A God Desperate To Be Loved
Page 5
There is no other place to be!
The minute I enter, it is not the same
as when I approached it,
but only here where I always am,
a chameleon in a plan--
a painting so intricate,
a canvas God is ever reworking..
And what is a door to me?
A place into which I merge
as an integral entity for
God to dab in his masterpiece.
So, what is a door?
How should I know?
I don’t even know myself.
I am a slash of his brush
ever placing me
differently.
And so,
how important am I?
Comparison is a fiction,
history a scam.
I am a part that sees the door
and yields to my Maker’s
master plan.
“Be still and know that I am God.”
Psalm 46: 10
ALONE
I was created to walk alone
on secret forest
roads,
absorbed
by his silent speech
who paints Cezanne
cobalt skies and ochre hills;
to never wake
the harmony
of silence’s siren flute
or forego the company
of a frail trophy
to a moment’s
transcendence:
a sacred, frayed
pencil sketch.
“Vanity of vanity and all is vanity except knowing God and loving him alone.”
The Imitation of Christ
FAR BEYOND
Far beyond this moonlit room
in a distant land that cries,
a distressed maiden in my breast,
abides
in a fullness -- I have not yet known,
a brilliance -- I have not seen,
Naked Divinity--
amid that misty land’s be-shaded streams,
the haunted waters of magic dreams
of lovely ladies in ancient castles
in echoes that fantastic seem
of scarce-real, carefree laughs of
woodland nymphs.
O enchanted dream!
O dream of dream!
Dream of the All
in the essence of things!
Dream that passes
trembling in moonlight
down, down the spectral hall,
out of sight!
Dream that passes soon
but ever remains
that depth where Divinity
confronts the human main.
Do I remain so forgetful of being here
where I became and am?
Though it be so fearful a place to tread,
to be long absent is like being dead.
THE RUNNER
Far beneath my quiet, shuffling feet
and the softer patter of falling leaves
outside my sun-drenched
window’s green, once again I hear--
insistent flirt!--far too frail for ear
to hear, insistent as dawn,
a rhythm daily calling me
to breezy avenues that swim
endlessly to a new crest,
a fresh vista, a new world
primping for discovery and embrace.
Quick! Let me slip on
the winds of quest,
yank tight
the disheveled laces
of resolve, stretch all the
pliant tendons of purpose
‘till, savoring the seething moment,
I stretch high and grasp
two wind-whipped clouds,
and, lashing them to my feet,
give them a mission and me
another spree of pure flight.
HERE--WHERE I AM
“Here
where am am--
is such a wonderful place to be!”
Is
there any other place?
And if so, where
but here, too.
A dream is a hope
for what is not yet,
a memory, a shade
from a dreamy now.
So,
brave sailor of the sea,
savor where you are.
You stand where
you cannot but be.
See?
So stop dreaming
and start living--
your best: your here
is everywhere!
Make it your own--
and make it
shine.
“My days are like a lengthening shadow. I wither like grass.”
Psalm 102: 12
TRANSIENCE
The skirt of old oaks
stood that night
as still as the silence
that enwrapped them.
The cool, the quiet,
the sacred quiet
was ecstatic--
enriched only by
swamp frogs
croaking
in the distance.
And I,
I stood alone
by the still round pond
reflecting moon and stars,
and felt
the sacred presence
of the wind
kiss me,
my warm clothes
hug me,
my mussed hair
make me feel
like an adventurer
far from home.
“My vocation is love.”
St. Therese of Lisieux
SUNBRIGHT CARMELITE
Bright waves roll up,
fresh as July-priests
offering the salty feast of
freed spirit.
You,
sun-bright Carmelite,
cascade into my quiet,
offering my drab, musty
spirit the white
sun-rose of a smile,
peace
ineffable.
O
petal
of eternal beach,
bring ever
into my stretching heart-
reach this summer
it’s now
forever,
huh, Therese?
Life, though complex, springs from one act of love.
IS
Is,
full
is infinities of places,
suns
distant
from the bright-banked river,
the sliver
of silver,
the natural
transience of
river.
DISMEMBERED LEAD
Disconsolate is the moment:
a pencil point
shattered, a spider
poisoning the virgin whiteness
of my dawn-kissed destiny.
Oh, how it blazes in the sun,
this paper!
But, oh, how meaning dis-
assembles if it’s run
exceed logic’s temper!
Yet, in my grip, with hand
throbbing in the heat
o’er my dismembered lead,
all noisy engines
as, so deftly I trace
chimerical figures.
Then, oh,
a gentle stirring
somewhere
in my confusion--
the sandaled comfort
of my Florida illusion--
a flutter of
compassionate leaves,
the ever-seducing
primordial tease,
seizes my spirit wholly.
O blest abduction!
So graced a fay, I fly
from earth-riveted ways!
My spirit laughs crazily,
nymph-like,
in a bright embrace
softer and whiter
than snow...Ivory Snow.
Hear that, Mother?
Oh, wow!
“Bark!”
“Tweet!”
Dogs of distance
and spirit sparrows
fill with exultation
with a sense of loss:
“Our friend, the artist,
is finally home.”
