Thursday, April 24, 2014

At the Gate

the treasure of darkness

at the gate
what? dare I inside
I must not break
I must not bend
He will throw down
He will smash
I will inside
should he send

At the gate
I wait
what word will go
like a bombardier
dreadful seeds that he sews
that drop and explode
and ignite with life
or dare i speak
words like a knife

At the gate
Cutting words
words that stay
so the wound that is true
will remove the fray
the tangles of a liars world
dead thing
and winter limbs
hands and feet
dirt digging in

At the gate
realities cold
heart today
waxing and mold
shrinking and stinking
but still I stay
outside the gate
in the fold of the gray

At the gate
Once more
faith hope and love
and love the key
feathers the wing,
wing of white dove
or of an eagle
or rust red from the hawk
that grows out
from the back of the hart
and lifts him above

Above the gate
and now I see in
the hand cut itself off
withered dead and thin
standing in the pinhole of light
light that leeks dim
all around darkness
the self seeking grin

Above the gate
in the dusky sky
beyond the unknown
after travels and story
lift the wings home
home past desert
the land of lost mates
and the dreary and miserable
the friend
behind locked gate

Go back
Back to the gate
Go back that I should again wait
the bars will be cut down
and out of the secret place
the hand of the friend
remember this her face
the treasure of darkness
not mine to take
but give back
and her back grow wings too
She will fly up with me
her thunder will sing through

Free from the Gate
the gate gone and dashed
the campfire burns brightly
the smell of smoke rises west
the gate now open
strange place in the breast
breast to hold against
the One that did the work
working the will on the tree
the embrace that is free
branches open wide

Wide as a gate
and narrow is the way
through secret passages
past paths of destruction
beyond reason and deduction
to a given gift
the treasure is the will
the will laid down
the will that will see
He did it all
all of this
the gate destroyed for me

Monday, April 7, 2014

Oiseau de Dieu

Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?