Poems

Shafts of light: pain banished, rifts mended, loss restored, paths defined. How soothing to bask in these, content, supposing an end attained.

Open our eyes that we may see the perfect man without, within. Turn us from shadow to the Truth, dispelling sorrow, sickness, sin.

Webs are largely intersected air roped out across the way, so secret, fine, that it appears (how true) that nothing's there until some being, tangled by a line, agrees to struggle, helps to knot the snare. Some intended victims will resign themselves, while others, desperately, will tear the web, wrench free.

This most desired, this sweet intensity of thought dearer than happiness, is joy of heart: This is the gift of Christ, which cannot be lost nor worn away by time or temper. So as in the joy of receiving, so also in the joy of surrendering faith in all else: The luxury of tears (what need for them when in Christ there is no death?); And of the hope for many years, when today is the eternal here and now; And lastly, the indulgence of mere believing when in true knowing only can the need be met.

I have strung together the lives of great unsandaled prophets. Songs of desert heat, salt, and sand; no-answer prayer, and children eating large white locusts.

In the broad plantings of the mind, like the twelve and seventy, we thrust the sickle/sword of Truth and from the Holy Ghost discern what to save and what to burn: gleaning only Mind's great good; but hide not the burning of the tares for Christ's baptismal fires—bright, may guide some pilgrim through the night. RICHARD MARSHALL MOORE.

I saw something today: (What we see with our eyes is not the real. ) Matter is a liar—it knows not the real.

No, it may not be exactly like that. Prayer probably will not be like a sky full of fireworks if by that you mean exploding, zinging, loud and thrilling obviously enormous things.

Let me feel the Love that looses— does not bind. For the Love that looses is the only love that's kind.

I begin the descent from the dazzling glacier. The virgin snow shelves from the mountain's shoulder sharpening its contour about me.