FREE AND GROWING GREENER
by Blake Steele
Starting mid Oct. 1991
INDEX:
A...
ABOUT GRACE
ABOUT A CERTAIN PARABLE
ABOUT THE BLUE BREAKFAST BOWL OF THE MORNING SKY
A FEATHERED METAPHOR
AH!
AN ENCOUNTER WITH GOD IS A SEED
A SHORT LETTER TO THE FUTURE
B....
BECOMING AMBER
BOOKS
D....
DREAM
E....
ESSENCES
F....
FROM PROLOGUE TO LET US GO A GIFTING
H....
HE SHE AND WE
I...
I HAVE A RED HAIRED DAUGHTER
I HEARD EVERY HOPE SINGING
IT IS GOD I LOVE, POURING THROUGH OPENING THINGS
IT IS MY HEART'S DESIRE
I WROTE UP THE SCRAPPING OF BOTTOM OF THE SKY
L....
LIGHTS UPON THE MOUNTAINS OF A THOUSAND YEARS
M....
MANY THERE BE WHO SEEK POWER...
MISS JEAN
O....
ON A FIVE MINUTE BREAK FROM HANGING WALLPAPER
ON CHRISTMAS EVE - 1991
(For Hal Gillespie)
ON CONFIRMATION
ON THE DEATH OF AN ANGRY GOD
ON THE SACK OF A SOUL
P...
POETRY IS THAT FLOWING THING
PRAYER CAN ALSO BE
R....
REPENTANCE
AGAIN AFTER ANGER ALMOST BLEW UP MY
MIND
S....
SHE IS A GRACIOUS LADY
SHE, ROSY DANCES INTO THE DAWN
T...
THE KINGDOM FORTASTED
THE TIME HAS COME FOR A HOLY REVOLUTION
THIS IS NOT ENTERTAINMENT
TO SOME WOMAN IN THE DISTANT FUTURE
TO YOU WHO READ THIS BOOK IN FUTURE AGES
U...
UNTIL BEAUTY DROPS INTO THE SHAPE OF SOULS
W....
WATER AND FIRE
WHEN EVERY OCCASION IS SUBLIME
WHEN SKY BORN THOUGHTS COME DOWN
WISDOM PLAYS
LAST POEM...ON CHRISTMAS EVE - 1991
(For Hal Gillespie)
ÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑ
POETRY IS THAT FLOWING THING
Poetry is that flowing thing
underneath:
down where the real hurts lie,
down with the intimate joys.
It comes as a flash,
a
glimmer of something huge
that makes you feel
like you really could
take your hand
and spread stars
out across the sky
in a gleaming trailÑ
the tails of the stars
streaming back
over the shadows of the moon.
It sounds kind of hokey,
you
must admit it,
in this scientific age
when we understand everythingÑ
except the human heart...
BOOKS
Books.
Books.
Beautiful books.
Songs of the human heart.
Songs of the soul.
Songs of spirit and life!
Books!
Illustrated books.
Books of beauty silently working
in the intimate night:
joined one to oneÑ
the book to the heart;
going out into the world
bearing their own life.
Sparks of the spirit
enkindle secret oils
and fill eyes with light.
Tools
in God's hands:
healing, building, relieving, releasing,
making souls courageous
to be gentle
and beautifulÑwithout masks!
Books:
my work.
Books: my dreams.
Books: my heritage.
Books: my legacy.
Books.
REPENTANCE AGAIN AFTER ANGER
ALMOST BLEW UP MY MIND
Holy Father
whose hand passes before my eyes
to bring a certain luminescence
to the eyes which have long
gazed upon the moon
and its shadows,
take some lamb's blood
in your golden cup
and wash with huge red swaths
the pages
of that open book in your hand
wherein is imprinted that evil
witched me into uttering vile things
and curses against your name.
And upon those wet, red pages
write thisÑ"I have loved you
with the love you have given me
to love you by!"
Oh, let your name roll out of heaven
upon me in a sudden fall of fire
that burns through me
till my name and your name are one
in complete forgiveness, Father!
THIS IS NOT ENTERTAINMENT
This is not entertainment.
Some poets, I imagine,
are entertainers.
I have been a clown:
Only
a clown or an insane man
would take off his masks
and pour his vulnerable soul out
to the people.
No, I am not a dancing bear
nor
a monkey on a string.
Some music is forged alone
and should be sung alone:
or between intimates
in love, in naked life.
If I have erred,
God help me, I hope
I have erred out of love
for the people.
TWO SONGS UNTO THE FUTURE
I. A SHORT LETTER TO THE FUTURE
What is it like
now that God has come
and flooded the world?
