A Muted World: Thoughts

The sunrise never came. Snow above, underfoot, in the air – everything crystallized, cold, solid. Whispers of wind swirled spark’ling silver in the dusky dawn. The only fragments of the past were threadlike thoughts, twined within the breeze, remnants of yesterday’s time – The cries of a silenced world. You might have heard them if you weren’t quiet enough.

Is winter a time of death? Gloom and melancholy?
I think it is rather a time of silence and rest, made so that men must let Creation rest.

Noise runs rampant today, unbridled and coarse. Silence brings about reflection and the world fears to know itself lest it know the Truth. Our race prefers the cold groan of ice to the still of a summer evening, a bleak sky to the stars; To be blind than realize ourselves to be wrong, and be deafened by our machinations rather than hear the loving whisper of God.

There was a time when the world was ice to the core. It froze when the first father chose wrongly, and has only been thawing slowly for two millennia. Each time mankind challenges God, the chilling frost of Hell blows louder in acclamation. Evil does not realize (or proudly denies) that God can force Hell’s fires against the ice and turn the kingdom of rebels against itself to destruction.

Though sometimes painful and bleak, wintertime is a beautiful thing. Within the lack of colour and life, quiet and cold, shimmers anticipation of Life, warmth, and until then, a comforting of silence in a muted world.

Bittersweet Servitude

Swirling, dancing, pursued by the wind,
Riding the river, blown o’er the trees,
Thin as the starlight, and dense as the night,
Shifting forms of beauty and fright,
Ghostly mirages creating illusions,
Forming images of beings existing,
In men’s fearful fancy, though not of creation,
Or seeming to some to be fair wondrous creatures;
Hovering close, yet ever so far,
As to never be reached –
In an instant they’re vanished,
One second appear, for a moment stand silent,
Then heeding the whisper of the silky night breeze,
Living shadows, formed of mists,
Move onward to play their haunting dance,
Shift with a sigh of little regret, to return not again.

Wand’ring the windswept courtyards of heaven,
Conversing voicelessly with the Maiden of Moonlight,
Enslaved to their freedom to fly o’er the earth,
The fleet of the mighty Rain-giver, the clouds,
Proud servants of the Sun,
Look down from the sea which they alone sail,
And see their dark, earth-bound young brothers
|The Children of Mist – 
Obeying every wish of their master: the Windlord,
Ensnaring, enchanting, both beauty and dread;

They remember the life they each used to know,
Long to be freed from their task;
Yearn to play with the trees, and to ride with the river,
To waltz with the flowers and empearl them with dew;
And for the memory, shed many a-tear of regret,
Wishing to be again free without care,
Free from the Sun’s service to do as they would.

 Inconsolable, unshamedly weeping,
Never ceasing the while to be true to their duty,
For a long hour the clouds shed sad tears,
Renewing the life of the flowers they loved,
Filling the river upon which they had danced,
Quenching the thirst of unnumbered trees,
Watering the world which they knew so well.

When a new day dawns, the Sun-lord’s great eye
Looks over the oceans, the fields and the forests,
And slowly beckons to the still-swirling mist.
They eagerly race towards invisible stars,
And all are assigned, each one, to a place,
In the service of the Sun-lord,
To guard and patrol the realm of his daughter:
The Maiden of Moonlight.

He sees all the tears left behind by the clouds,
And thinks of the ranks in his army replenished;
Then warms and gives life to each jewel of water,
Lovingly raises new children to play,
And to keep the wind company in his long evening watch.

And through the long day, while they’re led by the wind,
The clouds look down on the world they have lost,
Then think of their duty, their honorable task;
Still remain loyal, and when memories bring pain,
They weep for a while, ’till their sorrow is empty,
And the essence of mist returns – as the rain.

A Poem…Five Years Ago

A pearled orb of sunlit stone,
On a course encompassing the world,
The lesser light to rule the night,
Across the sky since dawn of time,
On unceasing voyages has been hurled.

