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

Out of the Sonoran

Out of the Sonoran

When the iron bed

                Forged of the iron law

Affords neither refreshment

                Nor sleep, and pain flares

Like a blood red dawn,

                Space is created

In the unseen realms of the heart

                And of the spirit for

The Spirit to speak.  A reminder of

                Frailty, of sin, of dust.

The Wind stirs up clouds of glassy ashes

                Splintering the light of sun, moon, stars

Into crimson gemy flashes.

But out of the blazing glory

                Of Unapproachable Light, out of

Sunrise in the dun of sage and the desert

                Ochre of Zion’s arches

And the verdure of saguaro covering the Sonoran

Steps the daughter of Zion

                Black haired princess of the wilderness,

Long tresses drifting through her eyes,

                Dark and deep and cool as the

Pools of Heshbon, glory of Sihon

                Firstfruits of the promise

Yet to come, beyond the Jordan.

All in white, adornment knit by

                The vast, exacting, diligent hand of Love,

Pure Bride, adorned, bejeweled

                By and for the hands of the Crownless One,

Once and coming, mighty, King,

                Immortal, invisible, only wise. 

Nard and myrrh flow down the paths of the Wind

                The current of the drifting air

Fecund with the glittering motes, diamond dust

                Harbinger of the coming

Rain.