The Unnatural Door

Was it for this that I learned?
To be met by an angry door,
My efforts by its letter spurned,
Hard block on the cold floor?

T’was never such a block in nature,
Outside where no door slams shut
In the service of embittered tenure
In whose clutch all is slyly cut.

Outside, the open world shines.
Each upturned face the sun will warm,
And tearing rain the child refines,
‘a naked savage in a thunder storm.’

The new man chiseled into old,
Grown rough face with gentle care,
Listening man, leader time told,
Man’s unfair world made fair.

Nature desires the unskilled child,
Desires his green hand to tame,
There, in him, the worth of the wild,
Dressed, righted mind, with new name.

Love Is Old Love Is New

For the man of the east, love is young. It is young because it is fleeting. One might ask why the eastern man is not young himself. It is because he has aged thousands of years. There was a time when he was young, when he rejected all circles, simply because they were circular. The history of the world can be seen as a great succession of philosophers searching for knowledge,  trying to establish truth that seems to fit. But, no truth has been found to stand on its own. It is a circle floating in mid air. To live in a circle and deny its circularity is to strive in vain to be young. There came a time, however, when he no longer went from circle to circle but chose to  accept the inevitable. He became old. Love, then, to him is young.  You will find the eastern man today talking of love as if he were a child, making headlong leaps into its depths, leaving reason behind. The eastern man is a man who sits, who does not fight, and love is the one thing that will make him move. And upon moving he regains his youth if only for a moment.  For fleeting love makes him dream. Lost in the dream, he is found. But, he expects it to leave, as the rolling wheel must continue onwards. And when it does, he sits once again.

The western man has found that love is old. Ever after the time of Christ, love has told him it was old. And through love, the western man has stayed young. He has not been satisfied by the circle, but has found his reason to be straightened by a cross. The heavens have reached down to man, set him on a foundation, and caused him to stretch his arms in equal love unto his neighbor. The cross is a  fitting symbol of the west. But, as we have grown, many have found the brightness of heaven too revealing. It pierces their covering and discovers their nakedness. So, they have sought the solace of the circle. But, in this, they are not satisfied. They wander from unsatisfying circle to unsatisfying circle, not content with circularity. But old love has been tainted with the passion to be old: for man to grow more mature than his maker. And diluted love cannot make due on the promises it made when man was young. It has been reduced to only physical gifts. The western man will be heard speaking of love in old terms, but not with reference to its origin. He will speak of his tiredness of it; of the fleeting satisfaction it gives and his having been left bereft of something sure, something lasting, something that should have always been there. Old Love.

Time for Fun

Oh, for the moment when I can leave time,
Where each thing in itself is, to the eye, sublime.
Whence freed from the hand of each tick and tock,
Relieved of the constraints  of Father Time’s clock,
I discover each leaf is joyed in eternal glow,
Each tree bends down in flourish and show,
And bows on my way as if it knows where I go.
The rain passed my window is a cleansing sight,
And sounds of splashes and sploshes just might
Wash through my mind revealing a light
Of wonder, pleasure, adventure, and fright.
I run in grand castles that echo within
Of knights and horses and fierce goblins.
I lunge my sword with friends by my side
At frightened enemies we chase far and wide.
Who knows where my feet will take me out here
Where danger lurks and looks on with a sneer.
And when I am certain to meet fearful ends,
I retreat to the place where the hand of time bends
Toward the chime of the hour whose fast coming sends
Me into the world of duties and men,
Where breadth, and length, and the height is measured
By passings of time that men stress and treasure.

Scared

If you’re not scared, you’re not paying attention.
This world has never been a very safe place.
Evil stains here, horrors we scarce mention,
Prisoners we are, disfigured in face.

Of course you’re scared, we’re all scared,
When what lurks in the depths walks out of us,
Can a crooked man make himself straight, or be spared?
Dark fingers drag under all the unjust.

Nightmares are real, only misunderstood,
No monster below, but on top of the bed.
The word-mirror reveals spilled blood,
I thrust in the spear, who’s blood did I shed?

