My
terra firma
My
ship is churning in circles,
round
and round, round and round.
The
stars have shifted from their ancient
arrangements
and I’m lost again.
Gusts
of wind carry an old sea shanty,
the
chorus chanting homeward bound.
Yes,
my Lord, many times
I
have turned my back on You
to
venture out upon this watery realm
but
You are my terra firma
to
which I’ve always returned
for
stillness, solidity and refuge
in
this vast and lonely,
storm-riddled
expanse.
O
child of God, the world is round and self-contained.
You
always end up where you first began.
(painting
by Mark Hodges)
Wordless
poetry
Shall
I recite a wordless poem?
Just
to give my jaw a break.
Composed
of heart mumbles,
murmurs,
cadences and rhythms.
The
world begs for salvation
but
all we ever get is eloquence,
pomposity
– towering shelves of books,
volumes
and volumes of explanations.
No
wonder my Lord was silent.
After
reading the fine print,
I’ve
learned that Truth doesn’t enter
the
heart through the eyes or ears.
It
is not explained by the mouth,
nor
realized in the brain.
So
let us idle our useless tongues
and
pray for a poem composed
of
the Master’s Silent Word, the one
we
have been ever longing to hear.
O
child of God, words are never more
than inert descriptions
of the evanescent Truth.
A
drop in the bucket
I’m
being asked for my identification –
I’m
a bit player in some grandiose production,
a
walking heartache, passing through
a
shit storm on my way to the glory land.
My
thoughts are a broken record;
my
intended destination that distant blue range.
My
poetry is turning into a diary
and
who wants to indulge in that confusion?
Who
I am is a drop in the bucket.
A
drop in the ocean, shifting with the tides.
A
drop of perplexity
and,
by faith, of divinity.
O
child of God, you are being prompted,
in your latter years,
to trek through the wilds.
