The Bliss Text

"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”

"Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.”

"But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

The Bliss Text

And for we who live and follow after

There is a freedom

                That makes truly free.

Verily, verily, I say unto you

                Except a man be born, again.

And in these fields of battle,

                Earth-wide, Gettysburg

To Leyte Gulf, there are in portions

                The final resting places

Of men, and women, and children

                Who gave the last full measure

Of their love of life, and freedom

                For mankind, and fullness,

Satisfaction, and great joy, that

                This Freedom of the Son of Man

Might not perish from the earth.

And this deep note

                Thrums bassly beneath the clay

The stone, and the water

                Erupting in climactic ecstasies

As Love does, from time to time,

                And place to place in the

Praise of every tongue, and nation, under God.

And we who live, and follow after

                Have poor power to either add or detract

From all the hand of God alone accomplishes,

                His mighty arm, outstretched

Treading alone, the grapes of wrath. 

And we who live, and follow after

                Must also, together with them

Take increased devotion to the cause of freedom

                First from despair, and then from un-forgiveness,

And from want, and from oppression

                Let justice pour down

In a never ending stream, and righteousness

                Like the pounding of the sea.

That vast sea

                Which will bring the nations of the earth

To the New Jerusalem, and the worship of the Lamb.  

Bubbleships

Bubbleships

And houses floating at three thousand feet

                Like red and yellow birds of paradise on slender stalks.

Odd to share such imaginings

                Decades after, and half the wide old earth

Blue and emerald at her girth. 

Your bubbleship was turreted however,

                With fast guns shooting blue fire

Darting like a dragonfly and shaped like one.

But that house!

                And the Haleakala sunrise

Burning orange rays bent into the liquid canopy

                Cloaking this ancient globe.

And a pool.  That’s a touch beyond me.

                But the red hair.  And English.

Full marks, Director.

                Who spoke to you, anyway,

And assembled the forgotten, dusty pieces

                Of a childhood spent in humid isolation,

Quiet and oppressive heat,

                Full of afternoon silence,

Broken only by the steady thrum

                Of crickets and cicadas,

And dreams of being cold. 

Why then, Maker, have you made mad men so

                Different, and at such distances, but with

Such common desire?  You are the Singularity in

                Which soul being has origin and end.

And I wonder at it,

                Under pale blue cloud free skies,

And dry, crisp air full of red and yellow and orange

                Lights.    

Corfu

Corfu

Odd that the heroine’s name

                Is expunged

From Wikipedia, and she is all.

The girl whose desire is Corfu

                The one found

Masks inked upon her shoulder blade

                On Mykonos where the

Five windmills spin upon a rock above

                Ionian waves.

Diligent hands, taking all that is offered

                The wealth that is given

For the risks she bore, the life that she

                Offered, exposed

And from courage created home, shelter, peace

                Abundance. 

All for the love of a man from the sea

                Like Ulysses, thrown up upon

Her snow covered shore, Calypso of

                Teutonic tongue.  Heiress of the cold.

Poor gypsy, tramp of all the world. 

And for this, like Nabal’s Abigail,

                Beautiful in wisdom, and fair of face

Provoking strength and protection.  The love of

                A man smelling of fish, and sweat, and the sea.   

The reward for all her labor, the travail of fear

                Is thus;  blue skies, bright sun, salt air

Wind through his hair, and the strength of his arm

                White walls, light rooms, tranquility.

The love of a man; kisses. Fast embrace. 

Again, fair Lord, the Natuna Sea,

                Her winds, and this companion

Whose love’s worth is far more than rubies.  

Wild Place

Wild Place

The world’s a wild place

                Full of earthquakes, winds and fires

Where flames and tsunamis spin

                In the chasm between

Darkness and light.  We’re all living on razor wires.

The world’s full of dangers

                Dangers at home, dangers in far places

Riots, bombs, and bullets, in and out of school.

Dangers in the beauties of Mother Nature,

    Of miles and miles of

Lodge-pole pines, old and tall, dead of beetles,

                Sunny weather and warm winters.

Where majestic mountain storms create electric

                Power neither air nor ground can insulate

From the ragged bolt that ignites dry needles.

                Tree litter, the dung of a forest, lying waiting. 

The world’s an evil space

                Full of wars and hatred,

Arrows by day and the plague by night

Where lives lived well,

                And the best of strength and humor

Courage and righteousness, husbands, fathers, brothers, friends,

                Cannot stem the flood of flame

And we grieve, and stumble on in the grey

                Ash that remains

Where once walked trees, and men 

                Praying for redemption, eternity, and resurrection. 

But this is the red earth, Adam,

                Of which I am made.  I will not live

                                Would not, anywhere but here

And as a man.    Like him.    Like them. 

