Poems

Love, You have come Comforter— not simply to take the edge off the irony of loss. You come to lift up this cross, dissolve recalcitrance, wing me for spiritual flight.

Today I thought about the oak and how it couldn't return to the acorn— and then a new thought, angel-borne: Because there's no acorn for it to go back to! What a relief for one who often bemoaned the past and its mistakes, to know there's no past for me to go back to (not even the moment just vanished)! Acorn dissolved, I'm free to grow. MARGARET R.

Thank you, Father, for purer love, for stronger faith. Let higher/deeper praise sing sweeter song to parentage; equip our listening heart to quench heredity's lie, dispel each dreaming nightmare never made by this all-knowing One, so that we know and see the so-called terminal belief only terminate itself, leaving us untouched illustriously exempt.

No error ever permeated now . Its stale insinuations will always be too late.

Its tone, its timbre, the very sound of moral— beautiful to me! Yet moral is the means to the spiritual I really am. Moral is where I need most to be: Striving, praying, climbing the moral way— the way of hope and certainty— the way to spiritual reality.

Wings of hope hover over this sea of despair where I flounder in self-sadness and pity so dark that I think I've lost the image of the ark. But the dove returns to the safety of Truth.

And every man that hath this hope in him purifieth himself, even as he is pure. (I John 3:3.

The babbling of a nearby brook, The shining of a distant star, The laughter of a child at play, The dawning of each joy-filled day. The inner voice that bids no fear, That tells me only good is here.

"Now it's in Your hands, dear Father. I (mortal man) can do no more.

Listen to the stillness Of morning, Stillness of white clouds Across a lovely sky. Stillness of grass, Each blade motionless; Quiet fruit tree, No leaf stirring.