What have you seen of the past?
What stories do history’s pages tell?
A mute dirge perhaps, or a final bugle,
retreat sounding when battle’s about to be won?
You look only in false places;
the witness of the past tells only half-truth.
It was not there when firmaments were sealed
or covenants carved into space.
Shine light. Everything illuminated
comes to life. The dead must hide
in darkness where there is no voice.
Yet in the light a new song sings
and hails the truth that reigns…
The day comes and goes: families meet; food’s eaten;
As tradition has it, rain comes at night.
What then? Police patrol the festive season;
Roads are blocked in case the Christmas sprite
Has rendered some of us unsafe to drive.
So wait. The moment passes, and too soon
The chance will leave as quick as it arrived.
Within the scheduled week there still is room,
Yet hearts congeal and work expands like gas
When holidays are done. No holy days?
Each moment hides deep grace; and though it pass
The pregnant hope of things will have its way.
Open eyes to see the swelling joy
Of light and life amidst our vacant noise.
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.
For truth is found in perfect, measured rhyme:
The dance between the mystery and clue,
The hint of infinite contained in time.
Philosophy is true if it is said
In words of simple honesty which ring
With cosmic shimmers, and the truth is dead
If language must obscure idea from thing.
Plato’s only truth was poetry;
Wittgenstein was eaten up by words.
From birth, we drift amidst the language sea
And clutch at thoughts as rafts in the absurd.
The simplest truth confounds Sophistic scam:
To stand in rhyme before the great I Am.
The priests conspire. Money changes hands.
Even still, the truth must be buried in dark.
And yet it bursts forth. Indomitable, it rises:
a spring-bloom which cannot be killed…
When the first-fruits sprout, the harvest follows.
The best-laid plans of priests and men
cannot contain what God has raised.
See, it shatters every earthly tomb.
And it will reveal
who has taken talents, hid
them in the frugal field,
who has sown what has been given
and let small things grow.
And it will reveal
the hearts of those who plant and reap,
the hearts of servants great
and small, the motives of the heart’s
dark countries. The light
will reveal, it will
shine into chasms, abscesses,
show forth the truth of what
we did while left unto our own
devices and desires. Let
the truth shine brightly in.
You say I see the world as monochrome –
No texture and without tonality.
The truth for you grows wild: reality
Springs forth, connected, plural, as rhizome.
Perhaps it’s true; I’d rather be at home
Within the comfort of fixed certainty,
For here amidst truth’s many pleats I see
The wholeness seen across each moving zone.
Life’s essence, irreducibly complex,
Must stretch and test the bounds of our abode.
To each their own; we all have our penchants
And you, it’s true, leave space for life to flex.
But threefold truth converges at one road
And that, for me, has made the différence.