you read them and think, He knows me. Striving is endless
And it leads to more striving. There is always some new achievement, Some new out-there goal, That taunts with the suggestion That we will one day arrive. And yet, at the same time Letting go is eternal And less vexatious. And letting go suggests That we have already arrived And that all we need is right here, right now, And that there is nothing more That we need to be than us. It engenders gratitude, and hope. I love that feeling. I am tired of feeling low About how far I’ve come And how far there’s left to go. And so I’m letting go of striving, I think, Or at least I’m trying to. I am homeless in the heart of His Love.
And that is not a bad place to be. No home but the invisible arms That wrap me up from day to day. Oh, thank you God for not forsaking me! The lamppost in Narnia,
An oil lamp hanging from a tree branch, Or the street lamp that lights The silhouetted couple In the empty city street by night. It is a solitary light in an unusual place. It is the expected backdrop light Of every darkened city scene. It lights the way, It marks the spot, It frames the scene in amber tones, Or roots itself immoveably Awaiting Kings and Queens. It is left by one who thinks Of those who will come after. And it is found by the receivers Of the gift of things unseen. It is the lamppost, The lamp left for others, The light in the darkened place, And the landmark that shows the way Toward better things. I am in Amish Land,
And I look out my window To find a horse and carriage Tied to the post that marks the parking spot. And I wonder at their tenacity, Their drive to preserve the old way. I wonder and yet, I also relate. I am surprised at how much I am the same. I live far simpler Than my contemporaries. I do not vote. And I cannot be compelled to go to war Even to save my life or the lives of those I love. And some people would say that is evil. But it doesn’t matter. It’s who I am. It’s who I came to be. And though I do not drive a horse and carriage, I do put reigns upon the places That the world would lead. And I find peace In my simple life. And gratitude. And I can only imagine that they do too. The moon followed us home,
But my parents said that it couldn’t sleep inside. All the same, I spread the curtains wide And let it’s light fall on my blanket. And every night it came, And every night I spread the curtains wide, Day after day, year after year. Except when it was cloudy And then I was afraid. And on those nights I shut the curtains tight And went to sleep as fast as I could. But always it returned. And through my life It’s followed me, The moon, A faithful friend In times of strife. And when I cannot sleep, I walk beneath it’s loving light And it follows me where e’er I go. The light that doesn’t know How to leave me. Thank you, moon. Angel Oak
Dripping down, Shed your mantle over me. And let me hide beneath your branches When the world is too much for me to handle, And spread your leaves to fan the nakedness of my frailty. For I am not what the world expected. I am less than what they ordered. But here beneath your ancient branches, Leaning back into your massive trunk, I am safe from all that the world Would have me be. And it’s enough To know That we are here together, Two old souls who have weathered the ages And still remain to spite the ones Who would turn us into lumber. The inspiration for today’s poem came from a picture of the Angel Oak on Johns Island, SC. What do baby gargoyles do?
And where do the ugly faces hide Who do not want to guard the cathedral From all those who cannot bear to see anything but beauty. It’s kind of ugly when you think of it that way. I am not inclined to say anything anymore.
My views have changed so much And surely what is good for one Will not be good for all. I wish that people would turn to God, The ones who don’t that is Because he knows. He has the answers. I don’t. I content myself with what comes,
And the light of ages pours itself down on me A day at a time, a moment at a time, And warms me to my mission. And I cannot receive it all, But some Falls into my cup. And it’s enough to keep me moving, loving, speaking, writing. How great the Love that pours out into undeserving cups! And it’s enough. It’s enough. There are more people out there than you realize.
The world is full of them. And each one Is intricate. I could travel the whole world round And never meet enough of them. And so I have to content myself with one at a time. And yet I know that I will never really understand The width and breadth of humanity. And yet I think that’s what I’m doing. And the further I go, the more I see the vastness of it. And it fills me with wonder to know How small we are in comparison to the whole, And yet how wondrous and complex, The reality of any human soul. There is an ancient magic, long forgotten,
But we dream of it with tales of hobbit holes, And villages that hang from rainforest canopies And enchanted castles that only appear At a certain time of year, And only to the pure in heart. It is the magic of being there, And yet blending in so well With the nature of things As to be invisible. But long ago, we lost the art. It fell into the sacred, guarded, chasm That lies between here and the heavenly realm. But this magic is returning to the earth. It is claiming all those who can forsake the extra thing And fly upon the wings of unheard voices That speak out of the sacred place. But the gift of invisibility Is only for the pure in heart. And the sacred chasm opens now And for a time, a thousand years perhaps. And eventually, it will close back up. Will you claim the sacred gift While it is open? I took a trip upon a starship bound for nowhere.
I thought that it would be a holiday, But it was not. I was disappointed By the emptiness of space, The vastness of it’s lonely solitude, The unspeakable quiet of nobody there. I thought I would go mad For lack of somebody to talk to. And yet, the inward voice That had guided me in all my journeys was there. And together, we visited planet after planet. I let it take the lead. And the views were not half-bad Because of that. But I missed people And so I went back home To be with my people, But I told them Not to go. There was a time when the mystery of life held me captive,
And tomorrows were trusted to sort themselves out. A shooting star was entertainment, And the dream of what I’d be changed from day to day. And it wasn’t bad, It was good, Childhood. And perhaps I can go back. Perhaps I can let go a little more to the mystery, And let my dreams and entertainment be swayed By the unexpected. And maybe that’s not bad. It might just be good If I let it. My mind is a dark wood
With barren trees and brown, dead, leaves, mostly fallen, And a common finch at the heart of it. And the deepest magic Is found By Believing that barren things are green with unseen leaves, And that the heart of spring is found Where the whole year-round There whispers Life From the imagination of the dead wood of winter’s garden. |
Archives
September 2024
|
RSS Feed
