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| january 2011 |
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| wind in a shadow | 2:19am friday, 28th january |
i corner the wind in a shadow
where breathes darkness shallow and quiet
and the air is shaped sharply aright
to form secret words from the voice of the dust
their meaning solved in my pain
a prayer drawn from the mouth of oblivion
silenced before spoken
to rise as the smoke of my believing
as the dust forgets from where it was shed
and oblivion waits for its final omnipotence
my pain is classified and filed away
the prayer to slip the ethers
and its smoke the faintest shadow in heaven
its secret the smallest wind to turn the sky
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| an exercise | 2:43am sunday, 23rd january |
we do not ask the heart if it knows why
not above question, but answering only with a pulse
like it is trying to tell us something obvious
because what we feel we do not do the mathematics
in the calculus of emotions we lose values
what does it all mean? are we so definitely unsure?
we know that love is the sum of the equation
and the rest... is left as an exercise for the student
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| The Way | 2:40am tuesday, 18th january |
And this is how we go on with life, if we can. That we make of all the things that go wrong, that we make of the world around us better than if we had never thought about the possibility of what misfires, or worse. This is the way to be, the way of love: and faith is to believe that what we cannot get to, that even if tragedy strike, and the better is missed by those who leave the world — that there is a God who is love, which can better than we can conceivably imagine make things better than right for those lost to the happenstance. The clue is Jesus Christ, firstly to know that God is good, if the Son is the same nature as the Father. And the other thing is of course the prime article of Christian faith, that after put to a horrible death, the Savior defeated death itself therefore. That Christ did not win by way of any kind of war we can posit, but by utter obedience and faith. And this is how we go on with life, if we can.
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| white rabbit | 5:43am thursday, 13th january |
the white rabbit turns and stares as if more amazed than me
how ephemeral my grasp on what goes on
as the twitch of his nose notices the future in the air
deep in the hole where ideas are smuggled
i now lost again in self reference, beginning at the end
full fathom feeling the energy in confusion
the rabbit leads me to the middle of a rhymeless fear
and the steel i stole reflected such a void
to return as light hit with hammers of the hard philosophy
the hand of time stir the pools of my thought
i left the white rabbit behind, in a past that i imagined
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| Numb-ers | 12:53am monday, 10th january |
The numbers and the anti-numbers splay before me as harbingers of a hope. In the sciences of prophecy I am an apprentice of no one, and the interpretations have no discipline. Meanings fly into my mind as swift as whipping wind, and strike me senseless at times. What do I believe? For it was by signs that I first came to pray, and my faith is no longer some light thing; I must find a way to understand mysterious things. At times they came true, the futures whispered to me in secret, and I cannot dismiss them outright, these ethereal wonderings. I must walk the line between scientist and saint, though I am probably neither. And the numbers, if they do tell me things: may they not merely be reflections of my desire, tricks of the light. For I will keep the candle lit, if I can, to hope for impossible things — as if I were meant to do this, all along. As if hope cannot ever die.
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| Birds | 3:41am friday, 7th january |
I like to watch birds drink from fountains, small pools, anywhere there is water after a rain. They drink until they are satisfied, dipping their heads, little shivers to shake off the chill. I find it fascinating. The birds fly off — I never encounter them again. They will probably remember nothing of the drink, not really; I will remember it better than they, hold it closer, for it is not always that I see the birds so sip. Somewhere in me, there is a place I can go where the birds are, dipping their heads in little waters. Somewhere in me, I can believe nothing is wasted, not even the smallest drink of water from the tiniest of birds.
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| dreamily | 8:15pm sunday, 2nd january |
o, that i could give you more of myself than i have
i could turn myself inside out to reach every trace of this love
pour myself into a cup to touch your lips as i go down
to magnify my reaction to your whisper to a song the world sings
for in me are a hundred hearts when i think of you
a soul made of starlight, outshining moons, to see you sigh
returning to earth to drop the sky in your gaze
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| Down | 5:10am saturday, 1st january |
I’ve got it down now, pretty much. There used to be attacks that used to come, where I would be listening to music (usually that’s where it happened), and the lyrics would tangentially refer to something that meant something in the madness I had. Then it would be as if the world would open up, to reveal the terror that was underneath. It used to be so bad, back when, that I would need to kneel and pray for Jesus to make it better (which He did, by the by). Then came a period when these occurrences wouldn’t hit so hard, and I could work through them. But I’ve got it going now that even before I get to anywhere close to the “revelation” that I know that anything revealed is not real at all. And I can see it coming, and I stop it before it starts. We can actually learn from the things that happen to us, howevermuch psychotic they are; there is an underlying logic, too, that often is hidden, but wherein lies the key to sanity. (Often boring, sanity, but much easier to relax in.)
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