|General Poetry posted September 16, 2013||Chapters:||...8 9 -10- 11...|
A chapter in the book Blessed is the Fragile Heart
The world and everything in it
travel in never-ending ellipses and whorls.
The seas, the souls, the seemingly sedentary rocks
move and carry with them in their sweep
a tincture of all that exists, or will ever be.
You might wonder where we are going
on this fantastic journey through the
capacious cosmos, or even perhaps
to a lesser degree on our mundane laps
around our veritable vegetable gardens.
All is in motion, the mighty and minute.
Perhaps, this is pre-ordained by
some faultless rule of law, or yet again,
a fluke or flaw that all things
great and small are lost in some
colossal cataclysmic tornado of time.
A twirling, swirling, whirling vortex
that captures all and releases nothing.
Can it be that we forever run or ride
in ever-diminishing circles until the day
our concentric force gives way and
explodes into fragments so small,
we comprise the dust that dangles
in the refracted light of sunbeams?
And there in the droll air of atmosphere
do we keep right on travelling until
we become a spark in the light of life again?
Do our souls, those magical whims
of nothingness that are the essence of being,
which cannot be grasped with anything
other than concept, also travel in circles?
Are we as blind to our sacred souls
and to the infinite power they hold
as we are to the wonders of the world
and our existentialism of the universe?
Everything, living or dead is in motion;
Fluid lava cools to become rocks,
and rocks are ground to sand.
Water evaporates and turns to vapours
and then shifts again to rain, swelling
raging river's torrents that will pour
back in perfect glory to the sea.
Ice-ages come and go.
Great glaciers shove forward,
then calve, melt, and retreat.
Continents and sub-continents
will slip and slide; shimmy and shake
to create new formations,
or rumble and roll into oblivion.
Volcanic pyramids will thrust up
like massive horns erupting from earth's core;
blemishes bursting into existence
on pristine alabaster skin,
then churn themselves into places of
paradise somewhere in the South Pacific.
Ancient peaks will tumble down;
reluctantly sagging and giving way,
like old dugs yielding to gravity.
Non-plenary and plenary are the same.
It is our perspective that needs refining.
Rag-tag ranges that seem to have no order;
those rugged bumps and valleys
when viewed from space
are seen as a perfect sphere.
All is in motion.
The tumultuous seas burdened
with eddies of raging wind upon their backs
make endless assaults upon the land;
roiling and railing against the boundaries
which confine them and define them.
The earth rotates, and in turn revolves
around the sun as it carries us
on a fantastic journey amongst the
quarks and quasars of the universe.
The aggregate of all is perpetual motion -
yet stubbornly we hold the notion
that somehow we and everything
that surrounds us are stationary.
We try to press our minds into perfect order
with futile hope that we can will
the universal truth of motion into some
frozen, manageable submission.
We shamelessly cling to the perception
that if we wish it so, order will be revealed
once everything else has been hushed
into a lie of inconsequential stillness.
We do not come from nothing.
nor to it will we return.
Our personal miracle begins at conception;
which is when courses of other circles
intersect and connect with our own.
Is it random, or do we even then
In that imperceptible universe of small,
Desire life, and seek it out?
Command order and follow it...
Do we move and bring about change
through modicums of molecules,
atoms and cells; water and will;
and do we, while travelling
in seemingly insignificant
interludes of time create ourselves?
Surely not; for we are but children
who knew not then and know not now
why we exist at all.
And if our creation be by the hand of God -
will we ever understand His infinite wisdom?
Yet, when we do - will we still want to know?
For now, we need to know no more than this:
God and the universe exist.
To deny that is to deny ourselves.
Can it be, life is nothing more than
and not one iota less than this:
Was that spark that created us our own,
Or was it that of some greater power?
We live our lives as if it were a given;
that somewhere on our path
we will learn our tremulous truth.
We insist that all must be made clear
and will be, if only we can govern the forces
that push our paltry existence and cause
those forces to pause for one perfect moment
in the majestic expanse of time while we
meditate on the magnificence of why.
Free Verse Poetry Contest contest entry
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