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.