Poems

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.

Seeing your face before me so guileless, so always-have-you-been-my-brother, I know why Jacob wept in Esau's embrace— so heartless he had been so driven by other gods. I know why Jacob wept against that grace.

Be still, my heart: you rest in Love divine; God's gracious touch has silenced grief and pain. His timeless Christ has ordered no decline; In changeless being shall your health remain.

When you passed away, at first I did not mourn, knowing you already knew—not death, but God's tender care forever and wherever you might be. Yet later whisperings came that though you were fine, I was not, for I needed you and could not live as well without you.

Come to the books hungry, expecting to be fed— eager to taste fresh ideas and enjoy again long familiar favorites. The feast has been prepared with love and care from family recipes passed down for generations.

Your sweet innocence, unaware of your demands, Makes me humbly seek direction to give you what I can. In the process of my searching I find out even more About the love that's given to each knocking at the door.