the colour of our lives

poetry • celebration • faith • nature • humanity • imperfections • glory

Archive for the tag “faith”

more of the kingdom

this Kingdom is
like prayers in
breaking voices,
rising from
the cracks of a poem

skyit is like
being surprised
by tears in the
retelling
of heroic deeds

like
a rush to the heart
in the fluid slide
of fingers
on silver strings

and a story
bursting like
an excited child
from life-
hardened lips

αΩ


Some of this was inspired by Marie Howe’s wonderful poem “Part of Eve’s Discussion“. Image © Dan Trewear.

but, the soul

There’s a situation;
Neverman always has
a situation, but he has
no time, no appetite
for Dr Freud
and his learned progeny.

The sages dig deep, no
doubt, but the eclectic
smorgasbord of Jung
does not satisfy, nor
the dry bread of cognition.

Adler’s insight rings true,
and we all fear to drink
the cup of death, but
these things make too
much sense to be of help.

speaker-for-the-deadBut, the soul. Gestalt,
impotent, slinks to the back,
with his weary brothers.
A Presence, huge, electric,
is Leviathan on the table,
carving Himself for the feast.

Still, Neverman aches for
the gifts of Love, while
hiding, vainly, from the Lover.
Heart, torn and planted; a
scion of the tree of Life
springs from the bloody ground.

αΩ


Image from comics.ign.com. Some of the last stanza inspired by “Speaker for the Dead” by Orson Scott Card.

prodigal

Almost Once by Brett WhiteleyWe sat, listening to the simple story gripping our hearts. Grown men swallowed, blinked back, with clenched jaws and shining eyes.

How could we not weep, or dance? not sit, still and struck? not give all in colour and song, wild emotion, the blood and mess of the humans we are and the bodies of light we shall become?

Because we are safe, back in the hard but hidden hollow of our imperatives and rituals. Holy fire wavered above fearful brows. Over a few, or all, potent embers still burn.

αΩ


Image is of the sculpture ‘Almost Once‘ by Brett Whiteley, installed near the Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney, Australia

extropy

the new earth will appear, not too far

beyond imagining, and the universe will

resume its holy point of origin. science will

discover, but not care, that its laws were

correct, mostly, for the older cosmos – but

here, matter and energy spring forth from

golden streets while disorder and

chemistry’s potential cascade lose their

entropic pull, yielding helpless to the push

of heaven. a new biology, a blazing life of

fantastic and unimagined subatomics,

draws on its prime and ancient source, free

at last from the old Laws.

hover

if I lose my form
to the void • will the Spirit
soar over my face?

then again the acid

CorrodedHandit will return, of course
wheel and all its
moving parts securely
attached to its blue frame.
then, again, the acid
in the air
pocks the chain with rust and
in a rush of bile
Neverman’s bicycle blows
mojo and lightness dragged
roughly
into viscous singularity


image from metaconscious.tumblr.com

in tune

being or
not
reverberates
to
achieve resonance;
touching the divine may prove fatal

postscript

years or only
minutes into a
future-spiked present
an older version of
someone with no
tears on his face
rides Neverman’s exact bicycle
angling across his
darkstep path and, in a
moment, gone

above the dark house, God
laughs. a star falls.

touch stones

.

an instalment of proverbs, psalms and curses

marricrowdDo not ask a tree
how old it is. It
will never tell you,
and you will have
to cut it to the
ground to find out.
It may fall on you.

Do not cover the
soil with anything
that has not grown
in soil first. One day,
when you are no
longer alive, soil will
cover you.

You must never
taint or hoard
water. The risks are
too great; wars have
been waged over
less. While much is
still free, save and
purify all you can.

Be kind to all
things living; this
is your dominion,
the first gifts spoken. We
will know, like Job,
that these are
our teachers.

stonesDo not tear the
stones from their
resting places in the
Earth. At the very end,
as time and space
collapse, they will
shame you with
their singing.

.

o0OOOo

.

early

“Sulphur isotope data from early Archaean rocks suggest that microbes with metabolisms based on sulphur existed almost 3.5 billion years ago, leading to suggestions that the earliest microbial ecosystems were sulphur-based.”

microfossilsBreathing sulfur, Lucifer’s contrail settles,
flaming, to Earth, tiny acrid engines
building his deep domain to fight a beauty
growing by the Day. Heaven splits from
Earth, and  falling becomes possible;
the Deep is molten, heaving; a
primordial evening and morning pass,
and again; the planet breathes, flourishes
before the Liar finds his reptilian disguise
and brings the brimstone upward. The
tiny traces of creation’s alien dawn
brim in stone, clues for the diligent.

.

Wacey, D., Kilburn, M.R., Saunders, M., Cliff, J. and Brasier, M.D. 2011. Microfossils of sulphur-metabolizing cells in 3.4-billion-year-old rocks of Western Australia. Nature Geoscience 4, 698-702. (http://dx.doi.org/10.1038/ngeo1238)

where i live

a gargantuan step in the crust of Earth
where archaean granites fell, infinitesimally,
for miles; water and wind, grinding, wearing
a hinterland westward fill the giant breach,
layers stacked, mud upon sand, over, again
a thousand times and a million millennia of
the debris of ocean and land. We walk, live, love
and die on the latest of these; droughty bushland
is rampant on this skin of dune and swale, while
the tired river dreams of a raging, humid past.

WAin the summer, an east wind
the temperature of human blood
pushes the gasping air of the desert
across suburbia, fading as it smooths
weary Indian Ocean swells rearing
glassy over ancient coralline reefs.
As the land cools towards sultry nights,
cool humid sea air rushes in as respite to
baking dunes and sweating humans, before the
warm stillness, full of night-creature sounds,
blankets the humming city before dawn’s
desert breeze returns.

atmosphere inverts, and it is winter; thunder
roars with the start of it, rain-soaked west winds
having howled unhindered from the Cape of Good
Hope to punish and soothe the brittle land. The
weakness of trees is culled; waiting seeds,
crouched in humic sand, sacrifice isolation
and autonomy to erupt into air and sunlight,
littering the gritty soil with green.

I love this place with a longing, never
belonging passion, as far from patriotism as
soil and litter from the headlong surges of
human power and commerce. But, land I love,
still you leave me homeless, tease with sparkling
rock, with wild marsupial eyes, with the
strangeness of it all. There are no nests, no
foxholes; you have taught me well that
my rest is of another space and time,
another beauty more other-worldly
than imagination or hope.

please

do not consider
me wise. Any
appearance has
arrived only by
circular argument; I
have studied only
myself

.

do not assume
I have been
sanctified by suffering.
being both cause
and victim,
I suffer
alone

.

do not expect
me to react
maturely to kind
encouragement; your
words call me
beyond all
comfort

.

do not hesitate
to find fault;
the alternative is
that you find me,
after all,
disappointing

.

Tree-of-Shame
(for Carroll Boswell, who remains kind in the face of reticence)

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