Month: August 2017

This, for those afraid of the grave–

and who among us isn’t?

 

(moldy, wet and dark with images of worms,

and creepy things)

 

But what of light, and breezes:

imagine the grave, up in the air—

 

a crystal-lined prism cut into the sky,

rectangular and brimming with brightness.

 

Up into this portal we are raised,

from which our souls emerge,

resplendent, on the other side.

 

Passing through this open door

we enter into the vastness

of our new home.

 

Perhaps this is so–

as we are lowered into the earth,

we are also lifted up,

through the crystal doorway.

 

Grave and doorway–

mirror images,

reflected about this life

on Earth.

 

~FS

Everything

begins its life veiled

beneath the surface

and hidden from view.

 

Cultivate your inner soil

through prayer–

before the plant is seen,

roots are growing

below the surface.

 

The field that appears fallow,

or barren,

will bloom in time—

the persistent farmer

eventually harvests his reward.

 

Words are the clothing

our thoughts,

and motives wear

when visiting others.

 

But we disrobe entirely

in the presence of

The One who made us.

There are no clothes

to hide our thoughts

from Him.

 

Our forebearers

picked forbidden fruits,

but we through prayer

will bear the hidden fruits.

 

~FS

Pray first

and pray always–

every good thing

springs forth from the fertile soil

of prayer.

 

Prayer is the mother

of all virtues,

and the womb

of all noble thoughts.

 

In prayer

we reach out to the Spirit,

and His Fruits

are placed in our hands.

 

There is no thievery

in prayer.

It is supplication,

and a gift of mercy—

freely given.

 

Prayer is a fertile field,

filled with wheat,

flowing in waves,

sun-drenched and golden.

 

The very Bread

of Life

is risen in the ovens

of prayer.

 

Pray first

and pray always.

 

~FS

Am I the spider,

or am I the fly?

 

Busily making my webs,

or being trapped by them?

 

Layer upon layer of silky threads,

wrapping, encasing, and hardening.

 

Ambitious and industrious,

dizzy and nauseous.

 

Round, round and round,

spinning, spinning and spinning.

 

Am I the spinner,

or am I the spun?

 

~FS

Like longtime friends,

these habitual sins,

again and again,

make their home within.

Closer than family,

they know us innately,

fond of their company,

we invite them to stay.

 

We know that we shouldn’t,

we said that we wouldn’t,

we may act like we couldn’t,

yet we’ve made them co-tenants.

They people our thoughts,

doing away with all oughts,

we gave, and they got

to scheme and to plot.

 

How long will they stay?

At least they should pay,

here day after day,

but what can I say?

We’re housemates you know,

‘round the fires warm glow,

these sins and I show,

that we’re friends here below.

 

All greasy and comfortable,

neck deep in our meals,

gluttons ‘round the table,

we like how we feel.

In the basement with despair,

sucking out all the air,

while I play solitaire,

through dirty windows we stare.

 

In the pool, on the patios,

my lusts dance and carouse.

Images from daydreams,

let out giggles and screams.

Feeling popular and famous,

these crowds intravenous,

with raised glasses they cheer me,

in my mind it’s a party.

 

Overhead and around me,

pride’s my structural framing.

With self-love as my floor,

vanity’s my front door.

Mine is a tower on a hill,

flashy and glittery-gilt.

Specters of fame and of stars,

fill this house made of cards.

 

My guests are all clamorous,

freeloaders and odorous.

They are having a ball,

while I trip and I fall.

And of vice these are many,

each one costing me plenty.

Though their promises generous,

my debt’s growing more onerous.

 

I’ll kick them to the curb,

where they’ll no longer perturb.

But oh how entirely absurd,

that I find I’m immured.

The need here is great,

I should not hesitate.

My house is unsound,

but I find myself bound.

 

Looking for an ally,

to crash this mad party,

a Spiritual Strongman

to put this intrusion to an end.

He’ll send them off packing,

with a thorough tongue-lashing,

give my house a clean sweep,

then I’ll have a sound sleep.

 

Once my house is set right,

from its devilish plight,

and my mind is set free,

from this demonic jamboree;

I’ll give my house a remodel,

with thoughts godly and noble,

and through self-discipline and prayer,

this fixer-upper I will repair.

 

~FS

How can we possibly hear

the quiet and still voice of God

and understand the promise of eternity

amidst the shrill cacophony of death?

 

My senses are tumbled and my mind reels

at the constant, steady drip drip drip

of the loves I have lost lost lost.

 

While the hope of eternal reunion is an image

seen darkly at best through a clouded glass,

I see clearly the path and trajectory of this life,

slipping away, and all I hold dear dying before my eyes.

 

Prayer binds the wounds and soothes the pain

for a time, but then the misery of death marches on.

 

I’m a child with little true understanding

and I cannot pretend to understand,

nor can I play games to distract me

from what I see or from what I feel;

snacks and funny movies don’t help me forget.

 

What recourse do I have here

if I am honest with myself?

Just time, and the passage of time?

 

There may very well be a future hope

and a life eternal, I do believe it.

But flesh and emotion are howling now.

Perseverance and patience

through the suffering, I can feel it.

 

Within the ashes of my loss

there remains an ember of love

a small heat with potential to reignite.

 

I need God’s breath to blow across me again

to bring resurrection and renewed conflagration,

to bring a fire of love that enkindles my limbs,

and enlightens my life while I live.

 

~FS

Just past midway

upon the journey

my soul slackened its pace,

to find a moment’s rest,

and found a hidden place.

 

Beneath the trees

among the grasses

there stood a sign which read–

 

“Be well, and sortle in this place

but not to slumber relaxicated.

To those prone to urbumpkining

dethrope, unbeam and enpeacelate.”

 

Perhaps this trek had been too dear

my mind muddled from the strain.

The meaning of these words

was hidden from my brain.

 

I drew closer to the sign

to bring focus to my mind.

As the words they carried on–

 

“Despair not, Insprevelent!

Philathea aleatin,

bemosphorel intayalen.

All life is made a Sacrament!”

 

Alas I had a footing

to discern this cryptic writing.

Just enough of native tongue

encouraged me to carry on–

 

“These words writ for discovery

present symbolic mystery,

what cannot be known mentally

can be unearthed noetically.”

 

Then I had a glimpsing

and a notion of its meaning.

A still and silent whispering

and a prayer within me stirring.

 

I mused as I continued on–

‘Perhaps I’m not midway at all

but have barely just begun.’

 

*Glossary:

 

Sortle: a gentle rest for the soul; but one that includes a watchfulness and readiness for spiritual battle.

 

Relaxicated: taking rest to an unhealthy extreme, leading to a sort of intoxication, sloth or laziness.

 

Urbumpkining: derision or prejudice aimed at others; found often among those living in cities towards people of the countryside, although not limited to these groups; acting in an arrogantly derisive way.

 

Dethrope: an act of humble abdication; to dethrone one’s pride while simultaneously disrobing one’s self-esteem and vanity.

 

Unbeam: to focus on one’s own vices for the purpose of becoming virtuous; to ‘remove the beam from one’s own eye and not to focus on the speck in another’s eye’.

 

Enpeacelate: to actively and intentionally seek a state of inner stillness; to set aside that which creates discord.

 

Insprevelent: to find inspiration in the created world and see God’s revelation through the everyday things of life; sometimes used as an expression, or exclamation of encouragement.

 

Noetically: done through the nous or the intellect, but not reason; instead from the heart or the depths of the soul.

 

~FS