Within the soul is the struggle fought,
Deeply buried from the eyes of others.
The climb into the light,
Or decent into darkness,
Both realities on the pilgrims journey.
The road difficult
Littered with failures,
Wandering at times into darkness
Threatening its cold touch,
Feeding thoughts of despair,
Deeper still in quiet infinite,
The sword of light
Dimly shinning yet seen
Pushes back the enclosing doom,
Cutting to the morrow its truth,
Hunger deep the void bottomless
Seeking to devour all that comes before it,
Calculating yet mindless,
Cunning without true intelligence,
It prowls seeking warmth
From the essence of others,
Itself empty of all existence
Running from it nothingness
Living off the life of others,
Till only ruin remains
A shell used up and discarded.
Evil needs good in order to exist,
Feeding yet never filled
Seeking life from pain
It hollowness eternal;
Hence the unending hunger
The entity lay coiled,
Upon the cold smooth surface,
Colder than any worldly ice,
Blacker than pitch,
Its frozen depth bottomless,
Cold burning like fire
For any enduring it touch.
The creature black as the ice,
Lifted it head
Seeking to find surcease
From the burdening silence
Suffocating like a blanket
That surrounded it.
It tried to scream,
But silence devoured the agony wailed.
Surrounded by a grey fog,
We are hurled through space at great speed,
In a Universe ever expanding,
Racing towards nothing,
The void already surrounds us,
Cold and lifeless beyond our small sphere.
Upon our home we are like microbes
So small are we,
Yet our lives have meaning and depth.
Suffer and die,
Though in the scheme of things it is nothing at all.
Yet we think,
Are self-aware and seek,
Knowing of the void,
Our coming deaths,
We long n
Seeking to become free of the fear of what others think, takes time; perhaps a lifetime of discipline and effort to reach the goal desired. Best to do what one wants, than to not do it out of fear of others thoughts. People will think what they will, nothing to be done about it.
It can be very difficult to do this; I am of course speaking from experience. It is the little things that are important, doing what is right, instead of what others think should be done. Little by little, this freedom
Letting go and letting God,
Seldom however followed.
Holding tightly to oneself,
To what is known firmly till death;
Afraid to let go
Fearful of what will follow.
Walls strong and high,
A prison of ones own making,
Though barbed wired enclosed.
Who would I be?
Or what would I become,
If the wire was cut
And the walls came down?
Is freedom so frightening,
That the hell known
Preferred to being free?
Torn between he
Joy unfolds in waves of ecstasy,
Ever mounting eternal it its expansion,
Lifting up into the pulsating light,
Filling the soul with overwhelming peace,
The soul’s expressing,
Infinite in its ability
The gift offered.
Forever emptying itself,
Yet always filled.
In perfect sync
With the One who leads
Eternity in a moment
One with the light,
With all life,
Humanity is a precious thing,
Bound by instinct true;
Also present is so much more,
Leading to something high,
Or the low road leading to chaos,
Destruction sought like a man in delirium.
The man who makes love,
Can also rape,
The arms that cradle a child in tenderness,
Also can turn to abuse,
Love can turn to hate,
Nurture at times lead to murder,
Such is our walk,
The struggle we face
The war between good and evi
Writing allows the soul to speak,
Bringing to consciousness,
Letter by letter, word by word,
What lies beneath,
The joy unspoken,
That would remain hidden forever,
Without this divine gift.
Both giving glory
To the true artist Eternal,
Lavish in giving gifts.
Racial memory runs deep
Branded into the psyche,
A festering wound of the collective soul
With rage often its only outlet,
Though it may hide,
Or be forgotten for a time.
The monad swallowed up
Sinking into the chaotic,
The desire to destroy and kill
Shattering any pretense of humanity,
Personal freedom chained
By the rising of that irrationality
Deeply buried in the unconscious of its people.
Good and evil reversed
With God’s voice or word
Used as the fue
Mankind lies in a bed racked with fever,
Temperature rising out of control,
Twisting and turning,
Lasing out at those trying to help,
To bring some cooling ointment,
The sickness only gets worse,
Mankind’s soul racked with pain,
The desire for blood and revenge
An addiction sweet,
Easy to partake of such a sumptuous feast,
So many to hurt, rape, and kill,
Satiation never achieved
The hunger bottomless,
Its thirst without end,
The god of war’s stomach
Linear, clear, beautiful,
Drowns in hatred,
Snuffed out as if it never was,
Gagged and bound,
Leading too chaos,
Cyclic in its progress,
The eternal return,
Until only silence remains,
Since thought is no more,
Nothingness the winner.
I have had over the years, trouble with Christian hard liner's, in the way that they not only use scriptures, but how they actually treat others in using the Bible in attacking others. I have always found this interesting, since attacking only raises up defenses, and in the end, nothing is accomplished. I suppose the main problem with this approach is that certain scriptures are gathered together, lined up, loaded, and then used as an arsenal to blast others.