On Death

I stand at the shores of a quick-raging river,
My eye reflects the city lights on the other side,
Which flow deep in the soul drowning my bitter,
While I wait for the boat to carry me past this late tide.

In this great world and wide, I trace the sun’s circuit,
Anticipating the time when it and I intersect,
This declining west I muse upon as the world glows
From the dying embers of this warm communing fire.

Yet as my eye passes through this scene,
My inner eye glimpses a dim-glassed mystery.
I too will be translated into the morning,
Where west touches east.

For those who get their dying done early,
The loud clamor of death is transformed
Into the gentle language of a quiet invitation,
At which the heart soars, beset from behind,
On the illumined path to the eternal.

For now, I act upon this material stage,
But the curtain will have its final say,
For some shall step beyond the curtain,
To begin his soliloquious apology,
Only for rough grief to be met with tender mercies.

Waiting for Sorrow

Sorrow, far-off companion,

Not yet have I made his acquaintance,

Twice heard I Death’s appearance,

Anticipating Sorrow’s company.

Despite this, unmoved is my heart,

Unchanged, trapped in eternity of dispassion,

Eager for Sorrow to in-abide.

 

Come Sorrow, no longer stand afar,

Let my soul honor those passed,

For I long to walk your road,

My eyes see not morning afresh,

Till mourning is wrought in me.

Let your restless hands disturb my heart.

Throes of inward pain,

Find expression in my visage,

For I will not transpose Sorrow to despair,

But to tender grief.

I Am Not He

Battle hath left wounds upon my soul,

Wounds, bruises, and putrefying sores,

Shame sinks deep and my confidence is stole,

Don’t touch– it will hurt all the more.

 

Naked, revealed to hot searing light,

My sores are burned– others look to indict,

Though none wield the sword of my inner sight,

Still, some fight as I to dwell in the height,

 

Oh, for the conqueror,

Oh, for the one triumphant,

Oh, for the too wise to be beaten,

For I am not he.

The Questionable Plan

God bent down with pensive face to light the world on fire,

His hands had weaved steadily the temporal fabric,

That was to become every essence,

Giving life to his paradoxical and intricate plot.

 

And as he stooped low a certain wise spirit revealed an apprehensive countenance,

For he had examined the story that was doomed to unfold,

And felt distraught and troubled over one crimson detail,

A detail immersed in sorrow amongst millions of joys.

 

“What does this mean here?” the princely spirit ventured, “And by what…

He persisted, “what majestic reasoning does this torment need to occur?

Are you not responsible? Have you not become the most abhorrent of all beings?

For in all eternity there has not been such misery, affliction, neither injurious action as this!

Give account now, Oh most Powerful, for this is above comprehension!”

 

This dissident spirit was referring to a small part of the story,

Yet the most significant– Its words were the blackest;

Its pain was the greatest; Its actions were the vilest;

Yet its innocence was the purest; and great was the tragedy thereof.

 

The world was to know joy and bliss,

Endless it seems was to be the dancing and gaiety,

With no absence of bread nor luxury,

Except for one blight– a girl, five years old.

 

She was to be the unhappy daughter of a most insidious couple,

Who took great delight in beatings; conscience hindering them not.

Sent to work in the fields was she in heat and in wet;

Night after night she found no favor yet hoped for a kind touch.

 

The bed was not restful either for she was plagued with dreams,

Of strange men in black coats– hot breath betraying sinister intentions.

At times she woke in the light of dawn fearing the dark fantasy,

And reeling from the medicine she was made to drink the night before.

 

The light of day was no better for there was no one

In whom she could confide but when help was requested,

She was beat all the more receiving severe lacerations,

And sent to reside in a box with the lid shut,

While her parents would leave and return to the house,

Some time later smelling quite strong and acting so violently,

That she desired to stay in the box which became a means of safety.

 

In the end, she awoke one morning to find,

She had not reached the outhouse in time the night before,

And her mother, her own mother took her with rage

Into the outhouse stuffing her mouth with feces,

Leaving her to wallow in the putrid smell of the latrine.

