( Click for larger image )

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons NonCommercial Sampling Plus 1.0 License.

The old days are almost forgotten:
With mechanical precision
The planets obey their orbits—
No longer are they gods overwrought
With immortal human lusts, and so
Moon no longer runs from the sun;
No longer does she run as from
An ardently seeking lover.
Still, though, the moon washes over us
As she bathes us with her silver light,
And still it seems she sorrows when
She falls from the blood-red sky.

---

Not a final draft, by any means, but just feeling it out.

The old days are forever gone:
The moon no longer runs from the sun;
The planets obey their orbits
With mechanical precision—
No longer are they gods overwrought.
Still, though, the moon washes over us,
As she bathes us with her silver light.

The blue heron
At the edge of the grey-lipped pond
In silence—
You pass by withdrawn
In silence as at night.

---

One leg updrawn
Into thick feathered warmth,
Silently standing—
Eyes set against the sky
With barely noticed trembling.

---

Branches dance
With an unseen partner—
Your breath,
Warm and moist on my
Neck as you sleep.

---

Three crows
Black against the green
Slash pine—
Solitary against the blue
And purple evening sky.

cranehaven pointed me to a group that works with the modern waka form, relative to the tanka, haiku, etc. Tonight I composed my first poem of this sort.

An owl descending
From above the nocturnal pond:
The waning moon,
Robed in silver mist,
Finds a sleeping fieldmouse.

It seems the waka form may be valuable in developing a personal aesthetic which is both organic and kenotic, and perhaps even mystical. As I explore this form more, I will share my thoughts.

That's all for now.

It has been one month since I wrote the exlamation:

It is right that our Faith is sung. Holy, Holy, Holy.

I have moved no closer to the goal. This month has been filled with business, exhaustion, and sickness. It has also been a time of fighting.

[Sitting outside…]
God’s grace is like the wind—it gently brushes through the palm fronds. The fronds sound out with their gentle, wooden tinkling. The sound speaks of God's mercy, peace-giving, and blessing. A flock of Ibis—white, so bright—swoop over the pond and land along the pebble gray edge. They casually—but yet attentive—pick out bits of food from between the rocks while others wander out into the sea of grass.

The palms stand still—but at ease as the fronds slowly sway from side to side, in a dance with the breeze—God’s breath. (pnuema, spirit, wind)

When it storms the wind rushes through these same fronds with a furious violence. God is not quite safe. But He is Love. And He is Good.