The Trackless Path

I like surprises.

Not everybody does, but I do.

I like not knowing exactly where things are going.

And I prefer to believe that things will turn out just right,

Better than just right, in fact, that they will result in a thing

Far better than I can expect or hope for, or create 

Through my limited means and wits.

And I like to think that I am not 

The creator of the good fortune,

But that it is just that: good fortune,

And that it comes from above,

The divine reward of faith and trust.

And that seems to work for me 

To spite the times when it appears that it has not. 

And to spite even that, I still like surprises.

I read the books that you don't write.

I peruse the verses written 

In subtle glances

This way and that.

And in the forest of your dreams

I sit for hours in the quiet of your library of themes.

For there are books you do not write.

And it is my job to take them down

From the dusty shelf,

To air them out in the sunlight for all the world to see.

I write the books that you don’t write.

And then you read them and think,

He knows me.

I am homeless in the heart of His Love.

And that is not a bad place to be.

No home but the invisible arms

That wrap me up from day to day.

Oh, thank you God for not forsaking me!

The lamppost in Narnia,

An oil lamp hanging from a tree branch,

Or the street lamp that lights

The silhouetted couple

In the empty city street by night.

It is a solitary light in an unusual place.

It is the expected backdrop light

Of every darkened city scene.

It lights the way, It marks the spot,

It frames the scene in amber tones,

Or roots itself immoveably 

Awaiting Kings and Queens.

It is left by one who thinks

Of those who will come after.

And it is found by the receivers 

Of the gift of things unseen.

It is the lamppost,

The lamp left for others,

The light in the darkened place,

And the landmark that shows the way 

Toward better things.

I am in Amish Land,

And I look out my window

To find a horse and carriage 

Tied to the post that marks the parking spot.

And I wonder at their tenacity, 

Their drive to preserve the old way.

I wonder and yet, I also relate.

I am surprised at how much

I am the same.

I live far simpler 

Than my contemporaries.

I do not vote. And I cannot be compelled to go to war

Even to save my life or the lives of those I love.

And some people would say that is evil.

But it doesn’t matter.

It’s who I am.

It’s who I came to be.

And though I do not drive a horse and carriage,

I do put reigns upon the places 

That the world would lead.

And I find peace

In my simple life. And gratitude.

And I can only imagine that they do too.

The moon followed us home,

But my parents said that it couldn’t sleep inside.

All the same, I spread the curtains wide

And let it’s light fall on my blanket.

And every night it came,

And every night

I spread the curtains wide,

Day after day, year after year.

Except when it was cloudy

And then I was afraid.

And on those nights I shut the curtains tight

And went to sleep as fast as I could.

But always it returned.

And through my life

It’s followed me,

The moon,

A faithful friend

In times of strife.

And when I cannot sleep,

I walk beneath it’s loving light

And it follows me where e’er I go.

The light that doesn’t know

How to leave me.

Thank you, moon.

Angel Oak

Dripping down,

Shed your mantle over me.

And let me hide beneath your branches

When the world is too much for me to handle,

And spread your leaves to fan the nakedness of my frailty.

For I am not what the world expected.

I am less than what they ordered.

But here beneath your ancient branches,

Leaning back into your massive trunk,

I am safe from all that the world 

Would have me be.

And it’s enough

To know 

That we are here together,

Two old souls who have weathered the ages

And still remain to spite the ones 

Who would turn us into lumber.

The inspiration for today’s poem came from a picture of the Angel Oak on Johns Island, SC.

What do baby gargoyles do?

And where do the ugly faces hide

Who do not want to guard the cathedral

From all those who cannot bear to see anything but beauty.

It’s kind of ugly when you think of it that way.

I am not inclined to say anything anymore.

My views have changed so much

And surely what is good for one 

Will not be good for all.

I wish that people would turn to God,

The ones who don’t that is

Because he knows.

He has the answers.

I don’t.

I content myself with what comes,

And the light of ages pours itself down on me

A day at a time, a moment at a time,

And warms me to my mission.

And I cannot receive it all,

But some

Falls into my cup.

And it’s enough to keep me moving, loving, speaking, writing.

How great the Love that pours out into undeserving cups!

And it’s enough. It’s enough.