What is there to be said
When all the pictures have been painted, when
wordsmiths more skilled have woven better phrases
Who am I, who am I?
Sometimes overcome by Christ's curious effect upon the soul;
grace, I believe is the beautiful word, grace sinking downn like
cloud-gathered sighs, on a world ready for relief.
Catch me up, tangle me in webs of worldly things, pretty, panic-inducing, putrid -
Satan. You may increase your injunctions, if I fall further
into the depths of Christ, but silence and misery alone are your lot.
If not the sanguine sacrifice has been so violently made, slain...
My brothers yet young, and I so inside myself-centered, would have been
Snapped at the ankles, Achilles heel, by your bear-teeth snares.
Why do I write then, BIC pen upon paper
torn from the spiral of shabby notebooks lined in blue.
What good have my words then, done to the world
that they may be anything, next to the Word, You?
A line for the fish, a scent to the hound, a clue to the
Mystery of where You are found - these do I wish
to make my poor poems.
A gift and an arrow
pointing straight, to lead someone (if merely one, it is enough!) home.