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FIRST LOVE
Poetry by
Blake Steele

 

                    INDEX FOR POETRY FROM 1982 to Nov. '83

                   

                    A--------

                    AND CHRIST SHALL COME IN A FIERY SKY

                    AND THE PEOPLE WERE THE PARABLE

                    A LITTLE RUMBLE OF THE RIVER IN A SONG                

                    A PRAYER

                    A PRAYER SPOKEN LIKE A QUAKER

                    A PRODIGAL MEETS HIS LOVER

                    ARDOR

                    A WAR CRY AGAINST THE MAN OF SIN WITHIN

 

                    B---------

                    BEAMED THE MAGI FACES BRIGHT

 

                    C---------

                    CHURCH N A HOME     MARCH 1, 1983

 

                    D----------

                    DELECTABLY I BURN AWAY

 

                    G----------

                    GLORY O CHRIST TO YOUR MAGNANIMOUS NAME

                    GOD LOVES BEAUTY

                    GOD SLAYS HIS LOVERS INTO LIFE   

                    GREEN IS LIVING - GREEN THE COLOR OF HIS KINGDOM - O

 

                    H----------

                    HOLY, HOLY, HOLY, ON THE WIND

 

                    I----------

                    IF A TOAD SHOULD PLAY THE GAME OF ART

                    I HAVE WRESTLED WITH THE WIND

                    IMMACULATE CONSUMMATION

                    INTO THE KING'S CUP

                    INTO THE WHITE FLAME'S KISS

                    IT'S ALWAYS GOOD TO BE UP ON THE ALTARS AGAIN!

                                     (TO CHRISTIAN POETS)

                    I WRESTLE TOWARDS THE DEVIL'S DEATH

                    I WRITE TO YOU MY MYSTICAL LOVER

 

                    L-----------

                    LORD, MAKE ME WHITE AS THIS SHEET OF PAPER

                    LOVERS IN THE FIRMAMENT

 

                    M-----------

                    MIDNIGHT OIL BURNING

 

                    O----------

                    ON A SLOW FEAST OF REVEALINGS

                    ON GENESIS 18

                    ONE JOHN 17

                    ON ISAIAH 33:10-12

                    ONLY GOD CAN GIVE THE DEATH OF SELF

                    ON THE CHRISTIAN POETIC

                    OUR FLAWLESS CHRIST

 

                    P-----------

                    PRAISES UNTO THE SWEET AND GENTLE FLAME

 

                    S-----------

                    SALVATION

                    SECRET CHRIST IN THESE OUR WEARY DAYS

                    SHE IS THE SHULAMMITE CELESTIAL MAID

                    SOLID RIVER

                    SPIRIT OF PRAYER - SPIRIT OF PROPHECY

                    SWEET BURN

                       (INSPIRED BY ST. JOHN OF THE CROSS)

                    SWEET VISION, BURN AWAKE!

 

                    T-----------

                    THE ANOINTING

                    THE BROKEN EYE

                    THE FEARSOME CROSS FINALLY FLINGS

                    THE HIDDEN SAINT MINISTERS TO HER LORD

                    THE LION OF GOD AND HIS ARMY OF LAMBS

                    THE PURPOSES OF PORPOISES

AND ALL GOD'S FLYING PEOPLE

                    THERE IS A FIRE BORN OF STRIFE

                    THESE WORDS ARE FOR GOD'S LAMBS

                    THE SINGING HOUSE UPON THE SEA

                    THE SWEETEST MAIDENS HEAVE THEIR ALL FOR CHRIST

                    THE THOUGHTS OF GOD INTO ALL THE WORLD NOW REACH

                    THE TWENTY FIRST CENTURY AND BEYOND

                    THOSE CROWNED WITH SILENT THUNDER

                    TO FACE A FREE PERSON

                    TO KNOW WITHIN YOUR HEART THE BLESSED BROACH 

 

                    W------------

                    WHEN YOUR EYE BE SINGLE

                    WORD OF GOD ARREST MY MIND

                   

 

               Last Poem - GLORY O CHRIST TO YOUR MAGNANIMOUS NAME

 

             --------------------------------------------------------

 

                           POETRY - FIRST LOVE

                The Beal's house......(Sept 1982 - Sept 1983)

 

                   

                                       

                              A PRAYER

 

                    A pure heart shall see you God,

                    For you are pure.

                    A pure heart is simple

                    In its one intent:

                    To be alive in the reality of you;

                    In its one pure desire:

                    To be an expression

                    Of your holy nature.

                    The gift you have given us

                    --My Father and my sovereign King--

                    Is the Spirit of Holiness

                    Like a fountain of life

                    Deep in the heart.

