Joseph Spring's Blog, page 4

November 1, 2019

A fight against conscience

Our hope of course
lies
in getting more of the same:
the hit, no surprise
to our eyes gone lame
from a dark dopamise;





forty minutes go by
and lie bind gagged,
my hostage and I
a terrorist flagged
by lights in the sky.





Hide, hide, secure the sin,
waste the hours and cure the din
of conch resounding loud within
til dry acidic eyes sink thin.





Red are the nights
ere the dawn flees east,
blue frightful lights
and I the least
to set my hand right.





For ash crumbling tween
our white errant fingers
falls, clumps of the scene;
a mocker’s lap lingers
for all to be screened.





Hide, hide, secure the sin,
waste the hours and cure the din
of conch resounding loud within
til dry acidic eyes sink thin.





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Published on November 01, 2019 05:00

October 31, 2019

Catnip

Liking the smelling of catnip,
am I a one or green?
Will I return to the minten trip
or shy on the chance I’m seen?
Wealth of aroma to trump my trove:
this is the joy to seize,
quickly and deep what long I strove,
availed for my lungs to please!





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Published on October 31, 2019 11:33

October 23, 2019

The Gate

This is the message, regardless of me
- though I will a suitable exhibit be -
that mankind is full of potential and sin.
And one can be grown and the other spread thin
but never can Holiness look upon that
and see not the layer that coateth us fat,
that marbles our innards, our inner-out state
and warrants that payment in blood be made;
that taking the plight of the world in his hands
from his palms through his human tendons and strands
the God of aseity incarnate dwelled,
aimed for the cross and wounds which swelled
to pulse with blood and the pain of flesh
and cry out our justice, his grace and rest.
 
What shall we do with salvation so great?
How can we turn from the old rugged gate?
Oh, but we dwell on the question of why
one rescuer came and no other. And by
the passing of time we find that we stood
unmoved as we wrote of this way of wood.
We sing of its wonders while standing aside
or building, rejecting all bigoted pride,
alternative theory, religion or lord
to come and deny or save from the sword
when plainly he said it, there's no other way
to come to the father, no other to say
but the name of the son, that is, Jesus the man
who claimed to be Yahweh as no other can.
 
Come to the Lord and hear what he said.
Repent of your sin and take glory instead.



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Published on October 23, 2019 13:30

October 15, 2019

Etra

Etra spread his arms and pulled everything close. The mix of shapes tumbled over one another and he reviewed what he had made this week. There were many different pieces, some large and others barely noticeable. All were of his hand. Etra smiled. There was a profound beauty in the material he used, though many people would never notice. It took a lot of looking to see it. With the softer, more colourful pieces the building blocks were somewhat more self-evident, but even the most angular of pieces were made of the same rounded grains, finer than dust.





The versatile material gave Etra such endless ideas – many of which he pursued to production – that he truly deserved his fame as the greatest artist that ever lived. Indeed he was noted as the material’s inventor, and had many flocking to him to enquire about it. So far he had shared only some of the secret.





From his pile, Etra selected a small roundish piece and rolled it between his fingers, feeling its rough edges and darting his eyes between its many bubble-like craters. It was a piece he titled rock. Next he picked up a small cloud, a single ashy white piece. It was very light to hold.  And the name was perfect for the pieces in this series. Some were grey and anvil-shaped, others barely a film of streaks. This one was rather like a sheep. Etra wanted people to see the clouds, as there was one to please everyone’s eyes. Nevertheless, many of his works would not be seen by the world. Still he made them. He brought the cloud close to his nose.





“Art.” Etra said, with a satisfied sigh.





Such a simple word. He turned the piece over in his hands. It was full of technology, mixing different types of fine round grains and having properties to perplex and intrigue the scientific community. Art.





He held it a while longer, allowing his thoughts to drift to the places the piece would go after he sent it out. His work was already renowned worldwide, from bustling cities to the remotest pastoral hillside. Indeed the tiny clouds were some of the most popular. Etra placed this one back in the pile and surveyed the rest of the collection. It included a new batch of his microscale animated pieces, ready for distribution ahead of Christmas. Each one of those was particularly fine, crafted with careful attention and concentration. Such special pieces.





Some of the special pieces were destined for recipients on summertime beaches, some to wintery forests, and others across the equator where no bells jingled. Some were going to the Mediterranean, where sea pebbles crackled and the evenings were warm. Etra thought about his son, and leaned back. He remembered the days in the dust and heat, and the bright starry skies of the night. The only sounds they had enjoyed then were the dull goatbells and the occasional hoot of an owl. They were difficult times. But they had been Together, ever yet creating the art. It was no longer work. It was rest. And art. It was good. Life. Newness. A sense of the world changing, growing. The passing of things into time.






