II. Song of the Land

hiker

READ PART ONE / PART THREE TO COME…

The waters shrink back and the dove does not return
All the trees of the field clap when dead hearts start to burn
Rolling hills roll their tongues and mountains sing in joy
An atmosphere in my lungs: a man now walks, no longer a boy

Let the land burst into song before me,
for silenced is that lonesome sea
But beyond the coast a many unpaved road
begging wayfarers a burdensome load
The days will threaten, nights then beckon

Why must trouble exist up on the surface,
and I be left to question my purpose?
Yet the dogwoods continue in praise,
causing wonder for the rest of my days
What rules your heart does not rule in part

Through the clanging cymbals’ noise
listen for the loveliest of humble voice
You tell me to rejoice at trouble’s trumpets
for it cannot compare to any sunlit summit
Today might be stained, but it’s all so feigned

So I will hold on to what is good here
as a promise that our day is coming near
Once I wished to breathe in this land’s air,
now you tell me to another I’m an heir
Though beauty’s shone, this world’s not my home

That is the song of the land: that all will be made new
A hope so strange to man that any fantasy may be true
Let those Blue Mountains boast and the birds of the air sing loud
When descends the host of hosts and humbled are men too proud

All of creation be his evidence
And all of creation be emulous

I. Silent Waters

silent-waters

READ PART TWO / PART THREE TO COME

I was dead,
At the bottom of the ocean
No heart nor head,
lifeless and ruled by her emotion
I would walk the ocean floor
not knowing a breath of fresh air
The sea, she’s sunken ship and more
She’s captured many a men into her lair

I would say I was drowning,
but I already had no pulse
No hope in rescue, I was surely doubting
Stories of the surface seem so false
I begged and begged for some sure face,
but leagues below there is no sound
Dive on in, if you can find me in this place,
for leagues below is my burial ground

I could scream for life, but leagues below the waters are silent
Death be my wife, and together our daughters are violent

If you ask how I ended up here
I went off course, thrown overboard
My selfish pride would let not the captain steer,
and out on the seas my soul grew star-bored
I searched for singing sirens and tempting pearls,
was given over to sea lions and wicked girls (rip curls)
And I was dead, no heart nor head,
ruled by emotion in this unrelenting ocean

Then he came and the floods subsided
Then he spoke and that’s when I decided
not to be a boy aboard his own sinking ship
No, I no longer rely on my own shrinking grip
Let me no longer fear the force of the waves—
He is to raise me a man from the depth of the grave
Oh, how sweet this air tastes in my lungs,
to finally hear a song worthy to be sung

What love: the defeated waters silent—not even a whisper—
and now I walk upon the sea, forgiven though a drifter!

Original poem of Silent Waters.

Answers

Mntns

What is this life
but a solemn and playful trek,
all serious and all play,
up the blue mountain?
Is each rut in routine
not a switchback higher?
Is every setback and failure
not another walk in beauty?
Is each opportunity and success
not a moment further to peak?

What are time’s ticking hands
but a careful Craftsman’s
refining the clay in fire,
and to nature what is time
but a season of drought
and a season of flood?
Why must man’s heart ache
in both pain and abundance?
Why not dance in the sun
and sing to the moon?

And what is this life
but a minute to eternity?
And what of time
to that which surrounds it?
What is sin to redemption
and silence to mention?
What is loneliness to being known
and what is poverty to promises?
Why should a mirror exist
when there is the echoing creation?

How could a cosmic whisper
roar louder than the world’s raving?
What is life but a slave to time?
What is time but a passage of water
reuniting to its oceans?
What then is life but
not also returning?
Who then are we to hear
the silent waters, pointing
us back home?

Paperback Scratches

If life were a sequence of words
I think it’d be fair for the whole story to be italicized,
for every ounce of ink stresses worth, every ounce prized

But then again, what’d be the effect?
Italics would become normal, and you’d read right past
their significance, never admitting you’re reading too fast

Remember what happened in chapter four?
Maybe you were rushed to the hospital, being kept alive
You couldn’t wait until you got to chapter five

But the next pages brought more scars
Maybe your heart was broken and needed a fix,
yours a tragedy and it was just chapter six

If you could know the author, would you?
Would you not storm him with questions, asking
“Why would you write such a story and go on laughing?”

