Sunday, October 27, 2019

Rain, Flame, Eternal Name

The springs of eternity
cast their  perfect pearls of rain
upon our windowpane.
blackness of the night
casts dim soundings of our worldly plight
splashing faint toccatas
of lonesome drip-drop, drip-drop sonatas
Oh, this just seems like the end of the world,
as I hear rain against our window hurled.
Or . . .
the beginning of something grand
with baptismal sprinklings from some angel’s hands.

Whichever one it is
is up to us to decide.
There is, you know,
deep within our breast
of pilgrim restlessness
a hope—
a desperate pattering of some purpose, 
dropping in this midnight rain
dripping with our blood-borne pain;
It persists in thumpish pattering,
oh, such a dreary smattering,
that falls gently in plip-plopping drops
to bring the harvest of our hoped-for crops—
our dreams, my schemes,
here In this autumn’s irrigated ending.
So far we’ve come from summer’s fair beginning.


Now in this darkness of October night
by solitary glow of  low lamp light
wired in by human ingenuity
enabled by divine gratuity,
behold  this lamp-fire that burneth not;
it merely glows in element, slightly hot.

Oh! but here’s the wonder of my soul!
If I may be so bold—
as to compare this glow, so tame
with eternal Yahweh flame.
I see it burns for me the same
as for our long-gone brother
who beheld  some earlier other—
in a bush it brightly flamed
to reveal the ancient I Am name.

Yes, I see it  shining  brightly
On the table here next to me.
What a wonder to behold!
A phenomenon so very old.
Whether by electricity or flame;
all is powered by Eternal name,
YWHW I AM and I AM again,
always will be,
I can clearly see.

Now you may say that glow came with Edison,
True, but it did originate  with  Eternal One
who set us spinning ‘round the sun,
after His Big Bang  fun.

The springs of eternity
cast their  perfect pearls of rain
upon our windowpane,
and I’m aware of Yahweh name;
it glints into our human game
again and again and again.
From time to time
we see it shine.
Ah ha!

Thursday, October 10, 2019

Getting old

Are you booting up a brave new world
or slogging in a new slave world?
You who would be brave or slave—
snickery snob or clueless knave?
Catching the new wave
or just trying to behave?
You filling your Capitalist bag,
or flying the Socialist flag?
Working for wages, or plotting for profits?
You dumbing down, or heeding the prophets?
Will you work as selective
or labor in a collective?
With more .gov or less?
destined for worst or best.
You protesting in public space,
or praying in private grace?

All things being equal,
are you satisfied or freakful?
Living as privileged  elite
or just dancing to the rabble beat?
Striving for the common or the proprietary?
will you eat fattening or dietary?
Or maybe you be in shadowland like me
wishing for what was instead of what will be.
Winds of change blow hot and cold;
Will you stay young, or like me, grow old?

Winds of change blow foul and fair;
Are you ready to turn to dust or air?
Winds of change are hard to read;
Can you face them without a creed?
Day of death casts us in the hole;
Will you fall to dust, or rise in soul?

Friday, October 4, 2019

Genesis of a new novel: Search for Blue

The Traveler had been carrying his burden for a long time: a restless soul. Traveler’s roots were deep, but not necessarily set into a specific place on this earth. After traversing many a mile of land and sea, the sojourner had been driven westward, in search of some destination that could not yet be clearly identified. So it might be said his deep roots stretched deep into life itself, rather than a place
        At least for now.
        From an Old World starting point,

he had sailed o’er sea channel, into stillness and storm, outside of the norm, through the  outskirts of somewhere, and beyond the other side of nowhere,  arriving for a season upon some ancient isle. But finding very little solace there, traveler had redirected weary legs to ascend yet another ship’s gangplank, so that he might be transported to that great land he had heard tales of, beyond the blue.

        The seaport where he disembarked was, as it happened, a frontier for foreigners not unlike himself. They had uncovered motivations to—for whatever reason—not remain where they had begun. And so, having hung their hopes upon such vague restlessness, they undertook yet another phase of the great journey to somewhere yet to be determined.
         Ever moving and moving from this place to that, Traveler eventually found himself ascending a long piedmont hill, and so it seemed when he had reached the top of it, the extended journey was now delivering him to a wide westward-looking vista.

         Pausing to catch breath, Traveler trained his eyes on a string of  faraway ridges. Obviously high, yet . . . it seemed . . . gently-sloping. . . forested they were, and having no cragginess that he could see from here. That string of mountains  stretched like great slumbering beached whales across the entirety  of his new horizon. From  north  to south . . . blue, and blue to blue on blue, and more . . . blue.
He had never seen such a thing.

Search for Blue