Evergreen Liturgy of a Sun

Fleets of redwoods obscuring beauty,
Leaves and their liturgies raise the soul,
Green needles and saw dust float on playful breeze,
Steadfast they remain for the sake of love.

Ekstasis winged and pronounced under painted ceilings
In its cracks breaks free light and I wish for a plague of woodworms,
Rot it all down, gnaw at its stubborn bones and vined temples.

Instead fires came, raised it all to the ground,
A flameless fire of Roman hatred, fanned by the desert winds
And the ignorance of material salvation.
Losing the old world and those old words,
Letting go of blackened truth, angels singing nonsense in incantations of:

Cherubs hung on posts yelp:
“Spaffle, cluff and rumble”
And the epistles rain down from a holy mound:

All this makes elegant sense,
Passing through the eye of a shepherds needle,
These blessed pagan schisms and
Each Messiah’s lose tongue draped in that calloused,
Moribund sense of divinity.

Refreshing the body with bread and clouding minds with wine,
So long as we see the light,
I found myself in those ashes, what is whole remains,
And the catacombs revealed in such devastation.
Truest moments of reflection born of abject despair and realisations, loss of faith,
And excitable proclamations.

The utterance of lost hopes, the point at which our backs begin to turn,
Is that point at which we move closer to truth,
Exploring darkness and discovering deeper shades of light;
Buried in subtle obscurity and inexpressible experience
And divinity trapped in books, words and letters;
All that weaves the face of something divine, that forgives
Our ignorance; never spoken or read.
Dusty books that build up bodies between waves of jagged text.

The commotion of a moth, intense and fleeting,
Open to interpretation and a finality of relevance,
Faced by such a critical end, some strive for a surface glimmer,
Audible mumblings of exegesis as I sleep, transgress the waking states
And suggest dustier paths ahead;
I crush an apple underfoot, in which legend does I figure?

As a union he was unsurpassed, in our armies he was lost……..

Carving canoes from the trunks of fallen trees, some scorched by the storms lightning touch.
Highest mountain lakes alive in the cellars of old libraries, desert towns proclaim from chariots a lament sweet as honey over broken bread.
Bards in covenant, barring each mountain pass, encamped on those cliffs
Under stars that lie and wait, singing for the sun in the depths of nights blue velvet feel.
Mountain tops dusted with our sacred past, why we climb and sit for a while below flags,
Marvel at the land below and return marked with greatness, in our hair the trailing scent of tranquility.

Sons of Gods lying low in ruins, below piles of painstakingly placed boulders and rocks;
Sons of Gods lined up in rows and lost in the mosaic of landscape and song;
Sons of Gods facing the priest, with his didactic bristle of black feathers in procession,
Crooked as a hook with blessed intention.

The swipes and lashes of the reeds over this faultless pond, the blood that follows, mirrors the sky and open wounds of many revolutions and broken dreams,

The regression in a return to a place unloved, suggestions made by cultures born in the cauldron of thought.
All these stories leave me numb and thankful
For the salvation of real darkness; a budding, burgeoning force,
That visits a lonesome recourse every time I close my eyes in initiation;
Orientate myself to the stars, turn to my neighbour;
Breath in loves finality, an evergreen liturgy to the prevailing sun.

6 Responses so far »

  1. 1

    Ivelina said,

    Pure surreal beauty. I read it out loud to myself . Thank you. Shine on!

  2. 2

    bneal817 said,

    Sacred and timeless… great write, my friend!

  3. 6

    I could not resist commenting. Exceptionally well written!

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