And let it be that yesterday we feared
Our lives but a whisper, lost amid a thunder of the ages,
And today find we are a piece of the Whisper
That shakes the clouds of fathomless eternity.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Monday, November 07, 2005
The grass whispers at daybreak,
Fragile-clad in the morning dew,
As life holds out our unprotected hopes
To be pierced by an ever-nearer, ever-broken reality.
The fiery watchman climbs his weary way through the sky,
Pulling the threadbare ocean’s tide away from the weary soldiers of the soil.
And we, the bearers of souls, are hard pressed
To stand against the tongues of men and stars.
Yet somewhere there are those who have found their face hidden from the searing sun.
Lost beneath the titan shadows of the greater:
A towering pylon, scorched but not withering;
Rebellious and firm against the tearing lash of heat.
The struggling grass finds safety below;
Just as we, the weakened children of Strength,
Must fall beneath the shadow of a tree
And cast us before the healer of our blistered souls.
Fragile-clad in the morning dew,
As life holds out our unprotected hopes
To be pierced by an ever-nearer, ever-broken reality.
The fiery watchman climbs his weary way through the sky,
Pulling the threadbare ocean’s tide away from the weary soldiers of the soil.
And we, the bearers of souls, are hard pressed
To stand against the tongues of men and stars.
Yet somewhere there are those who have found their face hidden from the searing sun.
Lost beneath the titan shadows of the greater:
A towering pylon, scorched but not withering;
Rebellious and firm against the tearing lash of heat.
The struggling grass finds safety below;
Just as we, the weakened children of Strength,
Must fall beneath the shadow of a tree
And cast us before the healer of our blistered souls.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Epitaph for the Lost Dream
Where have you gone? Here time stands still,
Pushed slowly to its knees by the gravity of your memory.
And this, your song, the holes once filled,
Stand open to the sky, seeming, somehow, far more deep.
The smoke from fires remembered, guiding weary pathmen home
Whisper from graves of sodden ashes that they, too, felt your strength.
This cross that lies, unsplintered, on your footprints near this stone,
Unmoved, for lack of guidance, untried by the age-wrought skeptic: our once so childlike faith.
Pushed slowly to its knees by the gravity of your memory.
And this, your song, the holes once filled,
Stand open to the sky, seeming, somehow, far more deep.
The smoke from fires remembered, guiding weary pathmen home
Whisper from graves of sodden ashes that they, too, felt your strength.
This cross that lies, unsplintered, on your footprints near this stone,
Unmoved, for lack of guidance, untried by the age-wrought skeptic: our once so childlike faith.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Forest Heart: a fragile allegory
Ripples of darkness whisper across the open air to touch the old ranger’s waiting eyes. Night has fallen, and amid the measured rush of silence he scans the horizon. From his vantage point above the tree line, the forest spreads out below him like an unconquerable army, quiet and still for centuries, wrapped now in shadow cloaks, silent sentinels holding out for the dawn. But the ranger knows that this army, though vast and splendid, is not unconquerable.
Many are the nights that this same low sky has been filled with a daylight of its own: small patches of hungry sunlight licking up the ranks of the evergreen army. Soon the patches would grow, spreading, brightening, flaming, and the silence would be replaced with the roar and crackle of a force far more powerful than the tall dark soldiers.
The ranger steps down from the rock he has been standing on. No sign of fire tonight. It has been a long time since the last flames were put out on the north side of the forest. Since then, time has slowly slipped by in the form of long days full of rain and waiting. A light drizzle begins to fall as the ranger makes his way along the old forest path. He can feel the soft, dark earth give way beneath his feet, smell the sharp fragrance of pine drifting in and out between the trees as it follows a path of its own. The air is thick with moisture and small noises—the rustling of wildlife in the low foliage accompanied by the soft groans of trees: quiet protests against the weight of the atmosphere resting upon their shoulders. And still the ranger waits.
He has long since given up carrying a torch with him as he patrols in between the tall mountains and down into the rounded “palm” of the valley. His eyes have grown accustomed to the company of the dark, shifting green and black shades of darkness. Long hours of walking the forest floor at night have sharpened his eyes, yet still the darkness holds its secrets, unwilling to tell all even to an old friend. He looks around him as he walks, noting the old shadows, eyes tracing the familiar wrinkles in the underbrush. It is in this way that he can be sure to see the flames when they come; able to see a pinprick of light on the mountain from miles away. But it has been so long, and still he walks the forest floor, echoing the footsteps of so many years.