For Joel, on the line in the West Fork Complex

For the Granite Mountain Hotshots, down on Yarnell Hill

The Reality of God

The Reality of God

And it occurs, that, if in the reality

                Of God, yes and no are all yes

To those that love him and

                Are called, according to his purpose

And that ravens are important

                To be fed, and scorpions are not

Food for children, and Solomo

                In all the glory of his gold, and

Palaces, pools, and wine, women, and song

                Is in no way arrayed like

One of these, flowers of the field

                Children playing in meadows of

Green grass, shrieking, “My name is Gabriel!”

                (Love me) to all who pass running. 

That the last are first, and the first, last

                That, “Lord, Lord,” at the shut

Straight gate does not admit entrance

                And, “Go away.  Who are you?”

Is said alongside, “Come to me, all you who are

                Heavy….Rest.”  And “Except you become

As little children.”  Whose eyes are blue, and

                Patently selfish, and unable to wait

For the intense delight of the sweet

                Yet are able to sleep untroubled,

At rest in God, at peace with all the world. 

Even so, I will raise my sword with the common,

And grasp my bow of burning gold, to defend

Jerusalem’s green unclouded hills,

Killing without remorse, the children of other mothers

In the defense of those oppressed who have no hope.

I will resist, with Balian, bastard of Godfrey, the Saracen

On this the solstice of this year, the

Longest day, and shortest night, in the upper hemisphere. 

And walk leanly with my Lord, lean of body and of purse,

And rest in

The bosom of my Lover, where all secrets are known

                And spoken in the ear, on beds of colored linen

And silken robes, where no thirst of eye or hand is unfulfilled.

                And so too, among rocks, dry and red

And flecked with glinting lights and gems of blue or

                Yellow.  Where there is no bread, and thirst burns

And the Adversary prowls, with Words that Ring.

“Come, Raboni, you will feed five thousand; make now these

Stones to bread.” 

“Come, King, King of the Jews, Son of the Emperor-Beyond-the-Sea,

                Rule now these mighty kingdoms, glorious places.

Palaces of men and women, proud of strength and beauty.” 

“Come, Weak Child, cast yourself now on the graciousness of

God, who sends his ministers to bear thee up on eagles’ wings.”

No.  And a thousand times. It is not so.  Not now.

These words, this Word, I know.  Truth,

                It is not now.  The Word is yet to come.

The Word is yet to be, thou child of time

                And space.  All things are thine.

I hold the keys of death and hell. 

                I make war, and peace, with man.

I was, and will come, and reign on earth.

                Be, and I will be with you, until the consummation.

Live, and drink, drink deeply, and be satisfied

                Delight in overflowing abundance. 

The Day is coming, night shall soon be passed.  All will be.  Now new.    

In Boots

In Boots

I love the boots the women wear

                These days, few and fleeting as they are,

And as temporary as the leather is

                Buckled, wrinkled, strapped, knee high with flared

Tops, like the boots of Wellington’s heavy cavalry

                At Waterloo.  One is overwhelmed by the

Charge of their beauty; the flashing of brass and steel
                The rippling of manes and plumes and pennants
Lance and sword tips glittering.  Sabered, speared, trampled

                In some sunken lane in the rolling Belgian

Countryside, rich with crops, little stone cottages, and

                Red and yellow flowers.  And the ruddy girls who say, “Oui,”
When asked for a drink of water, or of wine, or a kiss. 

As temporary as that, and the life of a Napoleonic

                Infantryman, or the fashions of this season,

Or breath, and the joyful hope of morning.

 

I would have told the barista at the

Argo Tea Café at the corner of Madison and Franklin

Just east of the Chicago River that her charcoal

Boots were lovely, but the children would have looked

At me askance, despite the oil paintings of

The buildings of the city hanging on the walls

The blue of the October day, the freshness of the

Lake air and the thrill of crowds, cameras, and rich stone.

Revelator - Josh Garells

Revelator

Had a dream I was alone
A vast expanse of complete unknown
Sea of glass so clear it shown,                        Like gold
Then a voice like thunder clapped,
As a dead man I collapsed
“I am the first, I am the last,
Now     rise      my       son “

Then behold ten thousand kings,
And every creature worshipping
Every eye was on one thing,                           One man
He’s like a lion like a lamb,
As though slain he holds the plan
To make war and peace with man,
And reign        on        earth

Holy, Holy, is the One,
Who was         and is,       and is to come
In a robe as red as blood,                               He comes forth 

Ride like lightning in the sky,
On the war horse he draws nigh,
The same one we crucified,
Will                  come               again

Josh Garells