                    Well up O waters

                    Clear and simple,

                    Bathe my deep mind

                    In the warmth of your being.

                    Trickle through me purely

                    Until I grow strong and kind,

                    Then rush through me powerfully

                    Until I am

                    As you are,

                    A gentle life-giving torrent

                    Of healing love.

 

 

 

 

 

                    BEAMED THE MAGI FACES BRIGHT

 

                    Sapphire blue in glassy beam

                    Transfixed to awe the pilgrims three,

                    Rolling on the camel's backs

                    As sailors oscillate  at sea.

 

                    Sacrosanct, so seemed the star,

                    Guiding pundits from afar;

                    Fierce the journey to drink a look

                    Of elixir smelled in Holy Book.

 

                    Primal wind within the ear

                    Inwrought knowing they were near,

                    Immanent, auric, day tide free

                    --This lisping child epiphany!

 

                    Suffuse the stable in nimbus light,

                    (Rumbling, subtle, quavered air),

                    Lucid glits of laughing white

                    Sparkled up through everywhere...

 

                    Exalted innocence they'd sought!

                    God had reached them with His thought...

                    Beamed the Magi faces bright!

                    --Angels steeped the starry night!

 

 

              

 

                     THE HIDDEN SAINT MINISTERS TO HER LORD

 

 

                    She sits in silence, then opens wide and sings,

                    till winds of God come catch her outspread wings,

                    and cast her 'neath the bright incessant sea,

                    to helpless drown, O God, in love of thee.

                   

                    

 

 

                      AND CHRIST SHALL COME IN A FIERY SKY

 

                      And Christ shall come in a fiery sky

                      And bring the yawning dawning day.

                      This fiery sky His saints shall climb

                      Into the heat of His Holy Name.

                      Yawning wide to receive His own,

                      His Holy Name shall be as one;

                      Reaping all His blood had bought.

                      They within Him did abide

                      One within His Name of Love;

                      Those who bore His heavy load

                      Abide with Him when Angels whirl

                      One with Christ in kindled air.

                      When the Kingdom finally flung

                      The million fuming Seraphim sung,

                      And Christ for all his lovers came    

                      In wild and Holy searing flame.

                  

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                      

                    A LITTLE RUMBLE OF THE RIVER IN A SONG

 

                    When the earth remembers awake

                    and returns for the sake

                    of the Lamb who is Lord,

                    adored shall be the I Am He,

                    sweet glassy sea within

                    and Seraphim singing praise

                    to raise the minds of those

                    who once closed the heart of life,

                    (now the wife of Christ to be).

                    Wholly free within that happy river,

                    its crystal waters shall shiver the soul

                    into love and righteous fear.

                    Quite near is our Lionhearted God,

                    so very near are we to dry-shod pass through

                    the murky flood to that brighter shore;

                    and more than we have sought

                    shall be the lot which will rumble  in,

                    tumbling through the riven sin

                    which weaves its heavy veils

                    of pride and lust across

                    the minds which fear the cross,

                    and make that meek and gentle Lamb

                    their wolf-toothed enemy.

 

 

 

                     LORD, MAKE ME WHITE AS THIS SHEET OF PAPER

                    

                     Lord -

                          make me white

                     as this sheet of paper,

                     modest like a little bird,

                     unadorned,

                     brown and plain,

                     sitting in a small hidden corner

                     of the house of your glory.

                     Only you, Oh Lord,

                     can bear beauty and glory

                     without ostentatious pride;

                     only you are worthy of that high state

                     of royalty which you are.

                     I would be as proud as Lucifer

                     if you did not restrain my madness.

                     Lord, help me be diminished in my eyes.

                     I'm only a common speck of dust

                     in an incredibly wondrous Universe.

                     This lyric wind I want to touch,

                     to ride on, to be -

                     is you!

                     If you should carry me for a while

                     on your Holy breath,

                     make me remember I am but dust

                     and small and menial,

                     and you are the wind,

                     and you are the largeness of the sky!

 

 

 

 

                     I WRESTLE TOWARDS THE DEVIL'S DEATH

 

                     Nail this snake unto the tree Lord,

                     Pin the serpent to the cross,

                     In his dying I am free Lord,

                     All God's gain is all his loss.

                     Secret serpent, subtle still,

                     Lurks within our soulish will;

                     Evil power of our pride

                     Lures us to the wicked side.

                     Pierce him, pierce him, spare him not,

                     His true death my Savior sought;

                     Cast Him down into the fire,

                     Soft and silken hellish liar.

                     Drive spikes through his bloated head,

                     Sword of fire, strike him dead!

