Friday, September 23, 2011

Haven't Written in Forever

I wrote this tonight, while listening to music from Eric Bibb.  His spiritual music is grass roots, down where the rubber meets the road.

Anyway - here is a poem I wrote called, "Coming Home".

His Words are.....
Sharp words
That cut to truth

A fierce wind that
Commands the spirits of dread to vacate.

Listen to them, listen to them, o son of man.

Do you fear?
Are you like all of us, tied to these bodies of bone and blood?

Do not be a fool
Doubt not your Father…..

He is……like your earthly father….sun-burned, eyes looking toward the horizon, scanning impossibilities-
He swings you up over his shoulders, above his head.
Unafraid, leading the way, you trust him.

Doubt not your Father…..

He is……sweet like your mother, soft and comforting, all-knowing of what makes you tick
Rocking you, over and over, blue faded blouse, threads thinned, softly rubbing your face
On each backswing.

Smell the hot sun holding the earth in its embrace, sitting in the shade on the porch, rocking, rocking.

Hear your mother’s voice….your father’s voice…..crooning magical songs, songs that make whimsical pictures in your mind’s eye…….cows jumping over the cheesy moon, buffalo on the range.

Doubt not your Father…..He is where you are, no matter where the hell that is.  He goes ahead of you into the fray, from birth to death.

At death, He lingers around the edge of your vision, just waiting to be seen.  He sits in the side chair patiently, while the children of Jacob surround your bed, some wailing, some solemn.

He pulls His pocketwatch out of his bib pocket, He’s got plenty of time, Time belongs to Him.

Your vision is thinning, your children are keening, the  Medical Establishment is Doing It’s Job – waving shiny silver instruments over the blood and bone.

He leans forward, knows the moment has come.

He lovingly takes your hand and your eyes become clear, staring over the heads of the human race,
Above the ceiling tiles to the blue beyond you are racing, hand in hand with your Father.

It’s over.  Canaan is over, finished.  You’ve laid your burden down and have come home.

1 comment:

DH said...

One of the best poems I have read!