O MAKER, LET ME SEE!
How canyou, creator of all,
the original Master Painter,
become your own creation,
your own best masterpiece?
Can I become my canvas,
my own art? Can dogs meow
or roses bud from rock?
Yet your brush deftly touched
the slight canvas of possibility
and sun shone, stars and fields gleamed,
seas, silver-crested, spread far and wide,
fish delighted to swim...and Eve,
smiled coyly at bedazzled Adam,
melting his heart like gold.
But what is all this but child’s play
to becoming your creation’s
highest masterpiece: becoming flesh,
hiding your majesty in abject humility?
Oh, what a feat, what self-denuding!
Yet, can you the ever-living life-font
whose name’s unspeakable--
demanding abeyance, ripping from reason
its power to act,
clothing flesh with Tabor’s light--
can you banish yourself from your essence,
imprint yourself in your canvas?
And for what? For love of me?
If this be so, my Lord, make
the refulgence of your passion,
shine in me, ‘till, immersed in you,
I become what you came to make me:
a pure flame of your intemperate fire.
SILENCE!
Silence, you noisy prayers,
melodic choirs,
organs, guitars, cantors--
so grating to my soul and me!
Spellbound,
I sit,
lover of the limitless,
quieter than yesterday,
awaiting
the gentle flutter
of spirit to weave
silence
into a virgin prayer--
not
on the edge of noise.
No! Where noise pants
to be, and, finding, flails;
where prayerful hearts savor
the cool, flush breast
of the nursing unthinkable.
Oh, shut the door!
Let time--be!
Let the dust
and silence
float--free!
FUN
Perhaps this convivial group is
a bore to the Almighty, ( Did
you ever think that?)
that maybe there is fun
beyond laughter and even
beyond piano, too?
Hum? Maybe sun
in the other room, the dark one?
Just maybe.
Did you ever
think,
huh...ever?
O world-transcending sun
brilliant, ringing
beyond room or courtyard
singing, song
behind the whisper of
sphinx, death,
and lover--
inexorable
as recognition,
stark
yet gay as waking--
and even dying. Yes,
O sun,
fly
ever!
Oh,
I will lift my cup to you
and chant aloud in tones unheard,
dive deep into your liquid present,
attentive only to the placid light
faintly flashing from your
face, so bright,
O Almighty
Fun!
Peace!
Oh, the evening’s
scented air
by this pale,
lapping stream
ruffles so gently
to a deaf piper’s dream.
You draw me into
your strong arms, King,
and I grow faint
as the crickets sing.
Alone let us stay,
alone until day
peal forever--
a crackling fire
rising into infinity,
a peerless tune,
the definitive answer
to a dying June.
“His left hand is under my head and his right arm embraces me.”
Song of Songs 2: 6
BRIEF ENCOUNTER
Shall I embrace you,
shield you
from the chill grip of night,
‘though your heart, a fairy,
dance a magic surf--
saltbreeze your delight--
or shine, a glistening conch
on the furtive isle of moon,
or perhaps a prized star
in the tender eye of God--
or shall we simply
unclasp the dawn together
for this one brief encounter,
then pass along...
lest, possessing,
we flounder?
“You are beautiful and Tirza, my beloved. [...]Turn your eyes from me,for they torment me.”
Song oof Songs 6: 4, 10
TO HER
Let the wind blow
your waving hair,
your arms
ache for my embrace.
Kiss the wind, my love,
kiss the dew,
and dream about the open sea
and know that I am, too,
in the isolation of my calling,
one with you in loneliness.
So, you think I do not
long for your embrace,
to see my children play gaily
in an open field?
That I am cold?
Do not mourn
and long to kiss
the tears from your cheeks?
Oh, My love!
My God, my love!
Am I not a man?
“Paris is where the heart is full ...here... in today’s unexpected birthplace of new revelation.”
“I Do Not Pine For Pans”
I DO NOT PINE FOR PARIS
I do not pine for Paris,
to walk, nostalgically,
the old cobbled avenues
of painters now planted
in the rank a
teliers of death,
their hallowed halls
now blest only by their ghosts
memory paints
in sunlit gloom, their palettes
dusty, their dreams
diffused relics
of discarded todays.
Oh, their Paris is too stale
for me. Any conception
their paint-smudged hands
fashioned I use as fodder
for my own work, today’s,
--of course with reverence,
for their spirits enliven me.
My Paris is my atelier-
here in Arkansas,
certainly in my prayer,
in today’s unsuspected
birthplace
of new revelation.
Paris is where the heart is full,
designs and desires flourish,
where I write poems and
paint--it does not matter where.
In Overton Park,
at New Smyrna Beach
or here, oh, yes,
always here,
outside my private window,
is Paris, for Paris to be
is always new.
History is but a dream
of an impotent admirer
to make monuments
of the achievements
of the silent dead.
But, I ever ask,
“What startling
surprises crouch here
waiting to be born?”
Yes, you dunce!
God desires a Paris
in every home
blooming with new
creative passion,
birthing every new
painting or poem