                     Then my garden shall be free 

                     --God will walk on fiery stones--

                     With serpent dead upon the tree,

                     And children singing on thrones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                      

                               SWEET BURN

                     (INSPIRED BY ST. JOHN OF THE CROSS)

 

 

                         Beautiful cross of Christ

                         To which I cling,

                         Sweet burn

                         Of delectable death,

                         This joy once feared

                         As eternal loss

                         Is gained.

                         Full fire consume

                         The dross of which

                         This empty death is built.

                         Sweet cross of Christ,

                         Beautiful burn,

                         Both spear to gore

                         The serpent's head,

                         And holocaustal fury

                         To consume the dead.

 

             

          

          

 

                        SWEET VISION, BURN AWAKE!

 

                        Sweet vision, burn awake

                        the eyes of my heart

                        to see

                        He who unchanging is.

                        Behold, one glance

                        and all depths become shallows

                        to unsounded depths

                        of His ineffable

                        truth of the truth.



 

 

 

 

                    SHE IS THE SHULAMMITE CELESTIAL MAID

 

                    She is the Shulammite Celestial Maid

                    In her heart,

                    With crown of gold upon her silky braid,

                    God's pure art

                    Is deeply woven through her secret part.

 

                    She sinks not in the darkened mind of man,

                    Deaf and Blind,

                    Her lovely Christ does all her being span,

                    Crystalline!

                    His pure maid from among all womankind.

 

                    A jeweling  rainbow in her mind does dart,

                    Bright always!

                    Worshiping Jesus' humble lion-heart,

                    Her ruined clay

                    Shall yet burn light beyond the Milky Way.

 

                    He cries, "Come now my lovely maid and eat,

                    A fat calf

                    Is killed and ready up on table sweet,

                    How I laugh,

                    To think upon when I my maid shall meet.

 

                    Come now, sweet maid, to dove-filled loft so bright

                    --High above--

                    Behold my kingdom made of purest light!

                    In my love,

                    I unto thee shall all my being betroth."

 

                    She hears His voice, that voice she's sweetly known,

                    And flesh dies...

                    Near inviolate truth's beatific throne,

                    A choice prize!

                    As world of light up-eases in her eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                    

                    THE PURPOSES OF PORPOISES AND ALL

    GOD'S FLYING PEOPLE

 

                    We should inspire God's people homeward

                    Toward that merry music heard...

                    Some as songbirds soar in flight,

                    Chattering in the wonder of innocent light,

 

                    While others dance down the clear happy sea,

                    Being like a porpoise free;

                    Christianities  most treasured jewels,

                    As poor Pharisees sit dry as prunes in Sunday Schools,

 

                    For they have never learned to soar nor dance,

                    Shan't take the smallest chance

                    Of jubilance in the old wine skin,

                    Might be that nasty devil that in joy comes in.

 

                    The Holy Spirit flies on wings in tears,

                    Fair and free above the groundless fears

                    That with sneers sinks old religious death,

                    She sweeps the singing souls upon Her boundless breath,

 

                    And thrust them innocent into God's eyes!

                    Christ the lover claims His prize:

                    These true evangelized souls receive

                    The bursting joy that God had bought them to believe.

 

 

                    

                  

 

                             ON JOHN 17

 

 

                      This is our Savior's plea,

                      The cry of His opened heart,

                      That we might wholly be

                      An integrated part

                      Of God in Christ and Christ in God.

 

                      That our lives might become praise

                      As in one love we raise

                      That blood-red rose in the golden cup,

                      Lifting, lifting the standard up

                      Of God in Christ and Christ in God.

 

                      Why else has He given us His glory

                      Except we become the story

                      Of that perfect dove of the boundless skies

                      Flying hard towards His children's cries

                      Against this sin-black hurricane,

                      Shrieking blind and gone insane.

 

                      So let us to these fierce winds fling

                      Our battered and broken, yet healing wing,

                      To win Him all His rightful fame

                      For the honor of the glory of that great name,

                      Of God in Christ, and Christ in God.

           

 

 

 

 

                          ON GENESIS 18

 

                    In the heat of Mamre

                    as One stood three in silence

                    of the fiery desert air,

                    watching

                    an old man squatting in the door of his tent.

                    Blinking,

                    old eyes rose to meet

                    eyes older than the stars.

                    These three stood as one,

                    (like heat, and light, and sun.)

                    As a child leaping in a womb,

                    so leapt the shriveled father of a future dream.

                    With sun in eyes,

                    and sweat in beard,

                    upon his knees he offered simple bread

                    - then killed the calf -

                    and watched them eat

                    the food of earth,

                    as he ate

                    the bread of heaven.

 

 

 

 

                    MIDNIGHT OIL BURNING    2/7/83

 

                    There is the reward for a devoted life:

                    the hidden manna

                    and the secret chambers.

