Death of a Dream

A pinnacle, this dream to taste the globe;
To savour, laugh and mingle, kiss and bow.
Unreachable, immortal it became,
A priceless hope beyond my grasp. But now –

A lesser peak I’ve scaled. I’ve found in touring,
Exotic flavours tend to common grey;
The globe to shrink. The revered dream is maimed.
Cathay and Rome are but a flight away.

Hollow

Echoes of a keening loon
Reverberate through emptiness.
Lost.

Tiny tendrils yanked and tangled.
Years of clinging, growing ivy
Dead.

Abysmal freefall, where certainty once
Stood solid and secure.
Hollow.

Treasure Hunt

Poetry is both a telescope and a treasure map. Gaze through either end of the poetry telescope; you will see things in ways you could never have dreamed. Follow closely, decipher the directions, and the treasure map of poetry will lead you through valuable experiences to treasure chest of thought.

You think I sing for joy

You think I sing for joy

When in reality, this song is my lifeline of hope;

Faith’s final stand against the onslaught of despair.

My lips keep moving long since my heart has stopped,

For only in silence will doubt become defeat.

You think I sing for joy

When in reality, this music is my marching song

For trudging on and on through dreary days.

Thirsting for the more abundant life:

Resigned to the rain, yet longing for the sun.

You think I sing for joy

For despite the gloom, guiding stars gleam.

Storms do not last with their overcast,

But as day follows night and season follows season

So comes the calm.

You think I sing for joy

For the depth of the Father’s forgiveness

Is matched only by the width of His love.

And in my weakness,

He is Strong.

You think I sing for joy

I do.

Looking down into the sky...

Looking down into the sky,

What is there to see?

Whisp'ring waves reflecting on

The sunset's reverie.

An amber line of languid clouds

Wrapped in dressing gown;

A flitting flock of feathered friends

Flying – upside down.

Looking down into the sky

What is there to see?
Two startled eyes, some flailing limbs,

And a bobbing Tiffany.

Journey Through the Cosmos

A reply to Journey Through the Heavens. 

Night enfolds a drowsy world

In softest solitude,

Darkness opens on itself,

Infinite heavens revealed.

A thousand silent, twinkling lights

Beckoning through space,

Reach – stretch – grasp a hold

And swing into their midst.

From constellations, loner stars,

To far-flung galaxies,

Wander through the cosmic realm

Adrift yet never lost.

Here a different language speaks:

A language of the soul.

Ancient wisdom reverberates

The music of the spheres.

Entertained by jolly jokes,

Amusing, witty tales,

Revel in the centuries

Of camaraderie.

Catch a comet back to Earth

Whispering, “Adieu.”

Brush the silvery star dust

That lingers in the mind.


written 25 September 2012 

Right Brain

Loosed from my left brain

Floating in right train

Of pensive, roving thought.

Enter the innerworld

Prism-ed and beauty swirled,

Invited yet unsought.

Living in poetry

Immortal harmony

Unspoke, unheard, unsung,

Never recorded be

Lingering infinitely,

Ne’er ending, ne’er begun.

Climb into someone’s mind

Explore their eyes, unwind

The weaving of their world.

See life just as they see;

Feelings unknown to me,

Unfettered and unfurled.

Pour out a swig of sleep

So drowsy eyes will keep

Locked in freedom’s cage.

Unharried, drift about,

Never lost, wandering out

Of painting, picture, page.

Don’t try to capture it,

Left brain will mangle it

With intense perfection.

Kiss it, let freely roam,

Nevermore to drag it home,

In traitorous defection.

Embrace the present tense,

Immersed in every sense

Mingle, ebb, and swell

Deeper than thought can go

Impressions speak and flow

Sages’ secrets tell.

Moonnight

Dearest Wanderers, thank you for wandering far and wide - far enough and wide enough to wander back.

I have caught a poetry bug - or it has captured me. This one is from a couple moons ago.

*****

Moonnight

The moon is drifting, drifting,

O’er the world below,

The mist is lifting, lifting,

Born of glittering snow.

