Here is my second poem of my challenge to myself. I write after a morning of play with my son. The watchman of my soul finds love in the reality of living. God lives in the play of Children and in the love of foolish fathers like myself. Poetry tries to go under the surface to the truth, which makes it harder to read. I know you may not have the time to read them, but maybe if we can shed the fastfood mentality, we can find the truth of our lives, or I am fooling myself. You can decide.
Wild Song Beyond the Word
You may not understand, but try, but try, but try ...
To stand unaided by the props of other’s philosophy
becomes a dry flower crumbling in the dust of time.
Look into my eyes and you will find yourself. I find
God in yours. Not that you are God, but the rope
that rope that bind us has fibers wrapped around
since the time of Roman centurions and perhaps
older. Bound by fishes numbering one hundred and fifty
-three, my skin extends to a denial of three times.
Three questions rise each morning like a sunlit cross,
like breakfast of granola and yogurt. I move to meet
you eye to eye, face to face, hand to hand. The Nails
tickle the palm before the rip. The truth of love starts
the moment we face the freedom in the eachother. Freedom
comes from the space between lungs and in the breath that
makes our voices. Heard in the street, like a rumor
of rain falling on a dry city of blooming yellow,
blue and red roses. God has return empty and full.