There is a strange benevolence in the fires, he thinks as he climbs over the crumbling bones of a fallen tree. They come quickly and without warning, flowing through the old forest, coming with a speed born of hunger. Yet as they pass they make way for life, new kinds of vegetation that will reshape the face of the valley. For here, beneath the “elders”, below the towering visages of the long-standing traditions and customs of the old forest, some plants can never grow. The pale flowers that flourish above the tree line could never take root here beneath the towering cedars. Here the sun’s cascading waterfall of light is shed only upon the seemingly immovable canopy of the forest’s tallest citizens. But when the fires come, this world is shifted. Where once only the strongest, most obstinate trees stood, the smaller, more fragile beauty of these valleys slowly spills in.
The ranger comes upon a just such a clearing, the soft moonlight sifting like bright sediment through the misty clouds. He breathes in the open air, quietly watching the slowly dancing carpet of plants sway to an unheard music. After a few moments, he raises his eyes from the dance floor and smiles. Somewhere, far off in the distance, a piece of dawn has pricked the dark heart of the landscape, bleeding light across the miles to the old ranger's softly sparkling eyes.
Many are the nights that this same low sky has been filled with a daylight of its own: small patches of hungry sunlight licking up the ranks of the evergreen army. Soon the patches would grow, spreading, brightening, flaming, and the silence would be replaced with the roar and crackle of a force far more powerful than the tall dark soldiers.
The ranger steps down from the rock he has been standing on. No sign of fire tonight. It has been a long time since the last flames were put out on the north side of the forest. Since then, time has slowly slipped by in the form of long days full of rain and waiting. A light drizzle begins to fall as the ranger makes his way along the old forest path. He can feel the soft, dark earth give way beneath his feet, smell the sharp fragrance of pine drifting in and out between the trees as it follows a path of its own. The air is thick with moisture and small noises—the rustling of wildlife in the low foliage accompanied by the soft groans of trees: quiet protests against the weight of the atmosphere resting upon their shoulders. And still the ranger waits.
He has long since given up carrying a torch with him as he patrols in between the tall mountains and down into the rounded “palm” of the valley. His eyes have grown accustomed to the company of the dark, shifting green and black shades of darkness. Long hours of walking the forest floor at night have sharpened his eyes, yet still the darkness holds its secrets, unwilling to tell all even to an old friend. He looks around him as he walks, noting the old shadows, eyes tracing the familiar wrinkles in the underbrush. It is in this way that he can be sure to see the flames when they come; able to see a pinprick of light on the mountain from miles away. But it has been so long, and still he walks the forest floor, echoing the footsteps of so many years.
There is a strange benevolence in the fires, he thinks as he climbs over the crumbling bones of a fallen tree. They come quickly and without warning, flowing through the old forest, coming with a speed born of hunger. Yet as they pass they make way for life, new kinds of vegetation that will reshape the face of the valley. For here, beneath the “elders”, below the towering visages of the long-standing traditions and customs of the old forest, some plants can never grow. The pale flowers that flourish above the tree line could never take root here beneath the towering cedars. Here the sun’s cascading waterfall of light is shed only upon the seemingly immovable canopy of the forest’s tallest citizens. But when the fires come, this world is shifted. Where once only the strongest, most obstinate trees stood, the smaller, more fragile beauty of these valleys slowly spills in.
The ranger comes upon a just such a clearing, the soft moonlight sifting like bright sediment through the misty clouds. He breathes in the open air, quietly watching the slowly dancing carpet of plants sway to an unheard music. After a few moments, he raises his eyes from the dance floor and smiles. Somewhere, far off in the distance, a piece of dawn has pricked the dark heart of the landscape, bleeding light across the miles to the old ranger's softly sparkling eyes.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Let my joy in glory hide
Let my joy in glory hide
Beneath the sunsets of Your sky
'Til it find me in Your arms amid Your heartbeats,
Let my air flee from my chest
And leave no slumber, sigh, nor rest
'Til all I breathe is heaven's golden breath.
Or bring sweet pain its dwelling here;
If You hold glory in my tears
Then let my heart be torn from pride
And gladly for Your glory die.
And sing of love, love come down
The love my heart wears as a crown.
To sing of Love with all I am
Unending flow my soul demands.
Let earthly love be cast below
To where no seed can sprout or grow
Unless Your rain brings sunshine to its field.