And he’d merely reply,
“If only you could have seen the next chapter,
then you’d be joining in on the laughter!”

You can see both chapters clearly now
and you go right on by reading past the resolution,
assuming the pain of chapter four is the conclusion

Only from pages and pages later
are you able to look back and see the ink drying
In awe of who you are now, simultaneously laughing and crying

All the better from the suffering
You’re like a tree etched with lovers’ marks,
its branches full of songbirds and singing larks

The writer has to scratch the paper
if he is to write a grand story such as yours
Continue on past the thickets and sores

Paperback books must be bent
if they’re ever to be read and enjoyed
Mind the creases and corners destroy’d

Little do we know
that there’s even a second book being written
of all triumph and nothing sour nor smitten

Thought Soup / 02

A stream of consciousness, or more like a bowl of alphabet soup spelling out my thoughts. Number two. Title idea: Opposite of Writer’s Block.

I want to write again
but no one’s ever told me how
I want to run a marathon
but that requires a mile right now
I want to see the light of day
but the blinds are drawn
I want to see her freckled face
but I won’t stay ’til dawn

I would much rather meet her already
but, you see, there are butterflies
And I would tell you of my heart
but they’ve convinced me otherwise

I don’t want to choke on the questions
when I try to tell you Life’s answers
I don’t want to be weighed down by mortality
when I’ve been freed among the dancers
I don’t want to listen to the world’s whispers
when I know I drown out the Lion’s roars
I don’t want to be left walking the earth
when I was made regal to ride on all fours

I would much rather sleep in
but nooses are made of bed sheets
And I would tell you of my past
but the devil still reminds me I’m weak

I want to write again
but this is not in my control
I am not the Writer
and that devil sure isn’t whole!

Thought Soup 01

A stream of consciousness, or more like a bowl of alphabet soup spelling out my thoughts. Number one.

Funny how
We have to let less light in
In order to see more clearly
Yet without this little light of mine
I will never be able to see

Funny how
I have to squint without my glasses
Without my contacts I cannot make contact
But as blind as we are
I fear for us crossing the street
From one war-torn country
To the next
Without encountering impolite bullets
That we should have seen long ago
But
We didn’t, we are blind

Funny how
We try to cross these streets
That we constructed ourselves
With the devil providing the asphalt
The quicksand

Funny how
We try to walk
No, we try to crawl
From point A to point B
When the point isn’t where
But with whom

Funny how
I think I need to squint my eyes
When in reality
I need to squint my heart
I need to guard my soul
So that only a light I cannot see
Can find it’s way in
And it will

Funny how
He killed your people
Yet met your face
Though he could not see it
He could see it
While I fall asleep
Wearing a blindfold
Never speaking to you
Killing your people by silence

Funny how
I see more of the world
And I know less of it
As home
And more of it
As a waiting room

Emulate

Be imitators of God, as beloved children; and walk in love, just as Christ also loved you and gave Himself up for us, an offering and a sacrifice to God as a fragrant aroma. / Ephesians 5:1-2



Winds in the state of dogwood,
Don’t you whistle out of praise?
Sunlight that breaks through,
Won’t you shine all my days?
Waters falling from rock majestic,
Don’t you rage on for His ways?
Earth so carved and sculpted,
Won’t you correct my gaze?

All of creation be His evidence
And all of creation be emulous

I never heard the winds move for a Voice
That carries the wind in all of its noise
Until I listened
Nor realized the Light is without shadow
That found lit the empty tomb alone
Until I looked
I never found a Well so full and free
That satisfied a thirst so internal in me
Until I reached
Nor tread the ground to witness a Tree
That favors a world like that of Calvary
Until I followed

All of creation be His evidence
And all of creation be emulous