the secret

the vagabond walks
alone,
searching for meaning in the rocks, the water;
searching for inspiration in the air.

but inspiration doesn’t live
there,
though she found it there before;
found it in the dark, the night, the silence.

the Breath of Life comes
in secret,
like the tide: approaching, retreating;
like water: slipping through grasping fingers.

the wind hums
softly,
to tell us of this Secret.

peace, be still;
if we listen too hard, we might not hear.

empty

the clock ticks
ever softly but always louder.
the seconds drift silently away.
only the solemn echo remains
to mark the absence;
and still i stare
hoping that maybe
the seconds will return
to fill the void they left
in my heart.
Lord, save me from myself.

the river

        in the depths of the forest,
        where only a faint
        glimmer of light
                    passes through
                                 the branches,

        there
        flows a river;
        a beautiful, terrible river;
                              a river called
                                             Hope.

              i’ve heard it said
        that this raging River is made
        of many mingled silent tears--
        the tears of the languishing,
                     of the lonely,
                                 of the lost.
​
if it doesn’t break your heart, it isn’t love

linger (the river, part ii)

                       oh,
how i love to stand on the bank of that River,
to catch the current in my glass
             and drink deep
             of the dying water
as an easy breeze brushes my cheek.

perhaps i might even
dip my toe in an eddy, feel
the cold thrill of abundant
                 Life
pulse through my veins,
but only for an instant.

     i have not the time to linger long.

saviour

i wanted you to be my saviour.
sure, i on my steed
and you in your tower,
it seems sort of backwards,
but i have my dragons too.

passion fills the night
and we are one;
but as the darkness thickens
i know that we are also two.
i am still me, and you
haven’t saved me from anything.

so i lie awake in the thick blackness
wondering,
Who could save me now?

Dreamer

i suppose you could call me a dreamer.
i’ve always longed to lay down my life
for Something More.
i’ve threatened to give everything away,
to die for a Cause,
and i’d probably do it;

but maybe that’s the easy way out.
the real question is this:

when tomorrow comes,
will i lay down my life
just a little bit more?
do i have the Strength
to spend my whole life
dying for a Cause?

eighteen

freedom's the song that lulls me to sleep
at the foot of manhood's mountain steep:
resting now to climb the stronger,
live a pleasured life the longer,
be my own self, like the songbird--
naught but joy and peace to reap;

but i feel not like a bird of the sky
preparing herself to leap into flight;
no, i am that bird that's locked up in a cage,
indulging in vanities day after day,
with dwindling courage but increasing rage,
too scared to live and too stubborn to die;

for i've heard the sound of an opening door
and i've felt the depths of the Lion's roar,
but my wings have been clipped and my feet are tied
and it seems to be harder to learn to fly
than to stay in my cage and from freedom hide,
so life remains easy, familiar, and poor.

so finally, now, in the darkness of night
comes a plea to be not only guided by Light
but prodded and pushed from the inside and out;
oh that hope would redeem every inkling of doubt
so that i'd find the peace to dive into the Fount
of that life unknown but longed for despite!

These poems are licensed under a Creative Commons
Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 ​International License 
​by The Kept Collective.