Pockets Stuffed with Hope

I'm walking, pockets stuffed with hope,
along this undulating track,
littering the trail behind
with weights unwanted from my pack.

I'm following that distant star.
I've got it clearly in my sight.
I hear its music and its dreams.
I'm guided by its light.

I hear the darkened river,
I feel its surging tide
and then I hear the music floating
from the unknown other side.

I well know that its great flow
must float all flesh away,
yet I dream as I lie down
of rising on the coming day.

and in my pockets that weight of hope
grows each day a little stronger
and I look both forward and behind
in awe and love and wonder,

filled with hope for the road ahead
which steadily rises as it winds,
enriched and strengthened for each day
by the long road stretching behind.

Is It Not Enough

flare of colour in the clouds
sun rising from behind the sea
restless rippling breeze gently
touching water, sand and tree

fragile freshness of sparkling dew
distant rumble from purple cloud
hint of heavy afternoon heat
night's silent dark shroud

moonlight lying on the swell
velvet wonder of the night
silent mystery of the deep
studded diamond points of light

I raise my eyes in wonder
towards evening's vast solemnity,
toward those distant fading stars,
great symbols of eternity

sensing that there is something
invisible, veiled from sight
that if I could but reach and tear
I could glimpse a realm of light

and revelations
words can never convey,
unutterable visions of life's
secret mystery of breath and clay

into such dimensions
only few have ever seen,
holy men in ages past
in prophecy, vision and dream

but all have the colour of cloud
the sparkle of the dew
the moon upon the water
the sky's ethereal blue

and is it not enough to gaze
in wonder and in awe
at the phosphorescence lapping
so close upon the shore.

This Passing Day.

It seems to me that the brittle-bright morning
when we first loved
was the glistening shimmer of dew drop
when momentarily all the world's wealth was ours
and time seemed held in fragile crystal stop.

Now, in this late afternoon,
the sky is still clear and the sinking sun
more intensely beautiful than it was long ago.
Who can know if night will suddenly fall
or day stretch on past midnight
in muted, dimming, surreal twilight.

No matter. Each transient moment is rich with joy
and passing time has been our strange friend,
gifting us a plaited golden cord that twists and entwines,
tying us richly to each other
and to the present, past and unknowable future.

Its threads are love tested and tempered by fire;
children's laughter and tears;
shared faith, a vision of hope of a new day
dawning and dispelling the dark;
entanglement of other lives with ours;
ten thousand thousand little moments
unbreakably wound, twisted and plaited together.

So come, take my hand.
That fragile morning is long gone.
Evening must fall but the stars promise light,
an awakening from the darkness of night.
We have lived and loved together,
shared in glory throughout the long passing day.
Is this not enough? It must be enough.
It is much more than enough.

Love is a Torch.

Joseph's brothers threw him down a well
then sold him as a slave,
yet when he held them in his power
he hugged, he blessed and he forgave.
"I am Joseph, your brother!"
was his heart-felt, sobbing cry.

Love is a torch
to lead you through the dark,
a high and sunlit place,
a clear and cloudless sky.

Stalin sat up late at night
marking victim's names off a list.
Was it really twenty million who fell
beneath his ruthless, crushing fist?
"Lest one of them threatens me," he thought,
"they all must surely die."

The merry-go-round slowly turns
with its choice of horses to ride,
cankerous beasts of revenge, resentment,
folly, heartache and murderous pride.

The Pilgrim Fathers fled to a new world
in search of religious liberty.
There they tried and hanged their brethren
for the "crime" of blasphemy.
"Such abomination," they declared,
"can in no way ever be spared."

The merry-go-round slowly turns
with its choice of horses to ride,
cankerous beasts of jealousy, bigotry,
hypocrisy, greed and murderous pride.

The Son of Man healed, taught and blessed,
freely giving, never counting the cost.
He was betrayed, ridiculed and flogged
and then cruelly nailed to a cross.
"Father, forgive them" were His words
before he bowed His head and died.

Love is a torch
to lead you through the dark,
a high and sunlit place,
a clear and cloudless sky.

I don't fear the night

I don't fear the night.

-For my children and grandchildren.

I don't fear the night.
The ocean ebbs. The sun sets.
After the day comes the dark.
So too this body must decline,
yield, slump and fall
before the overlord, Time.
His reaper will come. He must.
The leaf falls, the stump rots.
All living things turn to dust.

