The Candle Lit
The candle lit in winter deep
does from my mind darkness sweep,
chasing sullenness away
with the dance of subtle ray.
Casting shadows without fear:
in the glow, warmth appears.
Turning night to coziness
and fills my room with peacefulness.
Crossing the Seven Streams
Life is a journey.
And each one has his or her course to traverse.
Each course has its time limit and end.
But each journey crosses seven streams.
A stream may be crossed more than once;
that is, unless you pick one stream and remain.
Though it may be the stream of JOY, alas,
you finish the journey stranded, alone, as
everyone else has traveled on to
cross its depths, breadths and vistas anon.
The stream of LOVE is a favorite respite,
offering drink and refreshment and life;
and no doubt, those who seldom draw from it
end their journey, though inertia flows on.
ADVENTURE streams down mountains and through woods.
Many build bridges or take guided tours
over adventure’s stream to stay in control.
But the stream of CHAOS
manages to break its banks and surge toward
the unsuspecting and prepared alike.
The fifth and sixth streams are crossed early,
and few care to search out their headwaters.
The stream of DISCOVERY runs underground
and the stream of INNOCENCE is a wadi,
a dry bed dependent on rain or melt.
The seventh stream is really the river
into which all the six streams eventually flow.
It is the River Styx, the Jordon, the Nile.
Some have crossed it and returned to this side.
For those, the journey seems to transcend time
and the six streams are simultaneously present.
Thus is the journey.
In the end, all cross the RIVER. For some,
it is a homecoming. But for others,
revelation comes all at once – too late.
An Acre of Open Land
If I had an acre of open land,
I’d build my home out in the sands
far from the glare of urban lights
so I can enjoy the stars at night.
But such a benefit would soon disappear
if others like me also build near!
So, I won’t include inside this poem
where I will build my desert home.
Because if I do, too many will come
and my dark sky will soon be done.
Me or Moss?
The stream called life it tumbles on
o’er rocks clad in moss grown wild.
How does it keep its grip so firm
and is not by flow beguiled?
The stream does lead me ever on
round and neath and still and fast.
Were I not just now washed ashore,
moss would unknowingly pass.
What is the life the stream seeks give —
Does it sustain me or moss?
Launch out again or sink down roots —
Which to choose, I’m at a loss.
The Song of the Phoenix
Swift Phoenix, bird of might,
in your death you win your flight;
as your flame turns to ash,
you rise anew – death’s hold to dash.
Son of God, our true light,
in your death we gain our sight;
and we see ’tis the way –
sanguine blackness precedes life’s day.
And now as we life throw off,
like the worm becomes a moth;
martyrs’ prayers, souls ignite
to join the Phoenix in its flight.
An Eagle’s Cry
In an age when Beauty of Words
is drowned out by gadgets ticking absurd,
the cry of an eagle goes unheard. Still …
Words are spoken.
A voice, so fragile within,
rising from depths, bursting to flame,
clearing my mind of tangled thought,
searing lies, healing sighs,
the cry is heard.
And what greater image of God on high
than Word made flesh who ‘mong us cried
and was and is unheard?
Oh, Word Eternal you came and showed
that power of Word and words
remains a mystery
as long as the eagle’s cry
goes unheard.
The Call of Nature
Out of my window I saw nature
Looking, O, so pure and clean:
Endless blue with sterile cotton
Floating ‘bove a carpet green.
On the ‘tele’ watched a program
That said nature’s calling me;
So I ventured in my new jeep
Playing Bach on its CD.
Pitched my tent on rolling hillside
As the knats swarmed in my eyes;
With my blood I fed mosquitoes,
With my grub I fed the flies.
Out my mirror I watched nature
Wash my tent down in a stream:
Blue turned black, the white to lightning,
Green was now a mud-soaked dream.
Thunder roaring, rain down pouring —
Give me roof and four strong walls!
For the next time, I’ve decided,
I’m NOT home when nature calls!
Hope
The hope that drives each soul to seek
a future filled with love
is subtle as the still small pool
that nourishes the dove.
And as I hope for what’s to come,
I pause in gratitude
for struggles, victories (and even silence)
as hope become my food.
Limits! Limits?
“Limits? Limits? What are limits?
Only limit is yourself!
You are sovereign in your own life
with or without lots of wealth.”
With these words the Millionairess
mounted platform of her craft.
When they asked her if she felt fear,
she let roar a great big laugh.
As the countdown for her journey
was broadcast throughout the land,
commentators all did marvel
as she raised her steady hand …
Her last word before the blastoff
was her motto said again:
“Limits only live in your mind —
Take your future in your hand!”
At her funeral three days later
commentators speculated
that some faulty engineering
was the tragic cause of death.
Limits! Limits! There are limits
Heaven-sent or from below;
when you think there are no limits,
watch out for a mortal blow.
Living Legends
Living legends seldom live
the life that earned the name;
instead, they market what they were
and profit from the fame.
Of course, it needn’t be that way,
but seldom can we give
the living legends space to do
what once they bravely did.
A Night Prayer
God, my hope, have mercy upon me - Free me from this net of night;
If not you, your angel of mercy Send to relume strangled light.
Was the glint that erstwhile inspired me Fabricated in my mind?
Or have all my doubt soliloquies Made the flame so hard to find?
These, detractors pine to parody, Dressed up like angels of light:
“Off the spiritual deep end’s gone he; Against such ways let us unite.”
God thy Wheat Field ever Tares at me - Seeking hope to extirpate.
Be not silent, come and redeem me! With their lies themselves negate.