 

All day she stayed without sustenance except the taste of fecal matter,

Giving an involuntary spasmodic whimper which entered the ears of her parents;

Yet feeling they could do no more they left her,

And hesitated not to sleep in quiet restful slumber,

While the quiet of the night was penetrated only by the whimpers,

Easily ignored by the evil heedless ears of her own mother.

 

Sometime during the night sweet merciful Death took her.

It was then she received the only rest ever allowed her,

And the bliss only known through escaping the world.

 

All this to give the world the gift of freewill,

This was what she was worth.

 

The now rebellious spirit looked with disdain at the plot,

And once more he addressed the Maker of All,

“Wouldst thou allow me to bend with merciful finger,

And remove this blight– this eyesore from the fabric of time?

Let not the whole of existence bear this burden,

For who shall atone for this transgression?”

 

Admittedly he could not see all of the story,

But this did not matter to him in the slightest,

For his heart had felt the poor girl’s plight,

And could not leave doing nothing.

 

The All-Knowing One gave a permissive nod,

And the restless spirit grabbed the plot,

Gave a twist and pulled the girl out of the story.

 

As he held her life in his hands he heard a curious sound;

The cry of mad legions of violent men bent on corruption,

Death, disease and destruction infected everything,

And the basest of human desires tended their evil business,

For freewill had taken a turn toward the perverse–

And the evil heart grew till it was drunk with delirium.

 

The disturbed spirit quickly but reluctantly put the girl back,

And everything returned to its previous blissful state,

“Why even make this world at all,” complained the spirit,

“Is this what you will– have you no other choice?”

 

The Cause of All– the Knower of All with a look in his eye

That revealed a spark of joy and yet a deep hurt,

Stooped down once more to light the world aflame,

And the bitter spirit saw that God himself had become the Great Fire.

 

He looked in the midst of that terrible light,

And gazed at the wonder within.

Joy and Sorrow were dancing hand in hand,

Never breaking their touch,

Filling the whole of creation and humanity with the fullness of life,

And moving in all things with such grace and beauty that the sight of it,

Made the rebellious spirit himself shed a tear.

The Suffering of God

As Prometheus who lay fastened upon a rock,

Awaiting vulturous beak to gnaw and tear,

Sweet death scorned his life to stop,

But his flesh renewed to replay his despair.

 

As Sisyphus who rolls his stone high up the lofty hill,

Knows the stone’s return will make him roll it still,

Yet doomed is he to roll and push and never be content,

Though bruised hands, his strength and speed fall short of accomplishment.

 

As the daughters of Danaides though clever schemes they plot,

Are caught up in a repeating task that spans eternity,

They strive to fill a basin with water equipped improperly,

With holes in pots and cracks in tub their task will never stop.

 

These guests of old were placed in Hell

Not dead, yet dying

Not done, yet doing

Not filled, yet filling

 

So, perhaps that is how Hell ne’er ends because justice is frustrated,

For it cannot have punished but is always punishing sin culminated,

Doomed it is to never be done, extinguish, or complete;

Because of this, justice suffers when tasks it must repeat.

 

But what is justice but the holiness of God,

The Divine right to fix what’s been broken for so long,

But then God in Hell must suffer too if his work is never done,

And abide among the ones he loves and weep in mournful song.

 

Psalm 139:8 “If I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.”

When Did I Stop?

Here is my reckoning– reflection of life,

When did I stop playing

On paths owned by Hades with stench dank and rife,

Tinkering with filth and gleefully embracing

My most Devilish desire while my steps hell was tracing?

When did I stop while my sin I did foster?

I answer: Not till after I became a dread monster.

Since I stopped walking where I don’t belong,

I seem to have joy in spite of my wrong,

faint echoes of hope in a weary, worn song.

But when I am still and sleeping not quite,

Dark desires that float in my mind cause me fright.

And, in my greatest of moments when crowds I enthrall,

There still hides this monster devouring all.