The
melody of a flute
Last
night I lay in bed
listening
to my heartbeat.
I
heard the sound of one hand clapping.
Above
my roof, a roll of thunder.
Or
was it my stomach rumbling?
Do
I want to live in the body God gave me,
or
continue to roam
the
phantasmagoric realm of my mind?
My
Lord’s hand upon the pen,
my
every poem emerges
from
His Word and His silence,
a
psalm of praise
from
me to Him
and
from Him to me.
O
child of God, obsessively you wander the wilds,
pursuing the windswept
melody of a flute.
A
childhood scar
A
childhood scar on my left hand,
like
a testament and lifetime friend,
is
no longer visible
among
the intricate creases of old age.
This
poetry is a lightning bolt,
piercing
the dutiful gray.
I
am a part time stenographer
with
nothing of my own to add.
I
need to be quiet now. Everything
belongs
to Him, is Him.
As
you read these words,
read
the silence between them
and
ask yourself, o child – if God is the Sole Doer,
what is your function
and purpose?
Twigs
and mud
They
gave me a name at birth
and
I’ve answered to it ever since.
Sometimes
when called upon I wonder –
who
is that masked man anyway?
Maybe
I’m one of God’s sparrows
settled
into a nest of twigs and mud.
The
truth is I’ve never learned
who
I am; only my habits.
As
I meticulously strive to make certain
I
am never a surprise to myself.
At
my birth they wrote down who I am.
I’ve
lived a long life under that name
and
yet, still, a mystery I remain,
unto
myself and every other.
O
child of God, direct your gaze inward
and confront the riddle
of who you are.
The
miracle realm
At
the keyboard again and who’s peering
over
my shoulder, revising my text as I write?
To
believe in the Muse of poetry
opens
the door to other spirits –
archangels,
cherubs, seraphs . . . and God.
Daily
we truck in goods of the apparent,
rarely
touching upon the Mystery.
Yet,
we are offered but one illusory choice –
to
cling to our known world
or
to enter by faith the miracle realm
of
holy men, masts, Masters and Avatars.
No
one, my Lord advises,
steps
into that Holiness
with
one foot yet planted in the profane.
O
child of God, you have no choice – so foreign
is this transient world
to your eternal soul.
