Spark

The first blush of crimson

buffeting the evening sky

awakens slumbering passions;

misplaced fervor;

it catches the light, refracted,

revealing the splendor of the Presence,

the power of the Divine Word.

In awe, the day retires into shadow

but lingering

is the voracious appetite for more,

the insatiable thirst for the glory of the Lord,

such that we would lament our folly;

our fleeting tempers so easily inflamed,

so easily appeased

and turn again to wonder,

to seek, wherever it might be heard

that sonorous voice

inspiring, in equal measure, terror and peace;

conviction and joy.

'Return!' the prophet cries,

like soundings in the deep,

'Seek Him while He may yet be found.

Repent, even in this sly half-light,

of our apathy; your routine and circumstance

that have blinded devotion.

Be not so easily satisfied.

Step down and be washed clean.

Let your toes feel the embrace of moist soil;

the cool press of the river on your thighs.

Immerse, in water and Spirit,

lest dusk fall fully and sleep again

deafen the ears of faith.'

We stand at the eve's pinnacle

burdened with decision

as light slips the vale.

We watch the last throes of the day recede.

We burn, consumed

by the glory and the Word;

and will suffer no rest

though all the earth should slumber.

Eastertide #3

We awoke

as if from a long slumber

to the serenade

of birds long departed

--- no grander praise.

We saw the dawn

bathing the grassy hillocks

in cool splendor

and sat in disbelief

at the sight.

For at once,

the shadow was gone,

the dull oppression;

the despairing had been but a

wish of cloud.

The darkness of that ninth hour

broke in the gloaming

of a new day

--- the Lord's Day.

In All

In all

uncertainty and

scarcity;

trepidation and want,

in the mire and the marrow

the dawn shines brighter

over desolate plains;

the shattered hillocks,

dusted now

with the frailest

shoots of spring.

In all despair,

in barest need

there is solace

in furrowed brow

resting on ancient creed.

All Our Lights

All our lights glimmer, blaze

like gaudy baubles beneath

the vernal sky. So proud we

are for our treasures built high

to dwarf the stars. Here, they are

but subjects to Orion,

seated above, who hovers,

regaled in his full glory

amid the milky expanse.

In Sebewaing, the darkness

is canvas of creation

the masterstroke of divine

pen; the heavens ring with the

heraldry and majesty

of their Creator and our

banality is made full

manifest, a mere idle

distraction, fractions in 

scope and scale. Unseen wedding

of surf and shore mocks our royal

hubris; the grandeur of

galaxies illustrates our

insolence. No stirring moon to 

intrude, spitefully upon

our sundering. We meet and

are met, in the echoing

stillness and silence, exposed,

unadorned, and found wanting.

Woes

"Woe to you who are rich, 

for you are receiving your comfort in full now."

We who count our abundance as blessing

and find ourselves fettered to our amusements.

How few, in the half-light of provision

can see past the gleam

of the next, the better, the best

into the hollow of our pride.

How few can fathom

the freedom in scarcity;

the feasting in one's daily bread.

"Woe to you who are well-fed now,

for you shall be hungry."

Woe indeed to the satisfied.

Woe to those whose bellies groan

with the burden of banqueting;

filled to the brim with sumptuous chaff.

Oh, that we would gather

with needful hands

the manna  whose humility sustains

in the desert wastes. 

"Woe to you who laugh now,

for you shall mourn and weep."

Woe to lives that banish sorrow;

we who insulate our walls from pain:

our eyes know no flowing tears;

our hearts no rending.

For no joy can speak from isolation.

Light has no meaning but for shadow.

Tear away our placard smiles

and baptize our souls in tears.

May we find our wisdom in sorrow;

our consolation in the breaking;

that joy would fall swiftly,

echoing from the wastes

and weeping.

"Woe to you when all men speak well of you."

Oh, the likeness of sinful man,

his countenance shining 

in the midst of shame,

exalted easily

though mercurially found.

Staring at the kingdoms of the world,

pledging his allegiance

for the price of fame.

Forbid,

that his feet should strike stone

when lifted

on the hands of family and friends and followers.

Forbid,

that justice is found

and frowned upon

lest his heart demand decision.

Forbid, 

that truth

should not meet with adulation;

that honesty

should mingle with pain.

Oh, the heart of the modern man.

"Jerusalem, Jerusalem, who kills the prophets and stones

those who are sent to her! How I often wanted to gather your 

children together, the way a hen gathers her chicks under

her wings, and you were unwilling."

March 2019

O Lord,

when the tempestuous winds bring waves of violence but no vision of spring;

when the appeal of amusements fade,

then show your face.

When the taste of food grows bitter;

when the throb of apathy cloaks itself in day after day of shadow,

then show your face.

When the work of the hands brings exhaustion but no joy;

when our dust-caked bodies collapse only in sleep,

then show your face.

When the light of your people dims to a flicker;

when the desperate vapidity of the lost drowns out the songs of the saints,

then show your face.

When the shade of night lingers still over the land;

when dawn seems yet a distant hope,

then show your face.

untitled

The lightness of the morning,

unencumbered;

the sun alighting

the unforeseen snow

buffeting the house;

the reeds bending, slightly

beneath their glorious burdens,

the weeping canes

of the blackberries

is something, is all, is peace.

It is great to see beauty in great things.

It is greater to see beauty in lesser things;

to see majesty stretched

upon the leaf, the stone,

the silhouetted tree;

to see the scroll of the infinite

sketched upon the simple

and sublime;

Divine artistry on humble display.

I have fought

with the soul of a mathematician

to qualify and quantify,

to craft and create.

Now, with permission,

I may observe

the robin in flight,

the wisp of cloud,

with the mind of the poet

cataloging the rising sun,

the steam rising

from the mug of tea,

the strands of my daughter's hair

with thankfulness

and purpose,

content not in utility

but in beauty 

and communion.

The untarnished

drifts

sparkle as gems 

under a clear sky,

painting the world

impossibly white

-- an inescapable purity,

an echo.

Then it is gone,

a moment unsustainable,

incalculable

but bound forever

in its beauty

in its memory

that I may rise

with thankfulness.