where are the waters that lead me to rest
your voice in the morning
your foot on the stair
a chair by a window overlooking
no place in particular
your book on the bed
here beside me
you reside with me
through all times
Tag: spirituality
late summer rain
first light through thin curtains
the dog asleep below
I am a part of all I see
part of this golden glow
the dog will stir and want his breakfast
and I have much to gain
if I now rise and walk the fields
before late summer rain
prayer of the heart
words said along the way
at the intersection
at night
through day
silent words
felt along an ancient way
before and behind each other word
I might think or say
through all the stations
of the day
words
no more in need of memory
my blister strip of pills
held like a rosary
ever with me
Lord grant mercy
descent
snowflakes flutter to the ledge
as I sit in darkness
awaiting the mystery of the dove’s descent
your face drops in instead
unannounced
the bell tolls thirty minutes
my time is at an end
sacred or profane
it’s all the same
love is all there is
an unseen flame
binding us all
to itself
cornerstone
you wrote your name in the palm of my hand
and laid the cornerstone
I threw into the lake
it sunk so deep
we haven’t found it to this day
though I never tire of looking
like your book
that I drowned in the bathtub
(I am so sorry)
but it never was the same
after that
it says I’m writ in the palm of your hand
and the rock that was laid for us that day
can never wear away
ready
sunlight on an empty vessel
in the deserted house along the shore
only when I am like that empty vessel
will I be ready
for my guest to call
when the wind and the sea and all the landscape
know me and recognise me
as one belonging
then – only then
will I be ready
for the coming
the gift of constant longing
you gave me the gift of solitude
I called it loneliness
but it was solitude
and you gave me the gift of constant longing
I called it brokenness
disrepair
but only the gift of constant longing
could keep me searching endlessly
for what is always here
everywhere
a good spot
the library corner in the new house
is a good spot for meditation
from my chair I can see
a spire rising up between trees
assuming it to be a place of worship
I wondered what denomination it might be
then I was told it was the spire
of the local shopping centre
but it makes little difference to me
it’s still a good spot for meditation
still a spire rising up between trees
the old coast road
and there were many buildings and temples
and who is to say which is false and which true
so I kept going along the old coast road
in the hope that I may find a way through
for once more would I visit my father’s garden
and stand among the olives and the vines
even though I am old and weary
what is his is surely mine
so I keep going
where there are many paths down to the sea
for along this old coast road
there is one
that may be recognised by me
pretending not to hear
darkness before dawn
I listen
as is my practice
lifting the mug of coffee to my lips
with both hands
the dog is sleeping on the bed
you tell me (as have others)
that the truth is closer
than I am to myself
closer than the thick black liquid
quickening in my throat
only it’s not working today
it is not here
that which with a rush is only everywhere
in your voice
the quiet breathing of the dog
the sip of coffee
grace knows no horizon
the heart no other resting place
than this
yet I’m no wiser
like children at a rock pool
we have dipped our buckets
and I have drawn up nothing once again
curious water
a ribbon of seaweed
if I were on my deathbed
even now
yours is a voice
to lead me by circuitous paths
to nowhere
which is the only place
I ever thought to be
it might be birdsong
or the voice of my father
calling up the stair
as I rocked on my heels
pretending not to hear
so long ago
I spit the grounds
place the mug down gently to one side
close my tired eyes
and see more clearly
that I am never closer to God
than when I am about to fall
and know
there is no one here to catch me
but myself
Another Way of Saying 