Is it as beautiful
as we who sojourned in many shadows
dreamt it would be?
Or has God been less than our pain
made us wish Him to be?
My heart cries no! But infinitely more!
What surprises! What unleashed joy!
What unbounded life!
What soul-birthed order! What freedom!
How great must be the communal singing
of all light-flooded creatures!
What is it like to now embody
love's growing dream,
to live in a spiritual society
of
compassionate, creative freedom?
What is it like to now use all human resources
to make a beautiful and just world?
See what faith I have!
Suddenly I wonder,
is it presumptuous of me to write to you,
blessed children of our future?
you who live in the light of a thousand suns,
a million moons,
for
I live in the shadows of one moon
and seek the warmth of one distant sun.
Yet, I beg of you, for courtesy's sake,
and for the mystery
of listening to your own past
speak,
allow me to speak over the years to you,
anxious that you forever recall
the sorrows of your father's sins
and so do not now betray
the beauty which molds you!
Take no thing for granted,
as your ancestors had grievously done!
Fight for gratitude. It is the breath of life!
Is not living together in peace
the greatest gift to be cherished?
Revere the giver of the giftedness of all being:
Adore, and be adored!
And
finally... always,
STAY AWAKE! I implore you, STAY AWAKE!
lest your children and their children
slip back into the madness of the soul's sleep
and
all clear sanity
is undone.
II. TO YOU WHO READ THIS BOOK IN FUTURE AGES
You read this book
because you too
long to lap light up
from the brimming river of the world.
It has flowed through all
the tumultuous and shadowy ages.
It has humbly sung
its own glories
into its gloriesÑ
the songs of God and of Creation.
Many have sung the politic song.
It
was their duty
to reflect the uncountable harsh injustices.
While others,
whether by the hand of pain
or Love upon their shoulder,
were made to kneel down
upon verdant banks
to press their lips into life's liquor
Ñand taste Light.
I know now
I am writing for you,
rebuilders of the world,
makers of Love's final kingdom.
Read this book unto the birds for me;
sing it to the gallant wolves;
recite
its songs
to children in firelight;
whisper it into the hearts of trees.
And please know,
you who live now in what was once
only our distant, dreamt of future;
that you have made your ancestors rich
Ñbeyond all earthly richesÑ
with your wisdom,
by your passionate love.
WATER AND FIRE
How can a river flow
from out of a spark?
Gently revere!
Gently revere
all things for what
they hold and hide!
And the river shall wash
clear and clean
until river mingles with riverÑ
and
spark tastes spark!
In truth, Life is much more robust
than can be sung or saidÑ
being clothed with souls.
AH!
Ah!
I love you God flowing in
and I love you God
flowing out.
HE SHE AND WE
He is the hidden sun,
we, the unfolding flowers.
She is the holy hidden water,
and we, trees of life.
They are the unfelt, moving wind,
and we to beÑsinging birds on the wing!
WISDOM PLAYS
Wisdom plays
within the boundaries
of the holy;
solely a child at heart
and free
Ñas God is freeÑ
in wise spontaneity:
To dream, to believe,
to become through deeds,
to be a Maker
of Love's beauty.
I HEARD EVERY HOPE SINGING
I heard all the hopes
of
all the suffering peoples
of a thousand years
speak once.
It was the voice
of a bird
singing over the portal
of
Heaven's door.
ON CONFIRMATION
A bird sings
and the trees say, "Come to our treeness
for
you are a bird!"
And the wind says,
"Stretch your wings now upon my free breath,
for you are certainly a bird
in bone and feather!"
I sing a song
and say, "I am a poet,
am I?"
And the peoples say,
"Who cares?" and, "We don't know
if you don't," and,
"What is a poet?"
And then one little child
turns to me and says,
"I loved that song."
SHE, ROSY DANCES INTO THE DAWN
(For my daughter Beka)
A young red-haired
lady
comes to the banquet feast.
Uncertain and shy, she sits down
and sips some soup.
It is a soup of flowing light.
All essential things are loving her.
Suddenly, her heart is full and free
to begin its dancing.
Her feet are dancing.
Her body moves within the currents
of a silent music.
She has become a radiant word
of the Wedding Master's song.
She too has become the Bridegroom's invitation.
All the wedding guests
explode with sudden joy
into the dance.
BECOMING AMBER
Horses, words, music,
ideas, discipline:
she is a wild young woman
controlled
and growing rich
at a still tender age.
"Yield, yield"
Ñthe Host beckons
to her deeper
opening.
All the stars and colors
of this warm wedding feast
flood down through her heart:
and her mind makes
its own kind of music.