Like each of us, the moon can shine,
But it has a darker side:
Cold and dark, a frozen plain,
A broken surface, strewn with faults,
If not concealed: this lack of light,
Would any ever see by night?

O’er countless generations it carefully,
Makes sure its dark side is never seen.
It shines brighter than any star,
Yet does not boast, knowing it’s gleam
Like all gifts was given by God,
And if it has no light to shed,
It simply is not seen.

I can not help but wistfully,
Think of what our lives could be,
If we’d take an example from the Moon;
Never let others, our dark side see.

A Thought for You

I don’t suppose you’ll know to whom this is directed unless you are that person. That’s alright though. I doubt that you’ll know the circumstances in which I write either unless you are that one. Keep reading anyway, it isn’t so particular as to be enveloped. If it were I’d not write it here.

I was nearly finished formulating this thought when we parted this evening. It’s just a thought and certainly could be written ‘better’ but it’s late.

If what is required is for us to ‘deal’ and be perfect according to that ideal standard, we shouldn’t take encouragement from Christ in everything He did.
We all have trials. His was a Cross, ours are splinters from that. (That seems fine by itself.) He fell with His three times. We ought not be surprised or frustrated when we do with ours. The best way seems to be to continue despite falls and apparent failures from being overloaded.

I don’t know anyone who does that perfectly in this life, but the ones who persevered are saints. The standard isn’t doing everything we set out to do completely and perfectly. It’s to do what we can (and should) in the time given us, to the best of our ability, with the grace of God.

Tomorrow will be a new opportunity.

Silent Lightning

Silence is a wonderful thing. A friend is a treasure from God. Time is mysterious, and darkness beautiful.

Is the last of the four surprising to be in such a list? I’ve written of time (or Not-Time) before. This is slightly different.
Many people associate darkness with things Not-Good. Maybe that’s because they can’t see what’s in it, and know that (worse), many think that they can’t be seen in it – the former is strange to me and the latter false in more than one way.

Earlier this evening I sat under a tree with a cup of tea, Another, and God. The sun had suffocated beneath piling clouds, or fallen down a mountain. I don’t know which. The day ended as timeless Evening crept forward to stealthily morph into Night.

We left the tree after a bit, walked somewhere down a road I’d never taken, and stopped after a few minutes to watch the clouds over the mountains ignite with brief flares of lightning. I don’t know how long we stood, perhaps twenty minutes.
It was all there – Time, a Friend, Darkness. Nature was raging in front of our eyes and was Silent. I know that somewhere the thunder was heard. It never reached us.

I say that darkness is beautiful (but then I can see rather well in it) because it doesn’t obscure everything – it removes some things and leaves the rest to be seen which otherwise are overlooked.
This particular species of Darkness was an unsteady rippling of light, for brief instances shrouding the starlight in pulses of silver. Other types are the steady moonrise, the waking stars, or bleak and cold, the clouded night.

To look into the darkness is like to do so up at stars or into someone’s eyes. There is everything to be seen, hidden in part by your own eyes, some things to be sought and others to remain Mystery. To know the stars or a person in whom resides the Creator are ways of further knowing Him. There, deep within the cosmos or in the heart and soul of that person, is God. If you look long enough, flashes of some truth shine out.

Look at the stars. I see hundreds of shapes between them, and unknowable points of light. Look at Another person. I wish that I could know the awful and beautiful ‘It’ which is naturally bound to the visible corporeal body, see that facet of God’s infinite beauty in all people – but far away are the stars, my eyes are blind and only God can be ever proximate.

All I know is that Sacred Mystery resides in Heaven, be It found in the eyes of the sky or a soul. And that is why I think darkness is beautiful.

