that dark afternoon

.

That dark afternoon

her only sister passed

into the abyss –the opaque

expanse where ocean meets sky.

In the dark fog of her last breath

she exhaled.

.

I called that evening

when she had already left.

.

Grief was bending the tone

of her sister’s voice.

Yet above and beneath

the sorrow was a steady candor,

the echo of a deep well — a life

surrendered long ago

to the beyond.

.

the charred tree

Blackened ash, charred

to the stump, the branches

the cracked splinters

now bear witness

.

to the new green vibrant

covering on the hillside.

Incapable of life as a stone,

yet subject to decay.

.

dry bones

Dry bones –

warm heat draws

life away,

live marrow unknown in the core.

.

Sinews, tendons, vessels, veins –

years ago moved in ways

unaware of the floating,

hovering edge of death.

.

I once heard that the skull

is not a symbol of fatality

in most cultures,

but the most permanent sign

of the human face,

anonymous individual shapes

lasting beyond ages.

.

Do these bones wait for life beyond?

or are they spent

and done?

.

.

the second look

.

The Second Look

.

Make my face not twitch,

my lips not tense.

Cause my eyes to find a

steady place to meet.

Make my voice strong and sure.

.

Banish the fear of being accused

of what I’m not sure I’ve done.

Or at least making every effort

not to do again…

a better resurrection

by Christina Rossetti

.

I have no wit, no words, no tears;

My heart within me like a stone

Is numb’d too much for hopes or fears;

Look right, look left, I dwell alone;

I lift mine eyes, but dimm’d with grief

No everlasting hills I see;

My life is in the falling leaf:

O Jesus, quicken me.

.

My life is like a faded leaf,

My harvest dwindled to a husk:

Truly my life is void and brief

And tedious in the barren dusk;

My life is like a frozen thing,

No bud nor greenness can I see:

Yet rise it shall—the sap of Spring;

O Jesus, rise in me.

.

My life is like a broken bowl,

A broken bowl that cannot hold

One drop of water for my soul

Or cordial in the searching cold;

Cast in the fire the perish’d thing;

Melt and remould it, till it be

A royal cup for Him, my King:

O Jesus, drink of me.

.

bob marley

Bob Marley is one of my all-time favorite singers. I love the layering and complexity of his music. Each instrument, singer, shaker, conga, drum — everything fits so well, but often theydo things unexpectedly or unconventionally. It’s great how reggae makes the bass play the melody and the guitar keep rhythm. I especially like how most of Bob Marley’s music was before everything became too electronic, so each instrument is a live instrument. Each performance was such an intense, communal, and unique experience.

His lyrics speak of poverty, God, love, brotherhood, and so much more. It’s really rare to have popular singers come from the third world and address the unique concerns of the poor in such an intimate way. Sure, U2 and others are great for bringing issues like this to the fore, but they can never see poverty from the bottom looking up. In this way, Bob Marley’s music fits in with the rich African American tradition of spirituals, gospel, jazz, and the blues. In all of these musical styles, there’s some kind of beauty or joy that comes out of the expression of one’s unique life struggles and experiences.

Too bad Bob died so young. He did a lot in 36 years……

har mar superstar

This is one Har Mar Superstar video that I can post without compromising my sense of decency……

This joker owes his career to Ron Jeremy. At least he can sing (and dance?), so he’s not a total joke.

i want to learn welsh

……just to be able to read this poem in the original:

What does it mean to be human?

by Waldo Williams

.

What is staying alive? To possess

A great hall inside of a cell.

What is it to know? The same root

Underneath the branches.

.

What is it to believe? Being a carer

Until relief takes over.

And to forgive? On fours through thorns

To keep company to an old enemy.

.

What is it to sing? To receive breath

From the genius of creation.

What’s work but humming a song

From wood and wheat.

.

What are state affairs? A craft

That’s still only crawling?

And armaments? Thrust a knife

In a baby’s fist.

.

Being a nation? What can it be? A gift

In the swell of the heart.

And to love a country? Keeping house

In a cloud of witnesses.

.

What’s the world to the all powerful?

A circle spinning.

And to the children of the earth?

A cradle rocking.

.

.

Translated from the Welsh by Menna Elfyn

Conscience poem

This poem just about sums my life up as a Christian:

Conscience, by Grant Thorpe

Ah conscience tutored in the ways of
Rightness
Practised in the ways of
Rectitude
Raging still until each aberration
Is made good
And raging too until
Each thought is
Pure and steady

Ah conscience never satisfied
Working on until
The flesh is limp and
Mind exhausted
Urging on to kingdoms that will
Compensate and camouflage
The lack that still remains

Ah conscience
Meet your Master
Even God
Not with face all stern
And whip in hand
But in the face of Christ
Sin bearer

See there the
Thefts, adulteries and murders
And many lesser crimes
All lovingly embraced and borne
Before the Father’s holy love
Not one wild deed
Omitted
All atoned, all washed
Not one thing left to lurk or spoil
The reconciliation

Conscience
Meet your Maker
Who decreed that love
His love
Be motive all alone
Enough
To move the race to duty
And to zeal.

Make me acknowledge only
My great need of
Love
Exposure to the very heart of God
Pulsating with affections
Great and tender
Tell me when I err
In this respect alone

Do not
Stir up to
Greater deeds to
Compensate, annul or
Catch up with the past
It is against my God
I sin
‘Gainst him alone
And sin against
His loving me
And ‘tis to move against his love
To look for other
Things to change

Ah crime of deepest import
Ah deed of greatest shame
To have thought his love austere
His pleasure hard to gain
And to have turned
To idols
Enamoured so with idols
That his love laid
Unreceived

Tell me of this
Alert me at first sign
And turn your vigilance to
Any wandering from grace

Ah conscience
Be you tutored by the cross
Of Christ
Do not presume to have
A charter outside this
Call sin what God calls sin
That sin to death
Which spurns his grace

Alert me then alone
To seek outpourings of
That love—none else
What business do I have
With deeds which merely satisfy
Convention
Or my longing for
Relationships—patched up and thin
With no true love?
Require of me alone that
I ask, receive, be thankful for, and give
His love.

© Grant Thorpe, July 1991, August 2002

does God care?

I hope so.

The Bible explicitly speaks to such a horribly unbalanced distribution of wealth.  Do we really realize that most of the world’s lives really suck, and we’re just feeding the problem?  WWJD?  I don’t know.