We call it: warm, red love...
becoming Amber.
A FEATHERED METAPHOR
Birds both keep and
sing
the law of their being:
thatÕs why they can fly.
ABOUT GRACE
A loving gift
may not be earned
Ñbut it may
be celebrated!
WHEN EVERY OCCASION IS SUBLIME
Just keep trusting. Just keep yielding.
Just keep opening.
God has hidden these things from the wise
and intelligent
and revealed them to the believing babes:
the
babes who long for milk,
the babes who trust,
the babes who suckle at their mother's
soft, breathing breasts.
Just keep trusting. Just keep yielding.
Just keep opening.
Just keep tastingÑ
and suckle that white, laughing milk
of Life itself
out of the warm, brimming breast
of El Shaddai.
ESSENCES
Poetry does not spring forth
from intellect
or even from
imaginative emotion
Ñpoetry wells forth from essences:
through intellect, through imagination,
through emotion.
Art is tasting...
One
tastes poetry
and those spiritual flavors
seek out words
which best embody them:
sound symbols for the ear,
visual
symbols for the inner eyes
to convey
the essences of life...
and death.
ABOUT A CERTAIN PARABLE
When one enters the wedding feast
one's spirit flows out
to taste and savior
all holy creatures and things.
IT
IS GOD I LOVE,
POURING THROUGH OPENING THINGS
It is God I love
pouring though
opening things.
God is the essence
of the soul.
God the glory pouring
down,
gushing up,
flooding out.
When all people
let God
through,
it shall be
a revolution
of truth's beauty.
ON A FIVE MINUTE BREAK
FROM HANGING WALLPAPER
I
opened the door
and walked out into the wind.
All the trees where shimmering
like torches
burning in the night,
electric
with solid treeness
and old tree light.
UNTIL BEAUTY DROPS INTO THE SHAPE OF SOULS
When the images of thought become too full
to remain within the soul,
beauty drops like dew drops
out of a lonely solitude
into word symbols of a dream
which has dreamt souls
and stars and all things.
Suckled on light,
certain images dance out
with their own kindled life
to seek another seeking heart
and shatter that lonely solitude
crying, "Kindred soul of mine
in which life singsÑ
as lovers know it singsÑ
turn out now to seek the world
until beauty drops like dew drops
out of your lonely solitude,
into the shape of souls."
MISS JEAN
She traveled in the
night
under many stars
until sheÑtoo wearyÑ
lit the candle of her mind
and saw light everywhere in the dark.
Then she gathered herself to her labors
and grew a beautiful heart
which molded her body
from within her body.
And with time,
thought became a splendor
radiant from beyond the world:
and so her latter end
grew to a glory which welcomed her in.
Then she arose like a shimmering white
butterfly
from a rough cocoon
and laughed to think
about the dear wrinkles
which had so recently grown
to thickly cover her old house.
THE KINGDOM FORETASTED
When the little child is clear-eyed
and
dancing free within;
and pain has taught the soul enough wisdom
to care for the child;
and the heart yields naturally to love's
subtle touches
and opens so deeply
that eyes look liquid,
like little lakes of lifeÑ
then the spirit flows out to taste everything
for the celebrative Kingdom has come.
Then the Bridegroom's eyes
smile out of all things upon His bride
and his voice speaks
in a thousand ways,
"Go forth now, my beautiful
bride,
and bear your overflowing cup
unto my love-thirsty miracle of a world.Ó
DREAM
Little child, born big-eyed
and full of wonder
because you were createdÑabove all thingsÑ
to trust and dream:
believe! and stir up your dreams.
Go
out and gaze at the infinite ocean of stars
and see what a dream can do!
And when you see a rainbow
or look at the light in a dog's eye
laugh at the hardness of the world
and remember to keep dreaming
your beautiful dreams.
Life shall teach you many things,
even if you stir your heart just half awake.
Look! many delicate snowflakes
can bind together
to be an earth-shaking avalanche.
Listen, soft water and wind
shall in time wear away stone.
And your dreams,
though they be as insubstantial as wind,
if you give your green life
to birth themÑshall live!
And they
shall grow their own life
and slowly bring a fire down upon you!
But never be afraid
of that dream-born fire that burns
to make your dreams brighter
and to melt your heart
until it flows as soft as your dreams:
just grow on,
and suckle long on that vision
which made
the Earth, and sea, and stars...
And your dreams,
Ñwhen they stand as true as the sunÑ
shall gain the power of a miracle
to entwine with other dreamerÕs dreams
and slowly move the whole
world out into beauty's light.
