Silly, hurting child!
Don’t you realize– Somewhere–
while you whirl entrapped
like furniture in hurricanes,
dancing grim and wild,
Thought, Emotion, Dream, enwrapped
together in your house
of angst and pains,
goose-stepping pas-de-trois
to old orchestrated sorrows–
Guilt and Disappointment tuned
to Loss and Shame and Fear…
that even so, the friends you’ve earned
by simply being you
are always very near!?
Hurting’s loud, belligerent–
intimidates
the deeper Truth:
Poor wee Child’s
beleaguered–huddled in
a room without a window,
wrapped in rugs
of intricate design and beauty,
against the raging hurricane…
He thinks he is alone
and that the Tempest–
that hardly knows that he exists–
has come for him,
destruction on its mind…
Truth may be–
It is the Rage, the Anguish
that’s afraid,
that seeks within
its battened, padded core
the One Who Is—
Who Knows– Who holds
in golden hands the Light
of All-Acceptance…
Who holds
within His shining face
the Peace that heals–
these things the wages of a life lived
in the key of grace…
Oh, hear, my friend,
in the bellow of the blast–
the beauty of the bellow:
the breadth of love,
the height of courage,
the adamance of life!
They lied between their teeth–
loving humble children,
and thinking to be making
macho men—
all those who told Thee
Thou were not
simply
Beautiful.
2005
LOOSELY SPEAKING... 