By dint of
So many undulations
Of faith, of mettle,
Of resolve
On the surface of this,
Our mortal struggle.
What finely tuned
Definition
There is already
In the story,
The pattern,
The textured travail
Of our lives.
As if encoded
Permanently
On some shiny
Lacquered disc.
Such that
One could imagine
We might well
Be tempted one day
To gather up
Some vast audience
And sing our hearts out.
But why
Should we
Ever need to,
My friend?
When all we love
We have given
Our hearts to…
All we honour
And still hold to be true…
Will still ring out
So loudly,
Long after we’ve gone.
Come what may,
Good days and bad,
Ancient seeds
Of inbred fear
And lust to be
Tremble.
Shoot forth
With evolutionary purpose,
An illusion of progress
It’s hard to shake off.
Oh, that we had learnt!
Kept much closer
To mind,
All we and our forbears
Have since seen
Play out here.
The lessons of the past
Repeatedly urging
Upon us
A far more generous,
More forgiving,
Less acquisitive
Pattern of being.
And all the while,
Beneath
The brooding moon,
An erosion of emotions
And ambition
Already misspent,
Leak into sorrow
And wastefulness.
But wait!
In our hearts
A far kinder dream
Speaks to us still,
Apparent
It’s shape
Belongs to heaven.
Oh, that we could ever
Acquire the humility,
The lift of true grace
To claim this vision
More courageously,
Here and now.
The spark
In a void,
Once only a shell.
A curl,
A husk of life,
A chrysalis
Waiting to burst.
Awakening
Becomes
A morning look
That welcomes
Warmth,
No sour or arid
Sleep now.
Such rising spirit
A swelling mound,
A fine, fresh
Moist prominence
Of sorts,
Eager to receive
Such gain.
Pressing, breasting,
Poised
To leave its mark.
And yes,
We all leave
Such stains,
Such energies
Behind us,
For there’s
No other way
To be generous here.
Giving back
Gloriously
At our own expense
Into a rinsing bowl
Of tears.
The sparkle
Of our dreams
Caught threadbare,
Between the cracks.
Life is suffering
Speckled with joy.
So treasure it
When that blessing comes.
Bringing with it,
As it does,
A nourishment
That’s so rich,
So intense,
You could run a knife
Through it,
Like a slab of butter.
A sacred hamper
Of hope then,
For far tougher days
Ahead,
When storms
A plenty
Will, once again,
Seem to chide us so.
Yet surely
We’ve all lived
Long enough
To know
There’s no such thing
As mere coincidence.
Feeble creatures
As we are,
Somehow mysteriously
Never quite able
To see round the corner.
For whatever injury
And despair
We might inflict
Upon our world,
Nature has its own acumen,
Its own steady intent
And will show us
The way back home,
If we allow it to.
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