Christians aren't the only ones
Some days are filled with emptiness,
Swimming in a void,
Neither hot, nor cold, or lukewarm,
Going through motions
With nothing underneath,
Like a soul trapped in the nether world.
Floating in the chill of lightlessness,
Just being there,
Feeling neither dead nor alive………
Then ever so slowly,
Its pace cannot be hastened,
Again the void recedes,
Joy breaks through;
Such is the wheel of life.
Wisdoms learns this lesson
No longer restless,
Seeking for things to do,
His mind seems to be at peace,
Amidst a sleep deep,
Held gently in it soothing embrace,
The body relaxed without movement,
Waiting for the call home.
A life well lived
Filled with love, laughter, and friends,
Good works the fruit of a loving heart,
Will soon cease,
His lonely exit entering,
Into the waiting arms of his beloved.
Unbidden it comes,
Often unexpected in its appearance,
Softly it comes upon its prey,
Who is interested only in what is before it,
Swiftly it embraces from behind
Filling its victim with its gift,
Given when least expected,
The fruit of an open loving heart.
Over the last few years, Edmund has led us to believe that he would soon be leaving this world, and proved us wrong. Now however he has entered a phase that I think points that this time his leave is soon in coming. His Alzheimer’s has over the years of course been worsening, and now he is in its late stages, though he can still communicate with us some. He will respond to my calling him by name, and when I pray with him he also is attentive. He still loves it when I pray the Psalms with him
People run for cover,
Looking fearfully into the sky,
Naked before death,
That rains from the heavens.
Hearts that love, also hate,
Kind people turned into killers,
Love of family, and country,
Belief in ones faith,
Leads to hatred of those outside the circle.
For the aggressors
No one is innocent in time of war,
The key to ending of killing, and hatred,
Is the knowledge,
Hard to accept,
That when looking into the enemies eyes,
Jorge (not his real name) came to see me yesterday, a friend that I have known since around 1990. He is Cuban, and from a well to do family, who have ventures in land, farming, and rental properties. Jorge is a very intelligent man, highly educated, and I presume that he is also good in handling the family business that he helps out in, though his father is still able to run it himself.
Jorge has a full plate when it comes to some of the issues that he is dealing with in his life. He has a
As I was watching CNN yesterday, feeling hopeless about the escalating situation between Hezbollah, and Israel; an image was suddenly thrown onto the screen, an image violent in its portrayal of a tragedy not yet hours old. It showed 20 men, perhaps a few more or less, the exact number I don’t remember; dead, lined up on the side of the road. They were of all ages; young to some who seemed old enough to be Grand-fathers. The horror of the image came from the silent presence of all these bodie
Mankind is weary of war.
The weak, and lowly,
Those who have no one to protect them,
Women, Children, the old, without a shield,
Waiting for ‘it’ to happen,
A sudden explosion,
Ripping apart lives and bodies without mercy,
Young men and women in their prime,
Full of life and vigor,
Strong and brave,
Those who take up arms,
Each thinking their cause is right,
Committing acts unheard in times of peace,
Tortured, and torturer, dancing in perfect sync,
I often wonder why it is so easy to write about pain, sorrow, struggle, and strife. I know that there is much of the above in the world, and I would suppose most of us, if perhaps not all, are often part of this drama, that makes up the pain of the world. Its weight is heavy, burdensome, to the point were death is longed for by those who get the brunt of its crushing power. No one is free from this; even the so called rich, the carefree, have an inner burden that they also must carry, it is j
For whatever reason, Clarence’s driver, the one who takes him to dialysis did not show up on Thursday morning. So I was called to take him in for his appointment. The trip is not a long one, it takes about 25 minutes to get him there, so I got the caravan, and off we went. I called ahead to let the head nurse know that we would be about a half hour late. Luckily the traffic was light; it was after rush hour, and we made good time. Clarence was in a talkative mood, and excited, since he was
Dialysis waiting room
I came in and sat down in the small waiting room,
The people there were waiting their turn to be called in.
Quiet, low key, perhaps tired,
Some are better at dialysis than others,
Many give it up since it is so hard on their bodies
I sat down with my book and started to read,
Then ever so softly I heard a soft humming,
Gentle it is sound,
Haunting in its unknown melody
That touched me deeply.
She was a small woman with a round face,
Beautiful, with her skin blac
In the depths of all souls,
Hidden often by life's rough paths,
Even forgotten by some,
Or perhaps unfelt by many,
Is a deep reservoir,
Fathomless in its depth,
Unlimited by time or space,
Coolness for a soul afire with rage,
Or numb from pain,
Rest for the weary,
Hope for the downtrodden,
Or for those who simply have given up.
This hidden-ness waits to be called
For it to be able to surface in many lives.
It can be called by many names,
But joy is its gift,