The dancing sprites of Northern Lights

Are bending, bowing low,

While mist is lifting, the moon is drifting

‘Cross the glittering snow.

The moon is drifting, drifting,

Through the ocean sky.

The stars are sifting, sifting,

Pearls floating by.

The hoary trees, my whispering skis

Like silver echoes fly,

While stars are sifting, the moon is drifting

Midst the pearly sky.

The moon is drifting, drifting,

Free from ancient care

The clouds are shifting, shifting,

Shadows in the air.

Elusive hue of midnight blue,

Enchanting unaware,

While clouds are shifting, the moon is drifting

Through the shadowy air.

Fool's Gold

Fears fill
Empty thrill
Ruptured by a broken will
Tears trill
Moving still
Hovering o'er my window sill.

Living die
Firefly
Haunted by its joyful cry
Breathless sigh
Truthful lie
Underneath where stars are nigh.

Small the vast
Undercast
Disillusioned by contrast.
Future's past
Drifting fast
Interchanging first for last.

Upward fall
Solemn ball
Choreographed with cheetah's crawl
Dingy hall
Lonely brawl
Savouring the sweetest gall.

Right or wrong
Run along
Perfect judgement from the throng
Grinding gong
Distance strong
Dragging out the sorrowing song.

Float aground
Air bedrowned
Tide is out - inbound
Lost unfound
Upside-downed
Echoing the silent sound.

Forceful slight
Darkening light
Guided by a tailless kite
Temper might
Lessen height
Too polite for fight or flight.

Fire's cold
Spring's old
Timid faces bluffing bold
Tales untold
Blind behold
Memories of Fool's Gold.

A Different Christmas Story

I have a Christmas story to share: my Christmas story. Or rather, God's Christmas story in me. This story didn't start this way. Only afterwards did I realize its meaning, deep, deep down.

Growing up in a Mennonite Christian home, God was a household name. He was everywhere: at school, at church, at home, and at my friends’ homes. However, at thirteen years old, I didn’t understand Him or His call to become a Christian. In fact, I refused His call because I didn’t recognize it. But something quite indescribable nagged and festered in the back of my brain. I could almost imagine it away. Almost. Except when I couldn’t.

Sunday sermons and kindly parents mentioned the call of God. He calls for entrance to your heart. He calls everyone. It isn’t an audible call, but a call of the soul. In a sense, it’s a terrible call because it is far from peaceful. Why, that’s exactly the way I felt. But surely not. I had heard how to accept the call many times. Pray to God. Tell Him you’re sorry for your sins. Ask Him to forgive you. Ah, but that didn’t really make sense. I didn’t think about my sins much. I wasn't that bad. Besides, who said God was calling me?

Something was wrong. I was unhappy and didn't know why. Falling asleep betimes was more of a nightmare than sleep itself. I was depressed and horribly hollow. So I gave in. I couldn't rid my soul of its turmoil, so I asked Mum to help me. With her, I prayed to God for mercy and peace. It wasn’t a “correct” prayer. It was a crude and confused prayer. Somehow, I accepted God's call. Somehow, He entered my heart and soothed my soul.

It was a miracle. Even retrospect can't figure it out. However, morning came, and with it, the real world. What sort of dream had I had? What figment of my imagination had conjured peace? It must have been a farce. My heart seemed a fountain of confusion. Weren't my troubles supposed to melt like mist in the morning sun?

What I thought was a once-and-for-all transformation turned out to be the first step of a life-long sanctification. Through His church and the Holy Spirit, God started teaching. He showed me salvation is simple: just believe. He showed me His presence isn’t an emotional high but a sustaining strength suited for real, everyday life. He showed me that it isn't His plan for my troubles to disappear. Rather they remain so He can reveal the Solution. Most importantly, He showed me what grace really is. He showed me the stark truth: I am a sinner. He showed me that I deserve to be shot dead; only His grace has freely given me life. He showed me and keeps showing me that it’s not about what I have done, but what’s been done for me.

And that is God's Christmas story in me.