Terry Chapman's - Sabbath Journey

DOUBLE TROUBLE ON A STILL MORNING

I miss the wind's choir rustling in the long grass.
Oar Pond, dead calm.
Mallards float motionless.
The sky, stone cold and gray.

Is this the holding of divine breath,
a silent invitation into grief's heart?
Be still too my soul.
The Lord is on thy side.

Bear patiently love's
deep sigh and join
angelic choirs in a

sweet soulful silent song.

Lament for dad

I remembering reading about dust in Anne Dillard's, For The Time Being:
"Earth sifts over things. If you stay still, earth buries you, ready or not.The debris on the tops of your feet or shoes thickens, windblown dirt piles around it, and pretty soon your feet are underground..Micrometeorite dust can bury you, too, if you wait: a ton falls on earth every hour.

Quick: Why aren’t you dusting? On every continent, we sweep floors and wipe tabletops not only to shine the place, but to forestall burial."

DUST

Through the tears and
Raspy breath and the 
Letting go, not in the 
Metaphorical sense,
It all seems like dust.

ALL DUST

The words and the 
Freight they carry; 
The plans and aspirations; 
Accumulated wisdom, or that
Which you counted as such;
Someone else's faith that
Never quite fit the contours 
Of your heart;  prayers too.

DUST

Yet there is a memory
Or was it a dream or
Premonition of
When dust rises from
The earth and meets
Creator's breath 
And begins to dance.

Is all this dust the same
Being reshaped over
And over through eternity 
into a father or son,
A star or a rose
Which lives and dies
Until the next resurrection?   

ocean of love

My heart is broken
open and life is
pouring in from the
ocean of love
in which it swims . . .

That boat you thought
would keep you
high and dry is
not only sinking,
it never existed.

That life jacket your
well meaning friends
keep tossing your
way vanishes into vapor
before your grasp.

That buoy that
everyone said marked
the safe channel through
dangerous waters -
simply a mirage.

All those words
deeply etched in stone
on the monuments of
your heart have
succumbed to time’s erosion.

It is time to let
the waves
hold you and
draw you to love’s depths.
Be still dear one

and take into
your heart lungs
the waters of love
that gave you birth
and will carry you

and
the
whole
creation
home.

Roger

After the "crossing" this morning I learned that my dear brother Roger had passed.  Roger was 61.  His courage in the face of many challanges was an inspiration to many.  I feel like it was his "spirit" that spoke to me on the path this morning.  

I love you Rog.  

Rest in God.

The Crossing

What was it

that caused me

to pause by

the bridge

whose boards

were covered with 

virgin snow?

 

Where did the

reverence and

humility rise 

from on this 

ordinary

walk in 

the woods?

 

Whose whisper

rose above the 

sound of the stream

inviting me to

open to the

untrodden space

before crossing over?

 

Why did my lips

open in grateful

praise for the saints 

who built the 

bridge and went 

before on the 

courageous journey?

 

What gladdened my

heart when 

I too stepped

over to make 

my imprint in 

the moment that 

opened to eternity?

 

How did my

heart ascend

in answer

to the gentle 

inquiry while

still beating in

my chest?

 

 

Inconsummate Writer's Block

This I know in my bones: 
poetry is the gateway to
the sabbath journey. 
Beyond its portal lies truth
that refuses taming. 

Yet in my loneliness, I move
from poetry’s spacious plains
and sweeping prairies
where the heart is open
to panoramic mystery
and the mind’s eye is closed,
feeling the bright and consuming light
of immortality against it lids.  

Pen in hand I return
to the pragmatic
narrow alleys of the city.
With each word
I feel like I am
leaving home. 

Every attempt to
build prose around the
mystery constricts my heart. 
My essential self
sinks into the sand…
each concept, word, or paragraph
another weighty, smothering grain. 

Yet write I must. 
On poetry’s great plain
there are few to share the journey. 

Am I called to the essential
loneliness of monastic life?  Yes. 

Am I called to make regular
forays into the city?  Yes.

There are sermons to be preached,
a book to be written. 
But at what cost?
And with what currency
shall the price be paid? 

Lord, guide my steps
that when I journey
far from home the
words remain moist
and fresh for the
nourishment of others.

Emerson says it well in his essay on the immortality of the soul: 
There is a drawback to the value of all statements of the doctrine, and I think that one abstains from writing or printing on the immortality of the soul, because, when he comes to the end of his statement, the hungry eyes that run through it will close disappointed; the listeners say, That is not here which we desire;— and I shall be as much wronged by their hasty conclusions, as they feel themselves wronged by my omissions. I mean that I am a better believer, and all serious souls are better believers in the immortality, than we can give grounds for. The real evidence is too subtle, or is higher than we can write down in propositions. . .