Thursday, March 31, 2022

Poem Three

How can there be words
When God is a thought?
Music's not heard
Across the waters.
The things that stir the blood
Are phantoms only
Of some will to feel
The rest of what we do not know.

It comes in windswept wraps,
Streams invisible as the future
And unresolved as the past,
But a feeling whose center
Takes us to
Some glorious contentment
That we are whole,
Inside it all
As only nothing can be,
As free from meaning
As what cannot exist allows.

And yet we hold
To being,
Find it in the white
Underneath the sun,
The indentations in sand
That make our imagination bend;
It becomes a victory dance
To see what we thought
Would be there
No matter how far
From who we are
They seem to be.
We take it as condition 
Of our learning,
As if it doesn't matter
What is real.

The scourge of endlessness,
Being dropped inside
These shaking walls
With nothing to trust
Except our knowing
Such trust exists --
Some other place
Must speak for us
Under the silence
Of the branches
Singing noise.