And knowledge yield a kingdom's fool
With care to only be Thy tool
A sword, but yet a heart that You should wield
And all my wants or needs as be
Should wither, fall, for breath in Thee.
And leave my winged heart to fly
For in Your heart I find and love the "why?".
And sing of love, love come down
The love my heart wears as a crown.
To sing of Love with all I am
Unending flow my soul demands.
[NOTE: Actually written some time around 2003]
Beneath the sunsets of Your sky
'Til it find me in Your arms amid Your heartbeats,
Let my air flee from my chest
And leave no slumber, sigh, nor rest
'Til all I breathe is heaven's golden breath.
Or bring sweet pain its dwelling here;
If You hold glory in my tears
Then let my heart be torn from pride
And gladly for Your glory die.
And sing of love, love come down
The love my heart wears as a crown.
To sing of Love with all I am
Unending flow my soul demands.
Let earthly love be cast below
To where no seed can sprout or grow
Unless Your rain brings sunshine to its field.
And knowledge yield a kingdom's fool
With care to only be Thy tool
A sword, but yet a heart that You should wield
And all my wants or needs as be
Should wither, fall, for breath in Thee.
And leave my winged heart to fly
For in Your heart I find and love the "why?".
And sing of love, love come down
The love my heart wears as a crown.
To sing of Love with all I am
Unending flow my soul demands.
[NOTE: Actually written some time around 2003]
Monday, April 18, 2005
(Untitled)
Somewhere I heard a wise man say
That life cannot be bought or earned,
But must be lost, and found the same;
That what you long to hold, indeed,
Is that which you must first set free.
This, still, my heart has yet to learn.
That life cannot be bought or earned,
But must be lost, and found the same;
That what you long to hold, indeed,
Is that which you must first set free.
This, still, my heart has yet to learn.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
One Day's Lifetime
The rain begins to fall, softly, subtly—warm, bright accents diffusing the deep, full color of thunder, painted on the tapestry of our hearing. Stepping out into the galaxy of winged dew, clasping hands, our first steps are unsure, explorative, a testing of our skin and our hearts. Small shivers playfully chastise us for our reckless steps, but they are left behind and easily forgotten, thrown aside and dissolved by our all-conquering smiles.
We walk slowly at first, without destination and without need, just us two, alone among the crowd of the tiny, softly laughing children of the clouds.
Two old men watch us from a porch, hiding just within the shadows of their man-made arbor, cheerfully laughing along with the rain, but they with us, and at the years they have watched from our eyes, and now return to through them. Ours are years that they can no more return to than our words can stop the steadily growing sheets of rain persistently tucking us into its shining folds. But our road leads us elsewhere, and the watchers are soon left behind.
Soon our clothes, our disguises, become useless, washed through and through by this temporary waterfall ebbing and flowing down upon us. Still, they hold on, clinging to us as we cling to meaning, to each other, none of us willing to risk letting go, none of us needing to. And they, a dripping, shivering skin of cloth, can no more protect you from the sighs of wind than I, a sliver-shield of loyal yet imperfect affection, can protect you from the coldest wind of all: the inevitable moments of heartache.
Yet it is not for us to live those moments, but to pass them, to better them, to crush them with a laugh. For we are held in hands stronger than their small, withering appendages; hands that split galaxies and paint the cheeks of small children; hands that gave us to each other.
And, as the grip of sadness must, the clouds, too, relax their grip on the sky and move on. For some time their unfurled sails of gray satin, now orange tinted by a marmalade sun, peek at us from above the horizon. We return home from our neighborhood swim still smiling; I at you, and you at me. And as the smell of evaporating rain rises back to the softening sky, we reluctantly unclasp our long-shared hands, and find the insides dry-- a perfect, fragile haven from the afternoon storm.
We walk slowly at first, without destination and without need, just us two, alone among the crowd of the tiny, softly laughing children of the clouds.
Two old men watch us from a porch, hiding just within the shadows of their man-made arbor, cheerfully laughing along with the rain, but they with us, and at the years they have watched from our eyes, and now return to through them. Ours are years that they can no more return to than our words can stop the steadily growing sheets of rain persistently tucking us into its shining folds. But our road leads us elsewhere, and the watchers are soon left behind.
Soon our clothes, our disguises, become useless, washed through and through by this temporary waterfall ebbing and flowing down upon us. Still, they hold on, clinging to us as we cling to meaning, to each other, none of us willing to risk letting go, none of us needing to. And they, a dripping, shivering skin of cloth, can no more protect you from the sighs of wind than I, a sliver-shield of loyal yet imperfect affection, can protect you from the coldest wind of all: the inevitable moments of heartache.
