Words to bridge the gap between faith and life…
Come,
let us
walk
in the light
of the
Lord:
the light is blinding and
the days are long; the sun
confuses us, the bustle deafens.
Lord:
let us walk.
Let’s leave our cars, our homes, our days
and walk.
The Son has stories brighter than noon,
pavilions for the rising of the brightest morning,
and ways that feet must slow to learn.
But come.
Prepare your crowns, prepare
your heads to bow before
His crown.
Prepare the day, to slow, to greet
this child,
bright as Day.
See clockwise how the candle-steps arise,
New wick ablaze as old wicks stand beside.
Some rise in hope with freshness in their eyes,
Some simply stand; His Nonetheless abides
In hearts that quicken, hearts of smouldering wick.
Though Zion is not tall, though nations scoff,
The small, the humble, now are tall. Come quick!
The way’s made plain, though faint, though still far off.
Come, come: let’s walk. His house beckons us in,
And joyful songs may fill our hearts today.
The hope is sure, though hope sometimes burns dim;
A beacon star still flicks to show the way.
Advent arises; knees unbend to find
This God-with-us, this brother of mankind.
The climb –
up hills, up bridges, up avenues –
may smart on feeble knees,
yet walk.
This is not a path for driving.
There are no lanes free and your mind
will not process the path from inside a car.
Static and traffic-bound, you
will not see the guiding star
and will not feel
the weakness of your knees which speaks
much more of need than traffic knows.
So walk:
the road is long yet rises to meet you
as you greet the Son…
Rejoice. The third candle, pink and fresh with life,
Alights and sparkles while the hope grows long.
Rejoice: Advent is rising; though the strife
Of ways unprepared may hurt our knees, the strong
Will hold the weak and walk. Advent is stretching
The stiff joints of silence. Advent is latent
Yet stirring with noise; Advent is listening
For the cue to rise and walk, to repent
And follow the king. Advent’s a twitch, an impulse,
A call to attention, a horn lifted,
A pounding, a surging, a raising of pulse,
An in-gathering of lost and of sifted.
Advent is beckoning and growing with sound;
Advent rejoices in humming around.
One candle grows short, a second descends,
And three others wait for the rising of light.
Wicks burn down and dwindle, yet hope still appends
The longing of prayers in the slow Advent night.
In the day, though the shouting of sun may shut out
The lamenting of captives, yet watch in the night,
For Advent is slowing: our rushing, our doubt,
Our “everything-must-be-done-by-this-time”.
Yes, Advent is dwindling – right down to the quick –
And Advent is hoping, and looking, though sight
Is obscured, and deferred hope makes the heart sick.
Advent is finding new candles to light:
When the length of the waiting diminishes cheer,
The light still will flicker, to shut out all fear.
No room,
and yet there is room:
in shoulders, between lanes,
by roadsides, in industrial paddocks.
No room, perhaps, for cars, yet feet
have space to move, if you,
traffic-sore, should rise
and step
into the space where lavender
shifts in wind, gnarled
tree trunks climb
to upward possibility.
He comes
on desert paths; He plants
His footsteps in the raging sea.
As inlets, channels, block up here,
prepare your feet,
prepare your way,
prepare to come and see.
Note: Most of this poem was written on a chewing gum packet while stuck in traffic. Chewing gum packet attached to post.
Slow down.
Road, rain, traffic slow you down
but you are fast.
Your heart pounds to silence the road, and buds
turned inward block out growth.
What speaks is asphalt
and the music in your ears, the hum
of engines idling, the unexpected pause.Yet sky is telling another story: look, the clouds gather round the sun to make it plain. And other hearts pound beside you, some with windows wound down, and some wound up with the delayed expectation of day…
Change lanes; there is movement in another place, and blinking lights declare the way is near. Listen: truth today sings in silent stasis and beckons you to hear.
Highways have no beauty in heat of summer:
the road flattens and grass lies thirsty by the way.
Nothing to see (the asphalt carpet rolls through nowhere fast),
we dream of nothing but our pedestrian destinations.
Should someone tell the day that new light might dawn
across a languid, surprised hill, it would chuckle.
And so the road stays nonchalant, all drivers casting off the glare
of sun that blinds from sun, and day
which blinds from truest Day.
Delays are bad today; nothing moves.
Contained at interchange, a stencil house smiles, as though
to make this place feel more like home.
Small comfort: we go nowhere fast.
The morning yawns through Western traffic haze; the day’s
light’s too bright. We squint in glare.
Lane changes ache; all is standstill
until a way can open up, within this artery of roads.
No wilderness; the way prepared
congeals, and so we wait
with hearts tuned out (the voice won’t shout
that says, Prepare the way.)
The Consolations of Writing 