V. 2. / 130.) Sand Smooths Out . . .

Sand smooths out...

The scalloped sea behind me

Takes my part...

Washes my footprints away...

Wipes from my sorry feet the press of haste...

And receding... with its strong forgiveness,

Makes my next step fresh and clean...

Then straight away begins again...

The healing process is eternal

As long as the sea shall last

And my broken purple seashells...

Spilling from my hand... tumble in the

Sweet caress... of this pale and sanguine sea...

The love and flow and force of which...

Is sent... to take away all hurt...

                                *

V. 2. / 129.) You Could Not Escape, Words Were Everywhere

You could not escape . . .

Words were everywhere . . .   . . .

Yet out of any of them you would make 

A thing of joy – to express that thing

You didn’t know was in you.

You come across a random string of words

And a quick in-drawn gasp of breath --

A dipped silverwing of sight -- and you see!

You recognize the string it was ‘yours:’

‘It was all – before!’ . . . and you marvel.

The thing you were to write

You had already written –

Here was a tiny phrase of it!

You had written it before you wrote it,

And read it before you had written it –

And without knowing that you knew

You knew exactly how it went!

                               *

V. 2. / 128.) There Was A Time To Choose Words . . .

There was . . .

A time to choose words . . .

A time when you knew

What you were to say;

It was easy, it cost you nothing,

Like the time of day.

Then the jolt of the dividing,

And you were split asunder,

And were no more.

Now was . . .

A time not to choose words . . .

A time when you knew

You knew nothing;

And it cost you everything.

                      *

V. 2. / 127.) "Is-Ing". . . Or . . . "About-Ing"

“Is-ing”  –  or  –  “about-ing:”

This was all my concern –

To discern the difference

Between the two

To see which was which in me

At the time of writing;

For a longing to explain

Was too much in the way

And too often – and

To balance the two

Or even to eliminate the one

Was not easy

And sometimes I got it wrong

When I was right.

                        *

V. 2. / 126.) Rigid The Lines Of Sight In An Age-Old Idea

Rigid the lines of sight in an age-old idea:

Deviate for one moment and they will

Swoop down upon you in their wrath.

Breathing silent accusations of heresy

They run to counter, and annul you with their inside look;

Bristling in indignation they discard your work

They turn, move away, and feel themselves superior

Which they are; they are perfect; they have no glaring faults –

As you do; they are noble; you are utterly alone.

If they seek to understand what you write

With their own capabilities, they will struggle;

And since this is humiliating it is not to be borne:

To save face, to save their own skins, they reject yours.

If they cannot understand what you write

Then they say it is you who are at fault, not they.

If they should ever find in your lines, that which excels –

That which exceeds their own wisdom –

Then watch how quickly they will block it in their minds:

Moving feverishly to impose their rules –

Above your idiocies – and drown you out – anything to stop

You – from being better than them in their own eyes.

They have not known nor understood: they have shut their eyes

So that they cannot see and know what they don’t want to know.

                                                    *

V. 2. / 125.) I Don't Write . . .

I don’t write of my relationship

With God in Jesus, but in it.

I don’t write as others who believe

But as one, who believing,

Is on the other side.

I don’t write out of what I know

But out of what I don’t know

Then I know.

I write blind, to see – deaf, to hear

And out of my star my heart is broken.

                             *

V. 2. / 124.) I Saw And From The Summit Of Persandra . . .

I saw and from the summit of Persandra – a star

And out of the star, an angel, gentle and true

And the angel dipped his wings and flew to Earth:

A morning light alighting on the mount above me;

And when he spread wide his rose-gold wings and sang

The silent song he sang pierced through the air and

Broke me – and all my myriad little pieces floating up

Were as tiny silver stars in a sparkling silky cloud

That formed, high above the summit, a shining cross;

And the cross became a star, and the star ascended

High above the circled sphere of Earth, and was

The orb – very orb from which the angel came

And when I dropped my eyes, and looked, to the

Summit of Persandra, the man smiled, and loved me.