I do fear the night in day,
the dying of mind, the slow decay
so that the hard-won gains of mind
are inevitably eaten away
and justice and love
are usurped by need
or, in sad pitiable display,
the dying mind without restraint
permits the primitive to romp and play.

I hold no fear of night.
Winter is followed by spring,
the ebb the flow, the dark the light.
The bare branch bursts into blossom.
From dust new plants bloom
and long ago men of practical bent,
fishermen, ordinary, unheroic folk,
witnessed a miracle, which they said
was for them a life-changing event-
their friend and teacher, a crucified man,
rose miraculously from the dead.

I don't fear the night.
In willing surrender I bend my knee
and bow before the Lord of Light,
desiring that transformed life be granted to me,
not through virtue, understanding,
or by meritorious serving,
for, too wonderful for words,
the resurrection of the dead
is freely gifted to the undeserving

No, I don't fear the night,
Yet if from the last sleep
I never in rebirth arise,
though the great gift be granted to other eyes,
then let it at least be said
that in this life of flesh and blood
he grew in spirit and mind,
judged none but self,
sought and strove to forgive,
desired justice, was merciful and kind
and grew in patience and in love
despite the ravages  of time.

Interim Report.

Interim Report.

Unseen, we hovered above the planet,
noted its beauty of air, land and sea,
grassed plains, high mountains, sky and cloud,
its spectacular displays of flower and tree.

Noted also considerable damage and scarring.
Floating islands of plastic and huge holes abound.
Grey smudges and stagnant water indicate
much pollution of air, water and ground.

Noted too the numerous dominant species.
They have a limited, self-centred thinking.
Their emotional state requires decades in becoming
and can be followed by rapid sad shrinking.

We observed their gifts and concept of beauty.
They have capacity to create and abhor.
Note though that a limited self-interest
often leads them to violence and war.

Problems demand altered consciousness.
Resource plundering, increasing population,
primitive energy sources, climate warming
indicate a need for global cooperation.

That this is possible is problematic.
Co-operation seems to be limited.
Wider sharing and empathy is, for them,
rare and difficult. However, there is hope.

Some thinkers have shown greatness,
have understood, written and testified
on the power of total love. Sadly, these they
ridicule, inter, and even once crucified.

We believe they slumber in partial consciousness.
Perhaps for them to fully awake
may require an apocalypse. That may induce
the required emotional and intellectual earthquake.

I think we could additionally comment that
they are inclined to waste their moment of life
in superficialities- pleasure, wealth, power or fame.
Worse, they frequently lapse into murderous strife.

We will return in a millennia or two.
The species has potential for distinction.
We conclude with the hope that their folly
does not ultimately lead to their extinction.

Choice

With thanks to Viktor Emil Frankl              

I read of a man who survived the camps,
those places of deep and monstrous  cruelty
where unspeakable crimes were performed each day
with callous, regimented regularity,

where children were not nurtured but starved,
where the fires burned and showers emitted gas,
where the spirit could so easily be lost
in a deeply incomprehensible, thick morass-

what he said was so extraordinary
it made my heart stir and spirit rejoice.
"There is one thing," he said, "they can never take.
It is yours alone and that is choice."

He said: "There were men who walked through the huts
and gave away their last morsel of bread,
proof sufficient that what cannot be taken
is the choice of which life to lead.

"The last of the human freedoms is
to choose one's attitude for every day.
No matter the given circumstances,
there is the  freedom to choose your way,

"to choose to submit or not to powers
which threaten to rob you of your humanity,
to make  you a mere plaything of circumstance
through your renouncing of freedom and dignity."

I knew then that if this man could so think
in such a scene of unspeakable tragedy,
then in choice there is power or degradation,
base horror or defining beauty

and we make choices about who we are,
to desire beauty, love, joy, kindness
or favour selfish power and desire
above patience, peace and gentleness.

Even then when fools or oppressors rule
we can choose to gaze upon the sky's blue light
or when thick darkness threatens to envelope
there is still velvet wonder in the night

and always the mysterious communion of hand on hand,
always beauty in endurance and  solemnity,
always the awareness of what can never be taken,
the human transcendence of love and dignity.