ON THE DEATH OF AN ANGRY GOD
A blind child led a wounded swan
which hissed and pecked at his heels.
"You wouldn't cruelly drive me on,
if you knew how your fury feels."
So said the child and yanked on the reign
bound to the swan's collar and chain.
With an angry fury the swan pulled back
and beat its wings upon the neck
of the frightened child who thrust in the dark
with a stick in his hand, which struck its markÑ
and that so further enraged the swan
that it beat on the child until the dawn.
And then the sun rose up to see
the child and the swan too weary of fight,
and so the blind child set it free
and the swan swam away in a lake of the light.
Then all its beauty and grace came back,
so it swam to the child and kissed his neck.
Then scales fell from the blind child's eyes
and it hugged the swan and fell in its feathers;
then the swan and the child sailed off to the skies
Ñboth free from the other's tethers.
AN ENCOUNTER WITH GOD IS A SEED
An encounter with God is a seed:
nurture it and increasingly
life will flood through that
holy moment of light!
Remembrance is a journey
back into the eternal immediacy
of that holy, deathless moment.
THE TIME HAS COME FOR A HOLY REVOLUTION
Immobilized in wonder
at the majestic grandeur
of the sublime, moving, breath of God;
then, enkindled by that innocent fire
to let go and flood out
His flaming river
until the old world burns down
with blameless love.
MANY THERE BE WHO SEEK POWER...
Many there be who seek power
or wealth as a security
to gird them up when old age
takes them down.
But, contrarily, I wish to be
an old man singing with God,
who feels the starlight on his upturned
face at night,
who touches the souls of trees
with his mind
and knows that the ancient wind
still plays and is young.
An old man, I say,
who ponders well these things:
a woman's opening eyes and bird wings
while sitting on a stone unmoved
by any power but that of
love.
Old, I say... but still in thoughtÑwild!
and innocent in the youth
of his inward child.
FROM PROLOGUE TO LET
US GO A GIFTING
To you who read, read until
your heart burns
or toss this aside
and do not waste your time or eyes.
But
for children who long to sing...
come, let us open up our hearts
and go a gifting!
LIGHTS UPON THE MOUNTAINS OF A THOUSAND YEARS
Upon the holy mountain
Lilly waited for the voice
of fire, the voice of swords,
the voice of stars upon her hands.
Her poverty
had long been her wealth
until the crackling sky
in sudden terror struck the idols down:
the mice, the golden lice,
the 100 foot alloyed man.
*
One shall construct fine things,
like mirrors of his own soul,
and wear them out with love
in the hands of his grandchildren
and his grandchildren's children
in that day when all the world comes to know
that no one ever really knows
the craftsman's name,
nor
the name
of she who had long waited
and now carries white stones
into his bed.
*
Ah, the holy day comes
when Lilly shall hold
melodious love
like light in her hands
and feed some little red sugar berries
unto that roly-poly bear
who plays in her garden:
her brown, brother bear
who has come out of the singing woods
morning by morning
to gaze into her eyes
and be held in her warm human arms.
And they shall sit, morning by morning,
to rock each other,
singing lullabies and bear songs,
until
lions come from the holy hills,
leaping down to break boards out
of old barn walls
and let some beautiful sky shimmer though,
casting daylight all over the faces
of little penned lambs.
SHE IS A GRACIOUS LADY
She is a gracious lady
whose
childhood fears
have made her fierce
with love.
She bends, gently, to the flowers of the earth,
for gardens are in her heart.
*
A country garden
is like a family,
and she is a family within herself,
full of the verdantcy and colors of those she loves.
She keeps all she loves warm with prayers
and waters them with a flashing belief
that they too shall grow strong
and succulent with life.
If a friend
has needs:
flowers are there
in her gracious face
beside their bed of grief.
Her words
carry the luxuriance of roses,
the simplicity of lilies;
and her wise old eyes
Ñstill young with scampish joyÑ
glitter happily, like some little white children
of the daisies.
A WOMAN READS IN THE DISTANT FUTURE
Now, years from this past,
some woman opens a small book
and the warm and yellow flows,
soaking her dark soul rich.
She feels a warm body
turn inside her skin.
Someone is wrestling beautiful within her,
hungry
to understand vision.
A golden spark lifts off pages into her eyes,
igniting oil with flashes of passion
in songs which have forgiven death.
In brightening flame she moves.
Her face is peace. She slows time
and burns.
A book drops from her hands,
(the sun's radiance in bones).
Her
heart wakes gratitude
and life cascades.
Lips smile. Eyes smile.
Hands rise like birds
Ñreleasing the world!
