Here is the crush

Here is the crush

Here is the crush,
garnered and pressed;

a hitch in the stream,
a knot in the grain,

an opacity in the clear, flat glass.
Purity is imperceptible.

Light must be fractured
(and there is a certain violence to it)

to yield its colors.  Here is the eternal,
indiscernible stillness

cropped, pared, hewn, here and there,
moment to moment, into illusory pieces.

Here is the inaudible essence
below the accompanying wail

and whine of the spinning orbs.
Here is the spangled sky, the lurch and yaw.

Here is the price God must pay
to perceive Himself.

O child of God, it's something about
looking through a glass darkly.

               

Endless highway

Endless highway                                                                                               

A breach has developed between myself and life –

immeasurably subtle yet, discernible . . . discernible.

I keep coming back to it or, it keeps coming back to me,

a tear in the fabric; a peering through –

deeper, essential, within me and yet, also  

flowing towards me – a hint of my immortality

to match existence, to match God. 

I strongly suspect then this flowing towards me

continuously has been flowing towards me eternally.

I turn another corner and know, or suspect I know,

there’ll always be another corner to turn, always,

this being just another inimitable

stretch on an endless highway to nowhere,

forever and ever without end, amen.

O child of God, what destination lies beyond infinity?

On what date shall your eternity come to an end?

Of resolution and resurrection

Of resolution and resurrection

Beauty becomes a quiet comfort
in the latter years, giving of its depth

and essence without intentions or purpose,
earning our honor and attention

by virtue of its mere existence.
One day Truth will be like that.

We'll cling to it even through
the most bitter of circumstances,

the most fearsome grief because it lies
so purely, so resolutely beyond our grasp.

It will taste medicinal by then -
of resolution and resurrection.

One day Truth will come to our door
so pure, so vulnerable, so lovely

it will be beyond us
to ever deny it anything.

O child of God, pray for the day truth, love and beauty
all are expressed by the same silent word.

                   

My freshly hewn grave

My freshly hewn grave                                                                        
 
Grieve not for death; nor wail and weep.
Toss a rose into my freshly hewn grave.
There’s another appointment I must keep.
 
The Master’s promise (oh, the price was steep –
bought by the breath and blood He gave) –
grieve not for death; nor wail and weep.
 
The chasm I’ll cross in a vaulted leap;
no prayers required, my soul to save.
There’s another appointment I must keep –
 
depart this world of dreaming sleep –
a hapless King dressed as a knave;
grieve not for death; nor wail and weep.
 
Bearing fruits I’ve labored long to reap,
nearer to the rest my soul doth crave,
there’s another appointment I must keep.
 
The grave is shallow; the night vast and deep.
Trust to God's benevolence and be brave –
grieve not for death; nor wail and weep.
There’s another appointment I must keep.

In the hothouse

In the hothouse                                                                                      

The faithless rose is fated to forsake

the nightingale for the Maker of roses,

the Maker of nightingales.  Such a leap

comes about only in timid, painful increments

here and there – the draw of bodies,

the comely flesh alter over time

to the sacrosanct allure of human courage,

innate goodness, virtue and fidelity.  

Clay upon clay, we play with fire,

explore our capacities, pay the price

for the glamour, the extravagant promises

of our budding, adulterated love

until love becomes purely the only tie that binds.

And then come, o Lord of Love, to wield Your axe!

O child of God, in the hothouse of human love

the heart tends and refines the timorous rose.

Salt flat

Salt flat

Existence, said my Lord, is a big fat zero.
Buddhists say the same - trying to shoo

everyone through the narrow slit of a door
beyond which lies, not paradise, but a vast,

flat, uninhabitable terrain.
Surrender, it would seem, amounts

to encountering every (blessed) moment
as the wondrous insignificance that It is -

life becomes death, soul becomes Soul,
illusion becomes Truth, zero becomes Everything.

And we, o pilgrims, become God,
gliding through, gliding through -

in the fine release, the swift transparency,
the invulnerable poise of every (blessed) moment.

Not a narrow path to follow,
nor a mountain to scale in the distance

but, an endless salt flat, in every direction equal,
to espy, acknowledge and wander

until we make our worthy return
to the Ocean from which we came.

O child of God, to surrender is to stop trying
to make something out of nothing.

                         

Excerpts from AUBREY'S VIGIL - a novel by Brian Darnell

AUBREY'S VIGIL blog

Sunset ... and death

Sunset . . . and death

Sunset . . . and death is another day nearer
yet, tranquility in the twilight reigns.
My faith informs me I shall live forever.

Yes, trust in God may weave and waver
from doubting fears I've yet to tame,
(sunset . . . and death is another day nearer)

but, from the Source I'll be parted never,
(though earthly evidence disputes the claim,
my faith informs me I shall live forever).

From this realm soon my body severed;
my moon-like being doth crest and wane.
sunset . . . and death is another day nearer.

As keepers of fate pull upon the levers,
I wander down the green-lined lane.
My faith informs me I shall live forever.

The night's chill shan't taint my endeavors -
the left-off poem, the ungathered grain.
Sunset . . . and death is another day nearer
but, faith informs me I shall live forever.

                       

What God is not

What God is not                                                                                       

We’re to become dust, says my Lord.

The value of dust?  Next to nothing.

Lowly and compliant as a sandal print.  

Tramped on, kicked around, beaten down.

Jesus became dust – stripped and spat upon,

mocked and rejected, a carcass hanging from a nail,

far from God’s glory as a man could get.

To unite with God, apparently,

we must choose to become exactly

what God is not – a mote of dust,

(the perfect counterweight);

dust because God is immaculate;

because He is majestic, singular;

because God is dynamic, creative, alive!

To unite, o seeker, with the living

God Eternal, we must choose to die

beyond any hope

of resurrection or salvation.

O child of God, from your dust-clotted throat

sing now, sing – we are not we but one.