The Trackless Path

If we can create for ourselves

A living hell in this life.

Then it only makes sense 

That the hell that we create might continue

If the blackness of our hearts is real

And not imagined.

And if our conscience pricks us here

When our eyes are dimmed 

By deceitful outward appearances,

Then the same conscience might prick us there

When the falsehood of our outer shell is stripped away,

And all the more if we see more clearly there.

We don’t see clearly here, 

And that’s the problem.

Our conscience can be seared.

We can sin without regret.

All the more reason

To face the inward contradictions 

Before we discover too late 

That what we sowed in life

Follows us into eternity.

I will be moving for the rest of my life,

Moving, moving, ever moving.

For it calls me, ever calls me

To wander, ever wander 

Down the roads and byways 

In and out and through the earth until

I am called back home.

And it is such a comfort

To know that in my restless journey

I have found a home,

A place to warm

Myself beside the fire

That burns within my bosom

And calls me to the ones 

Whose lonesome stories I must know.

We are one in our lost stories.

We are one in the forsaking

And together we will wander

Wander, wander, at His bidding

Till the answers come a knocking

Come a knocking and presenting

Come a knocking and unlocking

The doors that will unbreak us

Though the world itself forsake us

In the waiting,

We are not forgotten

And though lost for a season,

We will find our way back home.

I like this place.

I like this time of year.

And I like this time of day,

The way the sun reflects so gently

Off the bricks of the buildings across the street,

Not like the brutal sun of summertime.

And on the mountain, 

The light casts shades 

Into the crevices and dimples 

Of the wooded, colored, slopes.

And the hush of Autumn blankets everything 

Here on the street with the peace

That only visits once per year.

I want to wrap it up and carry it 

Into the cold and clouded 

Meager days of winter,

But I can’t.

All the same, it’s precious.

How can I possibly complain about anything

When there are days like this.

“A week ago,” she said,

“From Kosovo,” she said.

“Really!” I said.

“Yes.”

And there was a bucket full of roses beside her,

Ten dollars a rose, 

Kind of steep, I thought,

And a sign in her hand that said, 

Please help, large family.

“How many are in your family?” I asked.

“My two sisters and me

And my father and mother.”

My family is bigger, I thought.

But I didn’t hold that against her.

“And where are you staying?” I asked.

“A hotel,” she said.  “A hundred dollars a night.”

And her eyes went wide,

And so did mine.

“That’s a lot,” I said.

“Yes.”

“But you’ll be ok, I think,” I said.

And she nodded her head.

They know how to beg, I thought.

And they know how to sell. They’ll be ok.

And I handed her five dollars.

The mountain is laden 

With yellow veils and brown

And the red oak climbs her sides

And to the North, the evergreen

Holds steady looking down

Upon the canyon.

So what?

It’s nothing new.

And yet each and every year

I find in it the hope of new beginnings.

Where is the bill of your mother’s divorcement?

You say she has one.

And I say that I never agreed to that.

We had a different understanding,

An understanding that was renounced

And not by me.

But now you weep

And mourn uncontrollably 

Because you believe that it is over.

But it’s not. The love is still inside of me.

And sooner or later, that love will win,

For all other things will fall away.

But this love will never cease.

It is eternal. It is the thing

That binds our family

Everlastingly.

And it doesn’t matter how long it takes.

She came to me 

Through misty vision

Lest I slip into forgetting

And told me “You are the big wave,

And I the little wave.

You’ve taught me how to sail.”

And then she wrapped me up

Within her arms as one more reminder

That she loves me.

And that was sacred, blessed.

I thought that, perhaps, 

She could not forgive me,

That she could not love me.

But I see that perhaps she does

Even to spite, or because 

Of the thing I am.

Thank you, Father,

And please don’t let me forget!

We start another day of work

Early in the morning,

Long before the sun arises,

When the muse won't let us sleep.

It's the sacred poet's hour,

The hour when others must slumber

But we are blest with the best

Of midnight powers.

And if we rise to meet the thing 

That lifts us from our beds,

Then we are blessed to hear the voice

That speaks from heaven's crest,

And then go forth into the world

To share the fruit of Eden's tree,

The tree that comes before and after 

The fall of you and me.

And it's early in the morning

That we hear His voice the best.

In the early morning hours

We enter into rest.

I am at home with myself

Wherever I am,

Thank God.

But there was a time 

When I required more.

So I understand the need

For book and chair,

And tea, And hearth,

And familiar footfalls 

In the corridor,

And even for the great structure

Of mud and plaster,

Board, and brick,

And paint,

That rises up around it all.

And I understand 

Why people stay

Even when the enemy 

Is at their doors.

It is home.  

It is the sacred thing

They feel while there

That binds them fast

And will not let them go.

And so, 

They stay until

They can stay no more.

And only at the point of bayonet 

Will they be torn away.

But I am a traveler.

I have learned 

To wander.

And so,

I go.

And where I stop 

Is home.

The scripture says 

That they will beat their swords 

Into plowshare.  But when?

Exactly when they decide to, I suppose.

And who is they?

Anyone who chooses, I suppose.

And so if it is coming for us anyway.

Then why not start now?

After all, there will never be many

Until there have been a few.

And doesn't few begin with one?

And if one, why not you?

And yet, you’re a bit too late

To be the One, the First, 

The Example to us all.

He came and died

Because His sword 

Was bent the wrong way.

He forsook His life for many.

And showed us how

To bury our weapons of war 

Deep into the earth,

And by so doing, 

Sow a crop of peace

Though we pay for it with our lives.