Yet it is not for us to live those moments, but to pass them, to better them, to crush them with a laugh. For we are held in hands stronger than their small, withering appendages; hands that split galaxies and paint the cheeks of small children; hands that gave us to each other.
And, as the grip of sadness must, the clouds, too, relax their grip on the sky and move on. For some time their unfurled sails of gray satin, now orange tinted by a marmalade sun, peek at us from above the horizon. We return home from our neighborhood swim still smiling; I at you, and you at me. And as the smell of evaporating rain rises back to the softening sky, we reluctantly unclasp our long-shared hands, and find the insides dry-- a perfect, fragile haven from the afternoon storm.
Friday, April 15, 2005
All has been said before
All has been said before:
Is this sufficient reason for silence?
There is nothing new under the sun;
Is there, found in this, cause enough to halt creation?
Oh, the blessed tongue who re-forges molten words,
Echoing the rhythms of forgotten blacksmiths,
Yet crafting its armament with incomparable gilding!
That joyful brush that parts the day-worn light
And crafts the reborn prism of a silent, time-stilled masterpiece!
Shrink not from words for the sake of ancestry.
Laugh not at your newly created galaxies of reflection
For their rough-hewn nature,
Nor for the fact that they, too, share the common stream of human thought,
As did their predecessors.
Fashion, shape, conquer, press on!
There is nothing new under the sun;
Yet nothing is the same.
All has been said before;
Yet these words are ours.
Is this sufficient reason for silence?
There is nothing new under the sun;
Is there, found in this, cause enough to halt creation?
Oh, the blessed tongue who re-forges molten words,
Echoing the rhythms of forgotten blacksmiths,
Yet crafting its armament with incomparable gilding!
That joyful brush that parts the day-worn light
And crafts the reborn prism of a silent, time-stilled masterpiece!
Shrink not from words for the sake of ancestry.
Laugh not at your newly created galaxies of reflection
For their rough-hewn nature,
Nor for the fact that they, too, share the common stream of human thought,
As did their predecessors.
Fashion, shape, conquer, press on!
There is nothing new under the sun;
Yet nothing is the same.
All has been said before;
Yet these words are ours.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Wilt not, O silent flower of the soul
Wilt not, O silent flower of the soul,
Fragile sprout of hope's light and heaven's water.
Thou who rests on the edge of heartache's cliff, in bold
Defiance of the cutting winds that blow
Across you heedless, thrusting, cold.
O valiant bloom, adorn the hair of sunset's daughter
That she may find her beauty whole.
Fragile sprout of hope's light and heaven's water.
Thou who rests on the edge of heartache's cliff, in bold
Defiance of the cutting winds that blow
Across you heedless, thrusting, cold.
O valiant bloom, adorn the hair of sunset's daughter
That she may find her beauty whole.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Love is a rose, slowly burning
Love is a rose, slowly burning.
Growing from the ashes of many-broken hearts,
Its petals consumed and sustained
By the sun-bright flames of sacrifice,
The soaring heat of passion,
Its radiance of feelings unassailable and impenetrable
By the mercenary armies of our words.
It springs from the soft fabric
Of life resplendent, life untouched,
Yet forged and battered into ringing splendor
Upon the anvil of the heart, by Hope.
It is the native forest of untamed souls,
Rising up to defy the merchants of oblivion;
Souls who cry, “I will not buy your shining wares
Or fall before your poorly crafted trinkets.
Give me pain over nothing,
Give me blindness and a candle over your darkness,
Give me heartache and tears over your half-priced numbness.”
Open the gates of that small stem
And find the strength of a thousand hearts
Willing to fight what they were and are,
That they might spend one orphaned breath on the doorstep of what they could be.
Growing from the ashes of many-broken hearts,
Its petals consumed and sustained
By the sun-bright flames of sacrifice,
The soaring heat of passion,
Its radiance of feelings unassailable and impenetrable
By the mercenary armies of our words.
It springs from the soft fabric
Of life resplendent, life untouched,
Yet forged and battered into ringing splendor
Upon the anvil of the heart, by Hope.
It is the native forest of untamed souls,
Rising up to defy the merchants of oblivion;
Souls who cry, “I will not buy your shining wares
Or fall before your poorly crafted trinkets.
