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.
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!
October 23, 2019
The Gate
- 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.
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.
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, ikhavod — no glory, inglorious 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.
October 1, 2019
The Shallowair Waste
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.
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.
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.
August 12, 2019
Time (a haiku)
Man would have more time
but nothing to do with it.
And this is a waste.
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.