Silence

Balance rock, Haida Gwaii

 

There is exultation of snow
when it is fallen and silent
and all mans machinery is overwhelmed,

silence in court before a judge,

silence heavy as balanced stone between stars,
distances untroubled by any sound,
the energy of your beating heart
spinning pinwheel galaxies
forever outward,

the silent mystery of life made visible,
the universe agape in awe,
every pumping convulsion
coming from the silent mind of God.

Authentic

　

Rooted in an empty ache,
lurking deep,
longing for the real,
heavier denser,
uncounterfitable thing,
gold or platinum,
a relationship you can test
with your teeth,
sink in a little and leave a mark,
something the world will die for,
cannot buy at any price,
you have seen it, tasted it,
the flavor will never leave you,
an embrace that changes you forever.

You are authentic now,
you are real now,
but the joy is deeper than mortality,
it has sunk into the Great Grand Know,
the ripples of its sinking leave
those aching shadows,
wet footprints
in your eyes.

You would never trade or sell
at any price,
you belong to the Authentic,
he belongs to you,
it is not what you dreamed,
both better and different,
not what you wear,
but now who you are,

simply who you are,
resting in arms no one knows.

　

Sing To Me Again

Sing like the rise and fall
of winter wind at night fall,
blowing light snow
around my frozen caravan.

Sing with many voices
in spacious harmony
like an icy wind
from the mountains
scented with snow burdened spruce.

Sing light and clear
like the Aurora Borealis at midnight,
sing out from behind dancing curtains
of many colors.

Sing me a Klezmer chorus,
ancestral wedding veil
of suffering and grace.

Sing,
thus will I be warm again
and sleep in your arms.

For Such A Day Along North Beach

Thank-you for round rocks,
for surf that pounds them down
from broken shards by the ton,
piles them in sea cellars,
tosses them ashore,
stone-falls folding in the waves,
chips swept from a gambler’s table
with massive earth-bone rattle,
applause of stony multitudes,
witnesses to the grinding smooth and round,
polishing to colors translucent, marbled;

for couples, hand in hand, on holidays,
strolling by wonderful moon-mad waters,
reckless, overreaching, newlywed
collectors of beauty in gem-like family groups
scattered randomly on beds of sand,

the horizon, a sure promise
from that which comes to that which goes,
foam and clouds blowing free
when squalls sail by,
misty ghosts of galleons under sail,
at shrouded helm
toothless mariners winking.

For such a day along North Beach,
I thank you.

Only On Haida Gwaii

While camping on the misty islands,
at Kagan Bay,
I glanced up from my fire
and through lush rain forest trees
I saw a man
waltzing gracefully with a woman,
holding her close,
both dressed for camping or hiking.

I heard no music,
yet they dipped and turned,
swayed silently
as one soul,
on a moss carpet
among ancient cedars.

Our Shapes Prepared





sound of millstones,
light of an oil lamp,
turning hand crank,
whirr of a treadle,
tap tap of hammer,
unchanged from always mankind
for today and tonight.

prayer has filled empty silent spaces
in days not yet come,
they wait for us to arrive,
misting the shadows,
our shapes prepared
to receive us
as we will be,
not until then.

　

                                               

　

Be Still My Soul

　Exile is a clearing
in a foreign forest.

Find it down the stony path
from your door,
past the familiar
into the dark green trees.

Thick moss leads the way
followed by deep silence.

Suddenly a coyote calls
from the distant clearing,
laughter,
and its echo,
anguished despair.

For you,
exile was the only good,
blossoming the soul,

though severed,
a brief flower
on a rootless stem.

Brief,
like the Rose of Sharon.
　
　

 　

　

　
　

To A Musical Nazarene

You are a gifted young boy
in a corner of the villlage market,

strawberry blond hair
to your waist,
dancing eyes,
t-shirt, jeans and rubber boots,

playing on your violin,
Bach from memory,
flawlessly
welling up from your soul,
soaring over the noisy crowd,

ignored by the people,
hour after hour,
setting the tone,
wrapping milling throngs
in old varnished
wooden baroque,

no hat laid out or tin can
in simple answer
to my inner question “why?”
no gleaming pools
along your woodland stream
for my grateful coin.

　

　

In A Small Wooden Church On a Small Island

Your words were objects,
selected from a library,
chosen, deliberate, borrowed
for a purpose,
each one you dropped like a gift
into a waiting hand.

Ordinary words.

Each word radiant
exiled to its sentence,
singled out as a gem
on a velvet pillow,
soft black silences enclosing
planet and star.

I listen as words grown soiled,
scuffed in overuse, careless disregard,
are washed, faceted, polished
and offered,
each selected from its own temple
outside the galaxy,
a gift,
every sentence
a glittering necklace strung,

trails of light
leading back to the Holy One.

Last Storm Prophesy

　
First it was a whispered air
more light
than stir a leaf

then it was a wafting sigh
mist floating on a pool of grief

multiplied into a breeze
filled a fleeing sail

then the august ship of state
foundered in a gale

and storms of sorrow
swept the world

someone to a cross was nailed

flags of darkness were unfurled
the lord of every lie was hailed
quislings chained
rebels jailed

but shall return the cross-hung one
with the keys to death and hell

cast the flag of darkness down
strip the lie from willing bone

and take His rightful throne
and take His rightful throne.