” . . . faith is the substance of things to be hoped for, the evidence of things that appear not.” (Heb. 11:1)

Extinguished Stars – a Smoky Sky

‘There are no vocations, temporary or permanent, that do not come with the caveat that you will have to give up yourself for the sake of something or someone else, and that includes being a student. When we seek to do God’s will, He directs us on a road that is sacrificial, yes, “Take up your cross and follow Me”, but also peaceful –  “Take My yoke upon your shoulders…for my burden is light” .
But the big picture needs to be present in our souls in order to maintain peace of soul in a given moment, and we must remember that peace is a gift from God, not something we acquire for ourselves. There will always be things thrown at us designed to take away our peace of soul.’

So wrote the most influential man in my life to me this morning.

I find grimly humourous that one can write/speak such words to me, and often my thoughts are along the lines of ‘yes, I know…heard it all before’ – but do I KNOW this all? (In theory, yes)

Short post? Yes. 85% the words of another man? Yes. But methinks that the weight of the quoted words are worth contemplating for a bit, and also I should fulfill what I said I’d try to do in the way of taking part in an activity common to most of the human race, namely sleeping. (try)

Short Note On Poems

Many people have asked me, “How do you write poetry?”

…I wish I knew.

I started writing poetry about the same time that Algebra started making sense. I never have planned out a poem, be it a 12-liner or a 10-pager (why my prose is so awful) and no thought really went into them until I was finished.

Start with a thought. An idea. Write a few words about it, decide if it sounds like the beginning, middle or end of a poem, and write around it.
Or do the reverse. I’ll often write something that ‘sounds’, and if it sounds like something writable I go with it.

The latest poem here was considered weeks ago. I wrote it in 5 minutes when I had nothing better to do. Seems to be like music. It plays/writes itself out, ends when it wants to, and the artist is just the tool.

The only shred of advice I’ve ever given is this: Start small. Think of the smallest thing you can, write a line that sounds like it and GO.
And write of something you know about or can visualize. The art should not tell anything; I don’t think it ought to show everything. The final piece should work on the reader’s imagination, say enough to make him visualize what you write, but write so he sees only that – vividly.

Light Between the Doors

Evening fell, the evening bell
Rolled out the hour and silent fell,
Stone and gold, which the Word hold,
Crimson glowed with the bell as it tolled.

Sounded again as tired men
Cast eyes up to the spire –
An archangel’s spear, the demons’ fear,
Of the guards that never tire.

Within the walls, dimming halls,
A watch I set with the candles’ flame,
A heart for a Heart, a love for true Love,
To understand further His Name.

And pacing the corridors seldom seen,
A light on the floor dimly shone,
Flung to the marble, a ruddy sheen –
Like blood on a long-ancient bone.

There were the doors – forgotten ways,
From a path behind the Throne,
Through the crack in the oak, the candlelight broke,
And I saw that He was alone.

There I halted a moment, and waited a while,
Seconds turned minutes to but a brief thought,
I was witness to places a millionfold built,
Wherein the only true battle was fought.

In the darkness still-standing I stood,
Seeing the glow through the wood,
And it seemed to me that I looked through a Tree . . .
. . . where Eternity lingered on.

To Own the Skies

Humanity has longed to be winged, has dreamed and wondered for millennia, and I think for more than we think we do. We want to fly freely, to have power, beauty, to surmount the clouds and see Light Itself. We want not the wings of eagles, but of Seraphim. We know that we want, but not always what –

Such wings would not be an escape from fight, but an overcoming, would they not? A rising to heights above the haze and clouds of mankind’s tragedy until you were not only in sight of the sun in its pure flame, but being consumed by it, burning as it does – radiating the same love with which you are struck, though never diminishing in ashes.

If you dream of flying, and wanting it as a beauty not meant for this life; if you see it as an escape from the ground you belong to – is that not because you were made for more than the confines of a spinning globe, more than a mortal’s lot; was your heart not created to contain eternally true Love and your body to be as beautiful as your soul, reflecting unspeakable Beauty Itself?