                    The soul in rags who thirsts for more

                    of bright things ever so vaguely touched,

                    shall yet come into golden rooms

                    thick with honey lights of glory.

 

                    First the waiting,

                        first the binding,

                             first the severing,

                    then the holy terrors

                    with the fires all consuming.

                    Hot the piercing pains of doom!

 

                    The animal squeals and cries - then melts off dead!

 

                    Now the waters, clear and gentle

                    lapping on the unveiled face,

                    then the washing of the embers

                    then the holy robes embrace.

 

                    Then the ointments and the perfumes

                    and the holy sacred bread,

                    gaining strength through tears and laughter,

                    steadying nerves to go see

                    God.

 

 

 

 

 

                                

                     ON THE CHRISTIAN POETIC

                    

 

                  Poetry is the singing of thought

                  In the music of words;

                  The vision and the gift sublime -

                  The poet who sees what he writes

                  Makes not words lilt

                                      to rhyme;

                  But having beheld that golden city

                  Beyond the spheres of stars,

                  Becomes a glass lamp luminous,

                  With visual music moving through his veins;

                  As though he had learned the music and movement

                  Of fiery Angels which dance,

                                   gleaming upon those heavenly seas.

                  These seers - God's most ancient gifts to men -

                  First and last singers of eternity's truths,

                  Dwell here despised and lowly on the ground,

                  Yet in secret seasons rise heavenward singing!

                     

                  Christian poets! Awaken now to see

                  His vision pure, and weeping to be sung!

                  Point your hearts, and minds, and words

                  Unerringly towards that crystal Kingdom

                  Where spirits rise high in Angelical airs.

                  Cheer now, and glorify these paths below,

                  The veins of gold through which we moan,

                  Yet, leading to Him who white as snow,

                  Sits a Lamb, on the Lion's Throne!

 

 

 

                    PRAISES UNTO THE GENTLE FLAME

                   

 

                    Love and praise

                    And nothing else;

                    All my soul,

                    Wounded tenderly

                    And deeply,

                    Turns unto you

                    Wholly

                    In

                    Love and Praise

                    And nothing else,

                    Love and praise

                    And nothing else.

 

                    Sweet and gentle flame,

                    Dove-like flame,

                    Burn within my soul

                    Upon the altar of the jewel

                    Which is your gift,

                    And dapple my mind

                    With quick gleams

 

                    Of Lambent Love.

 

 

 

 

                  

                  

                    CHURCH N A HOME     MARCH 1, 1983

 

                    Wreathed by singing Saints

                    A little child danced in purest joy;

                    In the presence of such love -

                    her innocence was restored.

 

                    And the eyes of one man's heart

                    Saw a crystal brightly glistening

                    --Hovering diamond-like in Heaven--

                    Within which a child of perfect beauty

                    Danced in Luminous Glass.

 

                    And the Father beamed with elation

                    Filling that Celestial Creation

                    With jubilant peace.

 

                    How beautiful is Heaven,

                    First blush and Homeland,

                    Where the Spirit of Glory

                    Immerses the souls of men;

                    But when Heaven kisses Earth,

                    As I saw it do this night,

                    It sets a fire burning

                    Of re-creation,

 

                    For when that humble child

                    Touched the winds of splendor

                    — God came singing

                  

                    In the Flood-tides of Freedom.

 

 

 

                  

 

                    THERE IS A FIRE BORN OF STRIFE

 

                    There is a fire born of strife,

                    Its words are swords and death its life;

 

                    And there's a fire which flows from peace

                    Which only burns to bring release -

 

                    For the fire of peace within a soul

                    Makes it luminous and whole,

 

                    While the fire born of fleshly drive

                    Consumes itself while it's alive.

 

                    The God of peace and God of fire

                    Melts away the religious liar,

 

                    The man of sin in spiritual guise,

                    Abominable puss in my Father's eyes;

 

                    Flushed away in the Spirit's flow

                    So only Christ can ever grow,

 

                    In one unceasing giving breath -

                    Blowing down the doors of death.

 

 

 

                    A WAR CRY AGAINST THE MAN OF SIN WITHIN

 

                    Holy fire sent from Heaven,

                    Purge me of this wretched leaven,

 

                    This black maggot would only die

                    If it could warp into a fly.

 

                    Hunt it fire in hot pursuit,

                    Leave it neither branch nor root,

 

                    Melt the maggot in its brain,

                    Free me from its spell insane.

 

                    Burn me down unto the core,

                    Glory to God and nothing more.

