Moments

There is no other
place than here,
there is no other now,
just moments held
in time’s sure hands,
that we can call our own.
It is the living of the day,
the dying of the night,
as all eternal wandering
puts certainty to flight.
To live beyond
the moment,
to dream
of what might be
throws bitterness
upon God’s gift
of true eternity.
So take the now
and claim it sure,
as truth so clearly
found and place
all thought within
the here, that Life
 will know your name.

Thank you for coming

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

Pillow-huddled, curled toward her own imaginings,

the bones held loose in panting flesh,

she lay upon the self-breathing bed.

This bed of life could rise and fall,

with one sure touch, with pure  and practical intention,

prepared as it was, to hold lightly

the shrivelled soul that sought sanctuary.

Sounds of breath and sounds of bed,

drew patterned hopes in steady weaving

and eyelids closed in weary fall

upon the days, the dreams, and visitors.

How many years had drifted past

upon this stark white cushioning?

No answer, for she had none, and neither did she know

if she lay upon reward, or punishment.

If truth be known, and it rarely is,

the answer must embrace both offerings,

for in the suffering lay peace,

and in the sanctuary, brewed torment.

But such things had all become as one

through years of  woven thoughts and words,

and now she simply lay and breathed …

in what was life’s last offering.

No more

No more than a speck of dust

upon the fleeing moment,

No more than a silent breath

upon the wind,

no more than a forgotten seed

that breasts the unforgiving earth,

no more than all the words

that lie unsaid.

For this is life, and this is how

the moments draw and creep,

when hope and meaning

hide themselves away,

and dare to taunt that all

is nought but shadow,

that who I am is fantasy and dream.

And yet each speck of dust

is borne on dreams,

and silent breaths can carry

words across the world,

while seeds that strive through soil,

or stone, to reach the sun

will always speak of God,

of life, of love.

Within the dull and dreary days

Within the dull and dreary days

When boredom seeks to call

And knocks upon the withered door

Of hope that is no more.

Then can I see the dreams that live

Within the sullen breast,

And know that they will haunt me now

And keep me from all rest.

It’s in desire, and wanting life

To be some other thing

That discontent can clear its throat

And loud and brittle sing.

And yet while I can see this clear

And know its truth is cruel,

I cannot seem to shift myself

Beyond its narrow view.

Sun sends forth

Sun sends forth a shaft of light,
in arrowed, bounteous bright,
reminding us of glorious life;
the source of all that is.