Saturday, 28 February 2015
Fields are ablaze with green grazing blades,
With flowers floating on land-sea's surface;
Whilst swarms of sheep frolic and feast on waves,
Each and all contenting Creator by fulfilling purpose.
Meanwhile squeezed cloud-clusters do drip wine,
Forming pools in pores of meek Mother Earth;
Whose lofty leaking hills nourish babes nine,
S'that as dancing drunkards, delight She who gave them birth.
All the while scarlet valley with voice sublime does sing:
"O Maker, my Maker, come create my face fair."
To which laudatious light'nings of kissing King
Swiftly and sweetly reply, as stroking Queen's stawb'ry hair.
Friday, 20 February 2015
An exile in the desert of this world, the soul ponders her state in heartfelt prayer to her God; recognising through faith that even now in this sandy wasteland, she dwells in and tastes the Promised Land of her desire.
Withdrawn from mother’s breast;
Forsaken father’s house.
Left nets by the shore;
Untouched spoils of war.
Onward bound through desert;
Feet as ploughs keep ploughing.
Can’t see ash and sack;
No time to look back.
Cloud by day leads me on;
Flame-pillar whispers way.
Strings of harp sing praise;
Thirst grows with the days.
Egypt’s onion’s echo;
Moist mem’ry of Nile taunts.
Jackals at night laugh;
Thy Will is my staff.
Tears are my daily bread;
My daily drink as well.
Flocks seem to vanish;
On tab'e there's meat dish.
In shade I’d like to sleep;
Forty-years am awake.
Breasts of Promised Land;
Dwelling unlike sand.
Net to haul doth remain;
Trophies won to be shared.
Manna’s my honey;
Seas my milk runny.