Give me pain over nothing,
Give me blindness and a candle over your darkness,
Give me heartache and tears over your half-priced numbness.”
Open the gates of that small stem
And find the strength of a thousand hearts
Willing to fight what they were and are,
That they might spend one orphaned breath on the doorstep of what they could be.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
I am a heart adrift
I am a heart adrift. All around me flows the dawn, the dew, the soft caresses of song- all around me flows She. O save me from the shore, that I may never again know its harsh lines and unforgiving cadence of stone! Here, on the steps of drowning, is where I will gladly breathe my last. Only the heart that finds itself dying can truly know what breath is. Only the starving can tell of what it truly means to feast. Only the blind can say what it is to find Her face before you, framed by the surge of spring. All of these I have known; a heart that is dying, starving, blind. And for a thousand times more to feel its return! that this moment may linger, as it is, as it has been, for one moment longer. For here She flows around me, young in spite of time, perfect in her rare imperfections, radiant even in sadness. Here her heart washes over me.
Monday, March 07, 2005
I found a smile today
I found a smile today. It was tucked between the cracks of the sunburned sidewalk, whispering to me in shining phrases. It's not every day that you find a smile- most are not left out in the sun for just anyone to find. I glanced left and right, inside and out. Quickly I tucked my newfound treasure in the only place its whispers could be heard: the back pocket of my heart. It sat there, mysteriously alone in that small pocket, a pocket torn and re-sewn, faded and patched. How many smiles had I found just like that and then lost just as easily, unintentionally letting them fall to be lost and trampled in the wide, wide world? But not this one. This one I 'll keep. Because I know that somewhere, forward, through, under, and past the deep shadows of these tall buildings, past weather-cracked streets and wandering people, beyond the gleaming storefront windows calling out in bright letters, there she stands, exactly as I have always seen her in my mind. For it is her smile that I hold in the back pocket of my heart. It was she who carefully placed it where only I could find it. I hope that I find her before the sun goes down. All I can do is keep on walking. But when I do find her, when I make it past all of the buildings and shadows and streets and maze of wandering people, I will walk slowly towards her eyes, and place my borrowed smile in her outstretched hand.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Give me some time
Give me some time to find my thoughts,
Collect these lines, and label all my feelings;
All I feel, still nothing I can name.
Sometimes it’s hard to understand
Just which comes first, the words or meanings.
Burning questions, “Does it all add up the same?”
Is a tear only a drop of spray
Quickly cast off as it collides
Upon the shore of quiet smiles
That somehow I can’t seem to find?
Give me some time to find my thoughts.I
t’s funny how they scoff and rule the kneeling,
Stand elusive, close enough to crush, refusing to be tamed.
Or maybe not to understand
The heart is grace unbridled and
To fill with wonder is to leave the soul unchained.
In that world: I wash away
And drown myself inside your eyes;
That quiet shore of whispered smiles
Only your heart and mine can find.
Collect these lines, and label all my feelings;
All I feel, still nothing I can name.
Sometimes it’s hard to understand
Just which comes first, the words or meanings.
Burning questions, “Does it all add up the same?”
Is a tear only a drop of spray
Quickly cast off as it collides
Upon the shore of quiet smiles
That somehow I can’t seem to find?
Give me some time to find my thoughts.I
t’s funny how they scoff and rule the kneeling,
Stand elusive, close enough to crush, refusing to be tamed.
Or maybe not to understand
The heart is grace unbridled and
To fill with wonder is to leave the soul unchained.
In that world: I wash away
And drown myself inside your eyes;
That quiet shore of whispered smiles
Only your heart and mine can find.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Cathedral
Splendor, stain the light and stay, O keeper of the day, and I, of solemn thoughts.
Float your stars o’er the graveyard of my heart—motes of slowly swirling memories
Caught within the atmosphere of a world threadbare with secondhand agonies.
Silence, steal the pain and kneel beyond the peal of hearts too lost to smile, too young to fall
Breaking the tides of song beneath your vagabond stars.
Teach my heart the strains of the sky, untouched by here and now
And what and how: the strains of living—the gravity of hearts.
Float your stars o’er the graveyard of my heart—motes of slowly swirling memories
Caught within the atmosphere of a world threadbare with secondhand agonies.
Silence, steal the pain and kneel beyond the peal of hearts too lost to smile, too young to fall
Breaking the tides of song beneath your vagabond stars.
Teach my heart the strains of the sky, untouched by here and now
And what and how: the strains of living—the gravity of hearts.
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