In hope
of skies blue,
vast and undeterred
are drying tears-
collected by unseen smiles
In threats of frigid
but burning ground below
is repentance-
A repentance found both sooner and later
One heavy with pastures of green- but none ever greener
In ancient words
from gilded pages,
bound in leather
hope and need
Are no ripe answers for the raging revolution,
only variant notions
shifting from here to there- and back again
The method of the three,
is mystery
beyond compare-
Black like the dark hours
that hide
the light of the day
Now and then-
all that can be done,
is to follow-
on bloodied foot,
over barren land
The aim of the carpenter
and his dinner guests
is and always was
direction
Purpose from an old- but new compass
in which one chooses to follow, deny
or silently go in search of other lovers-
all of a lesser degree
At the table of offering-
is space for bended knee
and an odd but abstract desire
for service
Not to self-
but to those who surround,
and swim in the very sea
in which the struggle
it is to cross
At the heart of creation
are mountains
and sandy crystalline beaches,
then city roads
All leading to country lanes,
fields, rivers, lakes
and vague dreams
Alas though,
no discernible
or translucent choice prevails-
All that's left
is the true and meaningful will-
of the weary traveler
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 11:48 AM UTC
In hope
of skies blue,
vast and undeterred
are drying tears-
collected by unseen smiles
In threats of frigid
but burning ground below
is repentance-
A repentance found both sooner and later
One heavy with pastures of green- but none ever greener
In ancient words
from gilded pages,
bound in leather
hope and need
Are no ripe answers for the raging revolution,
only variant notions
shifting from here to there- and back again
The method of the three,
is mystery
beyond compare-
Black like the dark hours
that hide
the light of the day
Now and then-
all that can be done,
is to follow-
on bloodied foot,
over barren land
The aim of the carpenter
and his dinner guests
is and always was
direction
Purpose from an old- but new compass
in which one chooses to follow, deny
or silently go in search of other lovers-
all of a lesser degree
At the table of offering-
is space for bended knee
and an odd but abstract desire
for service
Not to self-
but to those who surround,
and swim in the very sea
in which the struggle
it is to cross
At the heart of creation
are mountains
and sandy crystalline beaches,
then city roads
All leading to country lanes,
fields, rivers, lakes
and vague dreams
Alas though,
no discernible
or translucent choice prevails-
All that's left
is the true and meaningful will-
of the weary traveler