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Published on October 15, 2019 11:45

October 11, 2019

Oh, Ichabod

Cf. 1 Samuel 4.Israel, having ignored God and his warnings, nevertheless attempted to use the ark of his presence to their benefit. He had, however, left already. Old fat Eli and his idolatrous sons died, and his daughter-in-law went into labour and died from the trauma. This is a poem for that child in the wake of tragedy, whose mother pronounced the truth of it all.





Ichabod (Hebrew: אִיכָבוֹד‎, ikhavodno gloryinglorious or “where is the glory?”)





Oh Ichabod, your mother is dead.
And your grandfather has fallen.
And your father, and his brother,
dishonourably dischargèd.





You are firstborn in the gloryless land,
and the idolised ark has gone
to Ashdod with the coastal men,
and God has dealt his hand.





Oh, Ichabod, weep, as Dagon bows.
Your mother saw it first.
And now you face the stark unveiled
reality of Israel’s broken vows.

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Published on October 11, 2019 00:19

October 1, 2019

The Shallowair Waste

When the day runs together
and the evening streams in
through the quiet without
and the mind within

the torrent
the haste
the shallowair waste.

Is there joy in the gift of a life rush-spent?

It fearfully wearies the eyes and swift
-ly erodes the skill of division and rest

a mess of stressful somnolence
that holds a zomian line as plight
or pioneering push, for fight:
"Expand the home,
the life,
Shalom"

But naught behind
and naught before,
no gain we find
amassing more.



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Published on October 01, 2019 20:48

September 20, 2019

For wife and child

Creator God of blessings great,

O Fount of life within my mate!

You knit such wonders small and neat

your mighty power must complete.





Be pleased to form, where none can peer,

the baby’s bones and spirit. Steer

and safe preserve my wife from ill

and frights which might this heartbeat still.





Please bless this child in flesh and mind.

Elect and reckon wholly thine,

on loan to us to love and rear;

endue its heart with holy fear.





Do sanctify from life’s first light

this cherished child to bless your sight

and grant my wife your Spirit’s care,

with patient faith to help her bear





the punishment for sin of Eve,

then after labour, Lord relieve

and cover pain with greater joy

as first she holds our girl or boy.





Lord, set this babe to cry out strong!

And let its joyful days be long,

all lived beneath the Father’s wing

with hope and faith in Christ the King.





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Published on September 20, 2019 10:13

September 4, 2019

Erringtide

Seven skulls sit side-by-side

atop the wall of Erringtide.

Their salted sockets watch the wide

expanse of waves within which hide

the devils Marax, sixes each

who’d seek to storm the sandy beach

and scale the ramparts, rent a breach,

the Prince of Erringtide to reach.





The skulls, they whistle low and still

with landborne winds across their sill

while readied for the war, they will

enjoy the breeze of peace until

their vigil finds the day has come

when they must raise their voices dumb

and all of Erringtide shall thrum

with bowstrings and the devil drum.





Keep watch, O heads of ancient lore

protect the Prince’s pristine shore.

The seas are near and ever more

would seek to wage a devil’s war.

Defend with all your ken of grave

the Prince to whom the old king gave

you charge. Now watch in every wave

from which will come the need to save.





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Published on September 04, 2019 10:35

August 12, 2019

Time (a haiku)

Man would have more time


but nothing to do with it.


And this is a waste.

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Published on August 12, 2019 22:38

July 30, 2019

Now Faith

He doesn’t seem to me to be a person we could see,

the one who moves, as winds which stroke the feathers on the tree,

without the barest twig of substance, nothing we could hold,

and yet he gets the best of me and shapes me to a mould.


And how he does it, as I read, is by the word revealed,

applied as not by me but by a fortifying shield.

And by this trust, this faith in someone worthy yet unseen,

my likeness daily changes to his pure and holy mien.


It hardly feels I’ve done a thing! I’m blind with outstretched hands.

But what a grasp he has on them! I’m led through undling lands;

the valleys chill and mountains swept will not this vision quell:

that God is known through language shown, and he has spoken well.


Two things are often cited as what sight can not defend:

the Spirit and the faith he guards, by which our way we wend.

Yet what are eyes but lenses for the light of time and space,

which cannot tell the scents of Spring or know the taste of grace?


The eyes are poorly qualified as witnesses to speech

and things beyond the present realm which words and Spirit teach.

And though perhaps the sighted get to read the printed page

the ears have been where hope is learned through every gospel age


And mine will never call a sate or surfeit for the sound

that stirs my soul to worship, and from sin to turn around.

The glory of our God is not for us to see, not yet;

we walk to words, in step, by faith, our hope in Jesus set.

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Published on July 30, 2019 19:26