 

 

 

 

                        A PRODIGAL MEETS HIS LOVER

                       

 

                    Not with walks of men I walk alone,

                    God's prepared for me all this my fate,

                    Sighing like a lover from His throne

                    Till all my course is finished, He awaits

                    To flee to me and kiss my blood-washed neck

                    And all the robes of state me to bedeck,

                    Before the August Final Judgment Seat,

                    I'll strive to crumple down before His feet.

                  

 

   

                

 

 

                        DELECTABLY I BURN AWAY

 

                        I will praise the name of my God;

                        His name shall ever be

                        as sweet wine

                        down in the roots of my mind.

                        Intoxicated in his love

                        my thoughts of him leap free upon my lips

                        in songs of praise.

                        I eat of the profusions

                        of your spiritual wealth;

                        my soul reels drunk with love

                        and falls into your holy flames.

                        Delectably I burn away

                        to be who I am.

                        There my songs are visible

                        in the white fires of God.

                   

                   

 

 

                         IMMACULATE CONSUMMATION

 

                         When the seven colors

                         become as one,

                         the diffraction done,

                         the soul

                         turns white

                         in perfect light -

                         fiery and luminous.

                                  

 

 

 

 

                          WHEN YOUR EYE BE SINGLE

                         

                          The heart that is all glass

                          beams the face clear bright

                          with that one star's light

                          of white love.

 

 

                    

     

               

 

 

                    THE LION OF GOD AND HIS ARMY OF LAMBS

 

                    We sing, we sing the song of the Lion

                    as we bloom lamb-like in God's Son,

                    the ruby gates of glassy Zion

                    our hearts now wholly own.

                    And so we march with innocent eyes

                    amidst mutinous cries of mortal loves,

                    with our banners we march to His throne,

                    where there is none unclean.

                    And all the penitential throng

                    there all their souls unto Him throw,

                    while far, so far, so far below,

                    seethes proud pandemonium.

 

 

 

 

                       AND THE PEOPLE WERE THE PARABLE

 

                       "The wheat and the tares,"

                       Jesus said,

                       "Let them grow together,"

                       Jesus said;

                       And the people stared -

                       Some blank,

                       Some nodding knowingly.

 

                       And the tares were stiff

                       And black

                       With empty heads whistling,

                       While the wheat bowed low

                       And heavy,

                       Golden in the wind.

 

 

 

 

                         THE FEARSOME CROSS FINALLY FLINGS

 

                         The fearsome cross finally flings

                         Its virgin vortex across slaves and kings;

                         Drawn to judgment in that inevitable hour

                         By this resolute immanent power.

                         Then chaste fire searches what's been done,

                         It eats on, or feeds the resurgent one.

                         Some shall laugh, and some shall weep,

                         In that searing separation of Goats and Sheep.

 

 

 

 

 

                         THE BROKEN EYE

 

                         The broken eye

                         does rarely spy

                         that voracious worm,

                         whose gaping jaw

                         holds in awe

                         those who squirm.

 

                         Then who will sense

                         their last defense

                         lies in God,

                         and turn to flee

                         through blood-split sea,

                         dry shod?

                        

 

 

                       

                        THE SINGING HOUSE UPON THE SEA

 

                        The singing house upon the sea,

                        Renaissanced in beauty,

                        The house in which we pray;

                        Windows flash with coming day

                        As fires flame from smoldering embers,

                        Christ filled, all triumphant members

                        Live to light again,

                        With leaping tambourine,

                        The golden lampstand pure.

                  

                   

                    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                    

                    

                     THESE WORDS ARE FOR GOD'S LAMBS

 

                     These words are for God's lambs,

                     Who hunger for that living flame,

                     That they might taste and relish there

                     The pungent sweetness of His name.

 

                     As chastely fed on living bread,

                     (Broken body and poured out blood),

                     The Spirit's song over such souls broods

                     In a heat of all that's bright.

 

                     As sweet flame, His river grows,

                     The hotter the fire the fiercer it flows;

                     Though meekly white, it's boldly hurled,

                     Weeping out singing for the life of the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                    THE SWEETEST MAIDENS HEAVE THEIR ALL FOR CHRIST

 

 

                    Precious, precious is the price,

                    The entrance full to Paradise,

                    Bound by love in sacrifice.

 

                    Precious entrance bound by love,

                    (Through all the madness He forgave),

                    These hearts tinged with Spirit soft

                    As godly gold through souls He weaves.

 

                    Spirits weaved with gentle love,

                    The woven gold by pain engraved,

                    While in His virtues we're enslaved.

 

                    High altar of fire is our quest,

                    Climbing, climbing with heaving breasts,

                    To be consumed in perfect rest.

 

                    We rest on quested funeral pyre,

                    Our garments of gold flash full with fire,

                    As bright flames amidst a flaming choir.

 

                    In fiery heat we ascend the sky

                    Singing towards Eden as we die.

