Your silent veracity

Your silent veracity                                                                         

Images flow from Your hands

through the medium of silence

to impress, expose and illustrate

the nothingness of the dream

while I hurry down a different road,

trusting to the flesh of the heart

and other charlatans and infidels

in this world of sham and glamour.

The truth of Your eloquence

(some forty-four years of exquisite silence)

becomes, in these latter years,

more acutely precise, glaringly apparent

in the light of Your beauty, purity

and Your ceaseless, silent veracity.

O child of God, as Truth is beyond words,

so Illusion is beyond any substance or sustenance.

  

                             

The silent Christ

The silent Christ                 

The silent Christ spoke only with His eyes –

hanged from an invisible cross.

His sheep not scattered but, becoming lions

and dragons, becoming torches

roaming the night.  The silent Christ

marveled at the intricacies of His own effort

and the trouble God took for just one Word.

Spoke with His eyes, His blood, bones,

heart and brain to call forth loudly

His children from the wilderness

which has enveloped them

to His table of bread and wine.

The silent Christ lies in sweet repose

as the hue and cry of the world echoes

and fades around Him, His work completed

one hundred percent, His silence going about now,

methodically, drowning out   

the blasphemies of the world.

O child of God, be silent yourself.  Don’t speak

of things you know so very little about.

                        

On Center

On Center                                                                                        

A novel is not a depiction of reality

but, of reality charged with purpose.

Being on Center is like that.

No one enters casually its gates,

nor offhandedly empties out

onto the busy highway beyond;

no chance encounters nor random exchanges

and, around every corner –

infinite possibilities and yet 

inevitable occurrences

charged with purpose and revelation;

hurtling towards a rendezvous

along the winding footpaths, within

the small cabins, the communal kitchens,

charged with purpose and beauty, nothing

left to chance, nurtured and arranged long ago –

and the invited drop in

and the uninvited hurry past

the pristine and infinite possibilities of such a place

built with love and responded to by Love Itself.

O child of God, home is where the heart is.  Hurry,

every chance you get, to His home in the west.