Poems

The cloud rested on the ground. Very slowly, little by little,  the green of the pasture showed itself.

The Christ rebuke is “Peace, be still,” * Mark 4:39 To silence stubborn, Human will To stop the gossip, Shut the door, To halt the worry— Fear no more And when the tumult Finally wanes, A deep and settled Calm remains As thought is under God’s control, Revealing man as Pure and whole. — Carol Dismore.

Consider this —we’re made of joy— We’re not some sentience waiting to be pleased, judging conditions as propitious or alarming, manipulating circumstances, hoping that we’ll be glad instead of disappointed. Joy is what we are, and the whole grand purpose of our days sings out from here, dances in the rays of All That Is, already perfect, infinite, each moment designated to bring this essence forth as we rejoice in our unbounded worth.

Lost and alone in a crevice deep Almost too far out of reach The frail little lamb was small and weak But the faithful shepherd thought Now the ninety-nine are all just fine And staying within my view, It is the lost that I must seek To bring him back to life anew. My crooked and sturdy staff I’ve brought Which will help me lift him up To pastures green near the peaceful stream So he can frolic with his fellow sheep.

In the silent breaking  of the long spent night, With the quiet coming of the dawn’s pure light, Your senses are illumined, new, you hear Truth in your heart.   Mind’s seeing is our seeing.

The past calls out, “Look back, recount the wasted years!” But, Pilgrim, oh, do not look back. It’s trick of time to dim your eye with tears  lest today you see the way  to where the Christ may heal your fears.

“For unto us a child is born … and the  government shall be upon his shoulder. ”  Isaiah 9:6 It wasn’t a child we saw— it was the Christ, the promised law, not in the swaddled babe but in the truth— suffusing us with light and blessed warmth, and more— a peace such as we’d never felt before He didn’t speak yet his appearing silenced all the savvy of the world— its wiliness and cleverness, and ways of winning— now suddenly inane, irrelevant For here is prophecy fulfilled not in some future time, but now— the law that says what wins is innocence shining forth this moment’s boundless worth:  The simple, pure reflection of almighty Truth has come to set us free and heal the earth.

He who tempers the wind To the shorn sheep Will guard you, And guide you, And lead your brave feet Over the rough ways of the world, Over crag, over stone; Up through the clouds, Through the mist, And the winds and the cold; On to the glorified height To the foot of His throne. And thus you may know That He sees you, And needs you, And loves you, And calls you His own.

The next morning, the tulip poplar tree danced for you— all the leaves were waving, yellow-gold flashes in the sun. The same wind that moved them was gently lifting me upward and tenderly guiding you forward— far beyond the horizon of mortal sense.

Oh sure, I know church.   I’ve been there before I’ve been its keeper at the door.