 

       

             

 

 

                    IT'S ALWAYS GOOD TO BE UP ON THE ALTARS AGAIN!

                                (TO CHRISTIAN POETS)

 

                    We cannot live like others and fulfill  this call

                    to wholly love God, and by lyric poetical

                    to share, to share this gift

                    with those whose wills  now lead them

                    in diverse ways. There is a place

                    within the Christ of God, for those whose

                    beings wholly thirsts in wings for him; whose

                    hands and hearts crack with loud applause

                    at words which light the face of Cherubim

                    around the ancient throne of our great God.

                    Renounce! Renounce! all that would dissipate

                    the vision pure and fine which flows to you,

                    and all the rivers of creating fate

                    will wear and mold, and then imbue,

                    and flush the wicked rubble far away

                    till only whiteness does remain

                    as a simple mirror of the coming days.

                    Whole life is restored by God's gentle breath,

                    breathing, breathing down the doors of death!

 

 

 

 

                    A PRAYER SPOKEN LIKE A QUAKER

 

 

                    Living God, thou hast ruined me with thy glory.

                    I beseech thee, ruin me worse!

                    Show me thy glory

                    That I might ever only

                    Pant after thee.

                    Lord, make my finding of thee

                    To be a hundredfold sweeter,

                    As thou does make thy finding of me

                    To be sweeter to thee yet.

                    Come Lord, light within my garden

                    and let us languish there for each other's love.

 

 

 

 

                     ON ISAIAH 33:10-12

 

                     The hotter the fire of flame

                     The fiercer it flows,

                     Bounding down a broken heart

                     The river grows,

                     Up through lips

                     And up through burning eyes,

                     Burning up the wicked

                     And burning up his lies,

                     Till darkly dancing on the ashes of death

                     Is the naked soul, and its naked breath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                     GREEN IS LIVING - GREEN THE COLOR OF HIS KINGDOM - O

 

 

                     Green is the singing house

                     where God grows

                     golden through the laughter of the eyes

                     not his, and yet His own:

                     we and He are each the other's prize!

 

                     Green the singing house

                     where music's seen,

                     through the countless hearts the countless dreams

                     form the endless images which seem

                     crystal shards broken off that perfect green

                     sea upon the sea which is His home

                     — His the Kingdom, He is God alone!

 

                     Vast the sea around the singing tree,

                     house of birds who lilt the vaulted air,

                     crashing through the barriers by prayer

                     to kiss the gentle faces of the free.

 

 


 

 

                    HOLY, HOLY, HOLY, .

 

 

                    There is a river from the throne,

                    Flowing freely like the solar wind

                    Moves in perfect freedom through the stars,

                    Sweeping through the fields of planets bright,

 

                    Bound by naught, but disciplined -

                    Holy, holy, holy, on the wing.

 

                    And God shall descend into our night

                    As a subtle movement through our souls,

                    Casting down the grossest things which stand

                    Against the holy rivers of His wind,

 

                    Till tainted not by one dark thing

                    We're holy, holy, holy, on the wing.

 

                    My heart does catch a glimmer of the sight,

                    Land beyond our dreams, burning true,

                    Solid as a mountain made of stone,

                    Blowing forth to crush the idol's gold.

 

                    So this song the saints shall freely sing,

                    Untainted by a single dying thing -

                    Holy, holy, holy, on the wind.

 


 

                   

                    TO KNOW WITHIN YOUR HEART THE BLESSED BROACH 

 

 

                    Open up you gates to living grace,

                    Stretch in prayer and praise your colored wings,

                    Rise to see the beauty of His face

                    On the subtle movements of His winds.

 

                    Behold in vision clear the golden throne,

                    There the Father smiles in love for thee,

                    You a gentle child of God alone

                    All your heart into His glory throw.

 

                    When the vision fades, you still are free,

                    While the room is hot with beauty bright,

                    From the purest place upon your knee

                    You thirst again to soar the holy brink.

 

                    *

                    Broach: A sharp pointed stick for holding

                    roasting meat; a hole made by such a stick

                    in something so as to let liquid out.

 


 

 

 

 

 

                   IF A TOAD SHOULD PLAY THE GAME OF ART

                  

 

                      Shall I take your treasures

                      and remain unchanged?

                      Horrors of all horrors

                      it would be insane!

                      Pain me Lord -

                      it's better than to be

                      a proud toad hopping

                      down the dry vain road,

                      freed from God and hopping,

                      floppy feet slapping,

                      down the dry, vain road

                      towards hypocrite's heaven.

 

 

 

 

                    TO FACE A FREE PERSON

 

                    I shall not grasp

                    this fragile thing,

                    I'd rather die

                    than crush the wing,

                    but I shall sit and hear it sing

                    and revel in its freedom.

