Silence

My soul is
Silence unto God:
For my love,
I see all;
But I am prayer:
A soul
Cast into life,
As both battlefield
And temple.

Intuitions of Eternity

There is in every man,
Something that whispers
Of another place.......
A reminiscence of lost condition:
The intuitions of eternity,
Confined to a world of beginnings;
And like babies crying for the light,
When their only voice is a cry;
We sing life's song for a season of promise:
As the first movement of a new creation,
Set within the panoply of imagination.

Moments

There are moments,
Startled,
By a sudden death
Of all hope;
We are too much wearied
To disbelieve:
We bow our head,
And raise a tear:
We asked;
And we have had
Our reply.

A Question of Being

A human question;
A question of being,
With a mortal cry:
So Job poured out
His requiem, to
The disappointed
Hopes of man:
So comes a thought,
Amid the calling
Of the wind, and
The cracking of
The winter leaves;
Only one life
Have we heard of:
Phenomena all around;
Yet I am not,
For I have seen
The evanescence
Of a man,
Infinitely remote
From his desire;
So sensitive
To impression, yet
Unable to second
Designs and desires;
Where nothing is real
And nothing is realized:
All alone.......
And then to die,
In wonder that he
Had been born at all;
Mute, meek eyes,
Look to heaven:
They neither accuse,
Nor complain.

NOAH: the TRUTH is BIGGER than you thought......the JourNey BeGins

The Ravens Cometh 1

War In THe Heavens

As A Dew From the Lord

A Scroll; An Ephah; And A Generation Under Curse

Did you ever let your mind play with a thought; and just wander?

Everything happened all at once.......like a big bang.......the whole universe materialized and happened and was over; just like that.......a snap of the fingers, so to speak; and that materialization left a giant, almost living hologram.......a kind of programatic picture, if you will, where each part contains the whole; fully imprinted within. And so, each part, each individual, can be anywhere in the hologram at any particular time and experience the rest of the picture from that place. Once we're there, in the illusion, the Divine idea plays itself out, and we simply live the sequential events of time, as they are laid out.......from God's point of view in eternity everything we are; all that we experience has already happened.......the prodigal has long ago returned.  In the reality of eternity it's already over and done with and we're safe at home in heaven with God.  But in the world that was made, we seem to be stuck in an illusion.......in a kind of dream.  Time is an illusion;  and when we've all experienced it and have played each part and we get it, or accept it, or forgive it.......it will all disappear; and we will awake, and continue to just be at home with God in heaven.

Streams of Tendency

Streams of tendency,
As deep as being:
The whole manhood,
Is moved by
The first surrender;
Can we dimly see
The heart of God?
Let light be,
And light was:
Yet we see,
A darkness of obscurity;
Left in the solemn
Impressiveness,
Of that one word.

Seers

I have seen 
The fullness of zero,
Wrapped, in the
Infinite arms of Omega:
All moments exist,
Within the taint
Of imperfection,
Marked, by the piercings
Of eternal truth;
Everything we know
Is less than zero,
Not simply
More than nothing.

To See The Night Lift

The dawn breaks,
But it does not surprise:
For we have watched
From the valley,
And seen the long night
Of rosemary and rue.
We pass softly, with 
Quiet feet and open eyes;
Bearing with us
All of the redeemed earth,
That we have made our own:
The empty song,
Repeats itself no more;
As time sinks deep
Into the depths of Divinity;
For to be alive,
Is more than the coming
And the going of breath,
Aloof and absolved from
The accidents of existence:
It is in the ground
Beneath our feet;
The stubble, and the chaff
Lie together in its chambers,
With graves full of the dust
That once passed in forms
That spoke and loved as men:
Their illusion haunts us,
But to see the night lift;
It is here we must walk.

Lost

The ashes of the rose
Lie hidden well
In autumn's urn:
Life saved; and life lost;
But the ardor
Of the young lover
Was as the
Net of the spider;
Entangling and destroying:
We came not back
That way again.

It's the day after
Thanksgiving,
And all through
The house,
Lie six sleeping
Grandsons,
Quiet as a mouse;
As the sun
Rises quickly,
And eyes open fast;
I treasure this silence,
Cause I know
It won't last.
So it's out
To the playground,
And in for some food,
Then off to the movies
With my noisy
Little brood.
If I survive this day,
And it goes
As we plan;
I'll rest until
Christmas,
And do it all
Again.

I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday;
Cunneda

THE GLORY OF LOST IDEALS

If you speak of wonders,
They believe in
Ten thousand things;
Or they believe in nothing:
Yet, their laughter walks
Slowly, upon the heels
Of their tears:
In every life,
The light was out;
And no one was
Looking for the morning:
But suddenly and simply,
Like any dawn
That takes its turn;
There he stands,
Just outside our door....
Now and then striking within,
To give us back
The glory of lost ideals.

Anyone of us can turn water into wine, it simply takes a little time.......the message, and the miracle in the water and the wine is the time, not the wine.......Jesus transcended the time.

A Summer Sky

A Summer Sky




The grass rustles
And the lizards bask,
By broken columns, 
Once pulsing with the
Traffic of busy men;
Time, after time,
Has come and gone;
And the place that
Knew them once,
Knows them no more:
Breath leaves no wrinkles
On the face
Of the summer sky;
Orion still hangs
His glittering sword;
And the Horses yet
Weave their mystic braids;
For the hand is laid
Gently upon the man,
And a word
Of promise to the ear:
Breaking it to the hope,
In the mountain mists,
And the deep places
Of the earth;
Till they were dead or vanished,
That sought its life.

Words

Words, just words;
Yet their very being
Cries of contact:
Deep, in the heart,
Symbolic events give
Imperishable meaning;
A long way here,
Illuminated by the
Pale light of a
Waning moon;
There, darkly shadowed
By a massive wall,
The pause of withdrawal
In the garden, only
To be pierced by a
Mysterious agony;
Like flaming torches
And the tread
Of many feet,
I hear a hurried mockery
Sickening into despair;
Their setting makes them
Vivid, and unforgettable,
Giving them an added
Urgency; as if something
Of the anguish was wrung
From praying lips, still
Clinging To my speech.

Entangled

Each experience,
As it goes;
Leaves its sediment
Within the soul:
An image,
Whose impression
Has ceased;
Lingering,
Like a ghost
Of what we were;
Or a loved one,
So long since
Passed away.

17: 15

A Light shines
Through the
Revolving years:
Mists of time,
To be won, only
When they have passed.
It is a present experience;
Immediate, or rather,
A thing unspoken in
The expressions of time;
A waking sight of God;
Seems more transformation,
Than dream, or vision.