“……Oh, who is that telling us we cannot give up?”


 

 

 

 

 

 

“……Oh, who is that telling us we cannot give up?”

 

 

 

Stoppely, poppely, trammely, scammely friends did go down:

Go down in heaps of arms and legs and noses and ears so warped

As they squeezed into ever more narrow trails to reach a crown

Of glory they knew only by report, never seen yet as they carped.

 

 

“Oh, we uns so measely, so weasely wid all dis fallin’!

“Why, oh why, canst we not just lie down to die?

“Why, oh, why canst we not be done, not countin’, so smallin’?

“Weez be better for feedin’ de weeds in dis earth, no more to try!”

 

 

Then came whirlwind and dark, then oh-so-bright and still:

The Voice: “Where were you when I made the rocks and the weeds?

“Where were you when I set all these sunrays and starbrights to thrill?

“Where were you when I set this clear, narrow path for questing deeds?”

 

 

“Hark and bark, ye knockin-noggin critters!” called down Old Crow.

“Hear now the voice of Your Lord telling of all His Power to hold you,

“To hold you on this path, to uphold you in His Care, all for to show

“His Glory in making so great rewards and crowns for the true-blue.”

 

 

LISTENING FOR FOOTSTEPS LEAVING NO PRINTS


 

FOOTSTEPS OF LIGHT

 

 

Now let us really be still

 

Now let us not so much breathe

 

As to mist the air down in trill

 

As to dream the waft in each heave.

 

 

Now we face the east we once did fear

 

Now we look and smell and unstamp and unsee

 

For we must go as one into rock and sand unclear

 

For we must go as one in foresight of a tree.

 

 

Now we move as one into further craggy slopes

 

Now we creep, then stop, then creep, then hush

 

As we stop, we shrink, we unbar storied popes

 

As we yet unlearned of what may fall, what may crush.

 

 

Now we as one turn into ourselves, look into ourselves

 

Seeking to find a pattern of steps without any prints

 

Now we dream foretold from scrolls on shelves

 

Seeking the Way with no prints but angel glints

 

 

POSTSCRIPT:

 

Now we look, we listen, we small, we hush:  we seekers all from west to east we are pushed by Baby eyes and kingly dreams to go out by another way not marked by any prints except star gleams and angle breaths.

 

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