 

                    It's pain at times to take a drink

                    of people that the angels think,

                    but it's a pain that truly links

                    my soul unto its heaven.

 

 

 

 

                    

                       

                         THOSE CROWNED WITH SILENT THUNDER

 

                         Those crowned with silent thunder

                         Know that God dwells in the set order

                         Of wild wonder.

 

 

 

 

 

                             

                          LOVERS IN THE FIRMAMENT

 

 

                         He, the Watcher, sees sapphires

                         in still pools;

                         Her heart in the wilderness is ravished

                         and dives in.

                         Awakened and aware

                         in the full alarms of love,

                         her long golden hair flutters

                         in the upsurging fountains.

                         She sings, and the waters tremble;

                         He smiles, and they grow still.

  

 




 

 

                             ARDOR

 

                        I desire you

                        My choicest lover;

                        Come weave your heart into my heart

                        Until your tresses fall over me,

                        Face upon face,

                        Eyes into

                        The pool of eyes.

                  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                        THE ANOINTING

 

                        He pours spiced wine in her hair

                        Amongst the barren brambles; 

                        The gate of her face

                        Is radiance -

                        For she sees in His pouring glass

                        Terrible beauty.

 




 

 

 

                    INTO THE KING'S CUP

 

 

                    Lip gates

                    Bleed the breast's essence -

                    Awake the soul,

                    Leaping open

                    To ravished climb

                    Into spiced wine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                    GOD SLAYS HIS LOVERS INTO LIFE

 

 

                    Cruel, the man of war -

                    With vehement love

                    The hero slays the virgin's heart,

                    Standing at her flower-woven doors.

 

                    Down runs the blood

                    Through the thicket,

                    Like jewel-lit honey

                    Runs golden off fingers

                    Into lips -

 

                    Dying, her life seeps down

                    Into His kiss.

                   

 

 

 

 

                    

 

                    ON A SLOW FEAST OF REVEALINGS

 

                    And of His glories that soul must rave

                    Who permeated with Holy love

                    Discloses the heart to that highest good

                    And slowly unfolds itself to God.

 

                    Spirit to Spirit they two are wed,

                    As each does eat the other's bread.

 

 

 

 

 

                    I HAVE WRESTLED WITH THE WIND

 

                    I have wrestled with the wind

                    and strove to climb the paths of rain!

                    Wearied,

                    I sunk down low

                    and behold... those things

                    I sought to gain

                       came

                            tumbling

                                   into my

                               soul,

                                    so

                               free...

                   

                       given in          simplicity.         

                                         

                    

                       

 

 

                    INTO THE WHITE FLAME'S KISS

 

                    The Divine lover entreats His maid

                    Till there be

                    The dropping of the hands,

                    The dropping of the gown

                    Into His holy ardor;

 

                    Then flies the white bird free

                    Into the motionless music

                    Of the opening skies;

 

                    Then leaps the spirit free

                    As a white flame into

                    The White Flame's kiss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                     ONLY GOD CAN GIVE THE DEATH OF SELF

 

 

                     Only God can give the death of self;

                     This sweet death which is the only door

                     Into the full sanctuary of life.

                     Outside are the fearful and unbelieving blind

                     In the pride which so poorly covers

                     Our alienation.

                     Only God can cloak the changing soul

                     And tuck under ribs stars and wind:

                     Stars under, wind under

                     The covered soul as it changes

                     To the beautiful bloody likeness of that virgin lamb,

                     Full and found in its meekness,

                     Holy round and fully out of madness

                     Which stalks imploded souls incessantly.

                     I am found and full in His meek gift,

                     To where my soul which seethed for

                     Pinnacles of madness

                     Now quakes into those gentle ways

                     Where the snap of an apple

                     Is far to good for me.

                     So the long lost thankfulness returns again,

                     And I return,

                          by this saintly      sweet      dying.

                    

 


 

                   

                

                            SOLID RIVER   

 

                            Solid river,

                            yet

                            too tenuous to touch,

                            my substance gross

                            passes through

                            till passed through

                            and rent open and alive

                            by the air-like sword

                            of Heaven.

 

 

 

                              

                    

 

                    SPIRIT OF PRAYER - SPIRIT OF PROPHECY

 

 

                    Prayer -

                    Lord, let this holy breathing be a litany,

                    A libation of my soul upon your breast,

                    Tremulous, my spirit turns, then clings to thee,

                    And stands beneath the pillars of your rest.

 

                    Prophecy -

                    Raise the standard as the trumpet's clarion call,

                    Sharp the note is sounding forth in me,

                    Wide the flowing river of your fire-fall,

                    Deep the channels of its jubilee.