Beholding wonder, she is home!
brewing up for the ages
her own soup that tastes of radishes and honey.
She ladles it out,
barefoot in the streets,
humming
love's whimsy in tunes,
letting everything sip
her communal cup.
Children laugh when they see her;
old men smile
with glistening
eyes.
PRAYER CAN ALSO BE
Prayer can also be
a waking dream
passing before
the heart's eyes,
a living, specific fragment
broken off the infinite
wholeness of God's dream
and offered up to Him
full of human hope
and
radiant
with love.
I HAVE A RED HAIRED DAUGHTER
Some people can talk with their hands.
I have a red haired daughter
who can talk with her wild feet.
She says, joy...
and... hope...
and...
klap, klap,
tittle dat...
pow!
And then she says,
"I love you life."
chit, chit, chit, chit,
kettleump,
kettleumpÉ
tittledattletittledattletittledattletittledattle.
I WROTE UP THE SCRAPPING OF
THE BOTTOM OF THE SKY
I wrote up the scrapings of
the very bottom of the sky
and sent little whirling
wind-devils dancing.
(All properly religious
folks know that only the devils dance,
angles being too somber and
sanctimonious.)
A heated blasphemy melts
the cool controlled spirit
of the proud silver setting
on white spotless linen.
Look! This heated blasphemy
is seditious truth!
Who can dance wilder than
He who holds seven stars in His hand?
Who can spit and shout and
laugh like He who wears
a golden girdle across His
breast?
Who can beat down
money-changers off the altars of God better
than He whose feet are
burnished brass?
Who can seize lightning?
Whose voice is the voice
of a billion lost souls
crying? It's He whose eyes are flames of fire!
Who sits weeping, drinking
dirty wine on a railroad track?
ItÕs He who holds the keys
of death.
But you must, please,
forgive me, for I am only writing up the scrapings
of the very low bottom of
the sky.
IT IS MY HEART'S DESIRE
It is my heart's desire
to sing the flowing light of God!
It is a birthing light
of a growing God;
a green and flourishing God.
And
the song is like a plague of joy
infecting my heart's desire.
ABOUT THE BLUE BREAKFAST BOWL OF THE MORNING SKY
I woke up this morning.
God had created a beautiful breakfast for me.
It was a feast!
He always makes feasts...
In the blue bowl of the morning sky
He had dropped a shimmering yellow peach for me.
It
shown up brightly
into my sleepy eyes.
And then, over all
that fruit of His light,
He poured a sweet white milk of His clouds.
I ate heartily
and
the meal made me sing, real loud!Ñ
as those who feast with God
always sing.
And so I made this little song
of words,
and it says:
"Praise!"
and..."Thank you!"
WHEN SKY BORN THOUGHTS COME DOWN
When sky born thoughts come down
(like rain comes down
to break seed shells,
to loose the life),
the shell of the mind cracks
and Creation feels light stream through.
A little hill quakes.
A tree claps one leafy hand
against
the wind.
ON THE SACK OF A SOUL
A man needs a little sack
(whether green, or red, or gray,
no matter),
a man needs a little
sack,
a poetÕs pack
to carry his soul in.
And one might find there
a pinch of tobacco
and a well worn pipe;
a book of holy words
to prompt thoughts;
a little paper
and pencil to record a few
which might be worth
passing on.
And a man needs a friend
to accompany
times of observationÑ
to help him discover things
marked for his soul:
a
pine cone;
a stone well shaped
to the fingers;
long thin grasses,
sea shells!
A man needs a little sack
to
gather memories in...
a lock of a woman's hair,
a feather,
a perfumed ribbon,
and something that smells of horses.
An
unobtrusive little pack
full of mementos and
mysteries of the heart
with the meaning of love.
A man needs a little sack
to carry his soul in.
ON CHRISTMAS EVE - 1991
(For Hal Gillespie)
He shrouded the chalice
on his last Christmas feast
and foretold his year to come
as the holy shroud of death
shall come upon
his silver, shining spiritÑ
laid there by God's trembling hands.
The service was over,
and we, full of Christmas beauty
waited for the final word.
And it was he who spread forth
his frail arms
in the full power of the cross
and spoke as a bird would speak
whose wings were dipped deep
in an unearthly wind,
"Let us go forth
in the name of Christ!"
He spoke as a warrior,
and his unsteady limbs
suddenly coursed with awful strength.
And his Doctor knew,
(I could see some of the pain in his eyes),
and the woman prophet knew
as she tasted him with her loving heart,
that it was he,
the Lord's deacon,
whose
shell would soon open
to show us how
we shall all, "Go forth
in the name of Christ."