Cry of the Heart

We search the margins of the world 

for a returning voice.

We ply, in the deepest parts of the night,

for starships to carry us, born upon the 

winds of magic, to deeper resolve.

We long for the credible voice,

for the echoes return, 

for the whisper of light, 

for dawn’s reassuring.

We take part in mystery

often only in words,

sorry substitutes for 

matters of the heart.

We live for the silences of 

the inner worlds to break.

To make known our vague 

and aching miseries,

our arching fears,

the trembling question,

the extended sadness.

We wish for a resolved chord,

Drumbeats that will not fail us,

smoke from fires from rocky

plateaus set far out in the

distant hills.

We suspect silence 

and absence.

We live within the cold science of

sound barriers never breached,

But words too deep for words

are attended. Eternity listens.

Sound Barriers have been broken 

by the velocity of our pain, by the

dizzying speed of our desperation.

The moon’s dark side 

vibrates with anticipation 

of the light.

The night hawk whispers

to the wind gracing its 

feathers,

walks on columns of air,

suspends within the silences,

courses through wilderness

shadow and divides the 

distances.

Great Longing, occasionally 

we hear the church bells 

from outside our window.

But words can be irregular things, 

Vague attempts to describe the mystery 

of what we feel? What we seek?

Perhaps enough to say we 

are witness to the Reaching, 

to the Inexpressible, Within,

Knowing such Undefined Eloquence

is better Known by One who 

translates into purest language 

this broken and stammering tongue.

Written for a new book I am contemplating.

If you like, leave a response on F/B. Would

be most welcome. Possible working title:

Sojourners of the Spirit.