 



 

   

 

 

 

                    WORD OF GOD ARREST MY MIND

 

                    Word of God

                    Arrest my mind

                    and plunge it

                    in your starry grasp

                    to the unsounded depths

                    of emerald silence,

                    or BOOM it

                    through the high clefts of sky

                    to sail lean and naked

                    into the subtle raging

                                 of solar wind.

                    




 

 

              

                    OUR FLAWLESS CHRIST

 

                    Our flawless Christ!

                    Ruddy pleasant -

                    Once scorned

                    Now uncompared!

                    The juice,

                    The very quintessence,

                    The heart of Holy air.

                    To you, Oh Christ,

                    The unsoiled virgin thigh,

                    The falling, flowing locks of hair,

                    The chaste and wondering eyes,

                    The innocence aware.

                    This bride bought with King's blood,

                    Once scorched and scorned,

                    Now upon her ivory throne,

                    Crown adorned,

                    Sits the beauty rare!

 




 

 

 

                     SECRET CHRIST IN THESE OUR WEARY DAYS

 

                     Secret Christ, in these our weary days

                     amidst this last full frenzied whirling,

                     constant supports our errant, wounded ways

                     and listens to our soulish wailing.

 

                     Through the manifold books of mankind's wisdom

                     the shattered light flicks out its flames

                     while in the rich remains of outdated virtue

                     shines the lovely Christ, still unashamed -

 

                     weeping in and out of view,

                     still sacrificial in the few.

 




 

 

 

                     THE THOUGHTS OF GOD INTO ALL THE WORLD NOW REACH

 

                     The thoughts of God into all the world now reach,

                     the thoughts of men flow in grave covered speech;

 

                     but the words of God sever death like a knife

                     and slice the soul down to the core of life.

 

                     Then out from man flows a crystal river:

                     sin-dead man now a Christ life-giver.

 

                     Jesus' cross laid upon a man

                     is the only force which effectually can

 

                     expose and kill satan's subtle power

                     till like Aaron's rod, dead souls flower.

 


 

 

 

                    GOD LOVES BEAUTY

 

                    God loves beauty:

                    He's sung it into every whirling wing,    

                    Through all the wind which breathes upon the wing

                    And all the sea which wraps the sounding whale;

                    The music's seen by those who love to sing,

                    And all the lovesick tellers of the tale,

                    Who, fierce to see the music bursting free,

                    Swallow all up in the beauty's prayer.

 

 

 

 

 

                     I WRITE TO YOU MY MYSTICAL LOVER

 

                     I write to you

                     my mystical lover

                     for I must live

                     unto another

                     if love as a river

                     through my soul should fall.

 

                     How deathly is the pall

                     upon a soul sown into self

                     with needle and thread of selfish desire -

                     I yearn for fire,

                     for fire fall in all

                     to harrow out the river's course!

 

                     From my soul unto yours

                     my sorrows seek their airy way;

                     this soft, dove-bearing heart,

                     (all encased as a work of art),

                     these silent words spirits say...

                     "My lover, I pour into you

                     to imbue your soul

                                      with burnished love."

 

 

 

 

                     SALVATION

 

                     There is an unending sea around my heart

                     through which the well-watered spirit moves in heat,

                     seeking that rubied soul who grins to meet

                     He who spun the world a work of art.

 

                     Blood ruby dipped in dying blood

                     to show in echoed light the mirrored day

                     which bent upon the shouldered world to pay

                     the shuddered impact of the raging flood!

 

                     Vehement blast disgorged from satan's brain

                     strikes the meekest soul there clean into,

                     smashed the lamb the wilting thunder due

                     each who drives the darkness into pain!

 

                     Here the torn and tender shimmers light

                     through eyes which see the foggy maiden clear,

                     the little children huddled in their fear,

                     and all the hungry faces of the night.

 

                     Break! you rebelled soul within your pride.

                     Darkness hates the burning risen sun,

                     spurns old history's deeds which God has done

                     and seeks by spit to stem the coming tide!

 

                     Eastertide's now surging through the night

                     to swallow torn up hearts with tenderness

                     and drown them in that ocean which does dress

                     the naked soul with virtues forged in light.

 

             


       

 

 

                    GLORY O CHRIST TO YOUR MAGNANIMOUS NAME

 

                    Lord, you know my own propensity

                    to take your glory and fling it

                    far to see

                    my own ambitions sprung to full delight,

                    my leering clown-like self

                                      in life's limelight.

                    Kill me God, kill me down into love:

                    Your selfless goodness giving

                    in the torrents of your true self's joy;

                    bearing the ever-bearing

                    new born miracle in flame —

                    Glory O Christ,

                    to Your Magnanimous Name!         

 





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