God's Black Swans - spirituality
Hello and welcome to my Blog.
This week’s poems / lyrics focus on philosophical matters - spirituality. All pieces taken from my 2015 collection “Heaven and Hell”.
God’s Black Swans
God’s black swans.
Gently floating across
The pond of certainty’s grace.
Still leaving rippling doubt;
However smooth and gentle.
Printed on thought’s Menu card –
“All is not to be eaten”.
Intrigued, the smaller finer print examined,
And I read:
“Basic thought groups are provided to feed your cognitions;
However moderation and discernment are a commended and the necessary Adjunct to the enjoyment of your mental feast.
Excess and uncritical ingestion may
To delusion lead to say the least.
As Patron of this establishment I fear
Objects and beliefs in the mind’s eye
May assume a significance
An adherence to credence
Far larger and weightier than they should appear.”
In summary dear diner, I suggest
Some hierarchy of creeds comestible,
Of viand thoughts,
May be best.”
So pre-warned by the friendly Patron celestial
I chose with care, to fill my mind full well.
And built my creed in hierarchy with some care,
Avoiding, discarding those unsound bricks
And flaky mortar, here and there.
To end up with those certainty’s both firm and true.
Based on what I stand by and could defend
Not in other’s opinions, dogma, diktat or directions;
Their – “If I were you”.
Relationship not mere religion,
I’m keeping God’s Black Swans on my Menu.
A Differing Faith
Why do you say that?
Easy-peasy religion,
Prayer catches gifts falling.
Why do you think that?
Candy cotton Christian,
Reeling out priestly platitudes.
My God and faith seem afar;
No easy God I wrestle with,
While others hold Sunday in a jar.
To The High Fells’ Places - an Ascent
To the high fell’s places, ascending I once walked.
Feeling boots on earth along the path, legs and chest toiling. Steady following the well-marked course
Others had scrubbed before.
I thought: We are just softer, paler stones. Smaller cousins to the darker granite, part incensed in mist. Be friendly stones, though silent, here in Eden regained.
At the top I paused, regaining my breath. And I looked out gentle minded, receiving a soft tune, and sang:
We are fallen,
Fallen.
Fallen out from under His grace.
Chased away by the Angel
To seek again His face.
We are fallen,
Fallen.
Fallen from the perfect degree.
Separated by Sin and the Tempter
Till we accept Galilee.
We are fallen,
Fallen.
Fallen till the kingdom come.
Waiting for His glorious appearing
Angels going to take us home.
Waiting for His glorious appearing
Angels going to take us home.
So ending, I looked and knelt to a cup of water
In a small pool greenly mossed.
Cupped hands, I drank the cold crisp water,
Receiving it’s refreshing too on my face and arms.
I stood in my green hilled church to view below,
Nestled in the dale, one built by men with hands and slate,
But better made in hearts.
Why did you ascend to the high fells’ places – what looking for?
There were no insights whispered then, given or obvious.
Only in the descending path to town,
There in the bustle and fair, would the unveiling come.
In the remembering of the high fells’ places.
Lost Rooms
No awesome swooning to the heavenlies
or in the spirit how greatly sweetly slain.
Just the feel of earth between the toes
of bare calloused feet.
Dust rising from the goats
and sheep flocks passing,
The steady growing crops ripened
from green to gold
in spring and summer rain.
No prayers pressed in,
fervent tones up to the highest height.
Palms raised, eyes shut, to the continuing refrain.
Simply the Almighty’s face reflected,
veiled by moving clouds,
in a rain filled hollow left by cattle hooves
across the plain.
Without ritual pomp and rich vestments,
the grandiose organ’s silent in this space.
Merely the whispering murmurings of the Lord
and the night wind flapping the tent.
As under cold stars, prayers, thanksgivings
are simply said.
In simple conversation, sincere yet unadorned
the heart speaks to Him,
receiving back His friendly grace.
Distanced and lost:
I rise from my empty yet ornamented shell,
to seek the simpler god-filled richer place.
Those lost rooms of my youth,
where He waits to greet me back,
just face to face.
The Love Within
New every
Morning is
His love. I
only have
the heart’s
still space
in quiet to receive my grace. My Lord, my King.
His praise and honour, in daily prayer I bring.
Quietly humble, I wait to be with blessings filled.
Fruits of the
Spirit, gifts
and signs
will * be
revealed. A
simple chair
placed in a
loft space
room, small
yet it’s large
enough for
He and I to
commune.
In brief yet
fervent mo-
ments We
are gently
led, to Him
and heaven,
through dawn
and so to
bed.
Till my next Blog, keep well and safe.
Regards,
Louis
All poems taken from “Heaven and Hell” (Louis J. Casson 2015)
This Blog and all contents, copyright Louis J. Casson 2016