                                           *

V. 2. / 123.) Through The Amaranthine Halls . . .

Through the amaranthine halls

Through the silent passageways of shells

The passing of light into life

And the coming of the dawning

They were all empty

That by the light could be entered

The shells of my harvest were long tipped out

Quietly the gentle lamb passed through

For thought – that once – I had held dear

Weighed – measured – betrayed its conception

And known – overshadowed and surpassed –

Quickly my counterfeit was closely quelled

And through the amaranthine halls

And through the silent passageways of shells

The passing of light into life

And the coming of the dawning.

  *

V. 2. / 122.) Sweeping It All Away . . .

            Sweeping it all away –

The wave upon the strand

Disappeared completely –

My buildings made of sand

Flattened – Smoothed out to zero

Was sand with sand again

Vanity dealt its death blow

Nothing left to see

And the little purple seashells

That did stud my vanquished walls

Taken of the stealing surge -- 

Treasured of the storm

For opened up to us in time

That splendid force of love

That stoops to shape its object

That takes away to give

It runs its full course

Completes its plan and

Back the purple seashells run

To tumble on the strand.

                        *

V. 2. / 121.) The Purple Seashells . . .

The purple seashells

Pressed in place upon the golden strand:

The jewelled porticoes and windows

In my castle made of sand

These – these had been the things

I had counted in my house for good

But which, in my seeing them, as such

Had been as empty eggshells only

And, as brittle, easily broken, were

Vanity alone

All my sequestered

Good was nothing but emptiness

My celestine riches – my purple treasures

Once set within the gilded castle of my heart

Had been all unknowingly for show

Life’s stolen sea of riches to placate the self

It was the age-old way of goodness

A way once the norm but now no more

It didn’t work

Red herrings all, and in the end deceitful ends

Dead ends all – showing only –

The evilness of goodness:

Pressed in good – visibly added  

  

         *

V. 2. / 120.) Let Me Esteem Another More Highly Than Myself

Let me esteem another more highly

Than myself; and turn the tables

And stem the tide of human society

That was gone mad

Where there was any glory to be had

Let it be my gift to other person

And so fulfill the way of the law of love

That was the making of us . . . both.

     *

V. 2. / 119.) Make Me 'Others Centered' . . .

Make me ‘others centered’

Not so much in outward deeds

As in the hidden inward acts of my will

Toward others;

These are much harder

More subtle and able to deceive me:

Done to make me feel good

If they were not a stepping back, done

To make sure the other would feel good;

Good can be used for Evil;

And, given human nature, it mostly is,

And this is why the Tree of it, is death.

     *

V. 2. / 118.) The Fountain Of Continuous Joy

Give me of the fountain of continuous joy

In stepping back and giving others credit;

Let me always have that rising delight

In building people up where no one else does;

Let me not miss the chance to bless another

In spirit and in truth and see them shine.

                                    *

V. 2. / 117.) Help Me To Listen . . .

Help me to listen when others

Unknowingly share their heart

With me;

Help me to hear the beauty

Of their inside song

When they open up to me

In inner vulnerability;

Help me to wait before I speak

Help me to stop and see the path

Of their inward way,

And turn my speech to show them

The gold that is within them.

                         *

V. 2. / 116.) If One Was A Nothing . . .

If one was a nothing what did it matter?

If one truly had let go then one wouldn’t care

I drove too near the edge of the road

But there was help even there

And Another’s two hands upon the wheel

Sharply turned it, and I was spared

The plunge to the valley below, and death

In the flesh . . . perhaps I had a purpose here?

                                    *

V. 2. / 115.) To Sleep, To Wake, To Watch And Sleep Again

To sleep, to wake, to watch and sleep again

Was that always to be all and the only way?

Was there really no one who understood?

Who, stepping back enough to allow me

Some room in them, could love me?

Or would I be shut out, time and time again

For the saving of their skin, and love of self?

                                    *

Vol. 2. / 114.) From The Light Of Falling Flowers . . .

From the light of falling flowers in crystal skies

From the stream once through the gate of meeting

The well within the ways of love’s own labyrinth

And the mystery that clouds the opening of truth

And there, in the centre of the maze, the fountain

And an angel pouring water into its silvery pool

And the cipher is made plain and again and again

Over and over the inner tale is told and truly shown

And no one wants to know, and no one really cares

And all is wrapped again in tiny slants and circuits

Hid, in certain pieces, in silken cloths of lovely words

Scattered here, in hopes of being found and understood

                                           *