Within the inclusiveness
of that living word
and in the compassion
of the loving heart,
there is a critical red thread
that holds all things in the
balance of justice and mercy.
Words from the Jagged Edge of Truth
Within the inclusiveness
of that living word
and in the compassion
of the loving heart,
there is a critical red thread
that holds all things in the
balance of justice and mercy.
The frog is in the pot
and the water is boiling,
someone took the fruit
from the tree but the thief
is not owning up; we woke
to a new enlightenment
yet the dark clouds are
blacker than ever.
The hours parade slowly in the
face of the moving hands, the
dawn cracks the darkness until
the darkness comes once more.
THE FLOWERS GONE
I woke to the darkness,
to the tyranny of pride
that hammered iron spikes
into the hands of love and
marched in jackboots over
the sacred ground where
once the flowers grew.
The haze is thick like silence,
the moment heavy as lead,
how long can she carry this,
should hope be left unsaid.
A sheet of glass, the estuary lies,
fragile to our step, it whispers
words yet makes no sound
and hastens not the time.
A low song stretches across
the water of the high tide,
the horizon is a long way
from the known shore.
It was another time,
almost another galaxy,
but yet the stories
we unfolded over
wine and flame
still had so much to tell.