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?
