On my side of the planet, morning of August 6, Hiroshima Day, the date on which the black rain of overshadowing omnicide first feel upon the Earth…
LISTEN
You’re not listening
Sky is falling
You’re not listening
Sea is rising
In tempest-rage
You are not listening, no
And the angel of death
Comes on
Like rolling thunder
Earth is eaten away – this place
Now
This is a terrible moment
In the valley of tears
In a time of tribulation
Terrible, it is terrible I say
Truly terrible
When truth is at risk
And the heart and lungs
On all sides
There is betrayal
And everywhere, everywhere
In the eyes and mouths - poisons
Now, not before
Not after – Look – be sensitive
The ecstatic flame of angel
With the eyes of crucifixion
The one crucified
This
This is when the senses
(And the soul
Housed, ecosophic, inside the body)
Need to be alert
When choices are monumental
When life, all of life, life is in the balance
Answer this:
Do you need to
Hear the sirens screaming?
Do you need to
Witness the perfect storm?
To feel black rain, as in
August ’45? Does
Creation need to split apart for you and
Death weld together for faith
Dead Earth, dust
And deadly sky?
Where are you, where really
When I turn to look around
When I search to hear your footsteps
Feel you breathing
Do you dare to know
We-you and I-we are still alive?
There is difference
Life is on one hand, death on the other
Different
To live and die
Than to live for death, to
Be death’s ambassador,
The pallbearer, the anguished who
Tore the puzzle apart, flung it, pieces
Into furnace—end stop, endgame, ominous
Into oblivion
Answer to that – know it
Know (no), know
Your answer will be binding
Wait, wait, wait then… wait I beg you
For here there is love
There is
God in the shape of prayer still
And that is Kingdom
Blessed
Are the peacemakers, the
Earth-walkers
The brave who
Turn aside to feel the heartthrob, heartache of the world, to
Hear a teardrop fall
In velvet morning, an
Angel sigh despair, a newborn
Cry in the blood pool of life
To share, to taste, to give, to take
Our common bread
Our days
Body
Holy
Flame
Cross
He walks upon the water
In a wounded whisper
Word
From mouth to ear
Far off and near
The sound
Of spreading morning
Star fallen
On Hiroshima and the end
Star of Bethlehem!
Listen…
It is not prosperity
That the midnight bells are swelling
But Christ Mass and the dove
The dove
The dove of now
Peace – the cleansing rain
Listen…
Hush, be gentle, gentle I beg you
Listen…
Christmas Eve, 24 December 2007
from HEALING, A Book of Poetry by David Sparenberg
Shekhinah
maiden of midnight
mothering side
of the God of life
descend now
to this troubled heart
this garden soul
lift me
as if on eagles’ wings
to wear the fiery
robes of lightning
let my thunder roll
let me sit
in luminal darkness
meditating prayers
in the shapes of light
let me dream
dream beneath the breathing rainbow
of your love.
There is a place
that place is nowhere
and a time
pierced by eternity
known to pilgrims
as the rest of God.
There
the man of roads and
child of his returning
bow together
in everlasting peace.
We are all marching in the same demonstration here…dreaming in our earth-walk to encircle the globe. Sometimes we need to turn to one another—as simply as offering a drink of water—and say Hello. – David
Not everyone comes wearing
a red dress.
Many are content with
white shirts, plaid skirts, blue jeans.
The wounded are wearing
overcoats,
because for them
the world is prematurely cold.
The silly and the cleverest
are dressed as clowns.
And the angels are
naked, between the eyelashes
of our setting sun.
Not everyone comes wearing
the reminder of black,
although pain is everywhere
and loss attends us.
Those who are painted in blood
have wept in the wasting of war.
And those who are
painted with light
are here to heal us.
Friend,
even if I came to you
in the rags of weariness,
the cloak of invisibility or
dust of neglect, the
web of a spider,
would you offer me a drink of water
seeing thirst,
and help to decide
a way, at the crossroads of life?
If I look into your
hands, what will I find:
a golden thread,
the strength of beauty,
a loaf of bread?
The expression
of the beautiful genius
opens like a wordless
rose
and clothes us
in the fumes
of paradise.
Somehow
when we are
listening to the wings
of crows and the
tender melodies
of elfin butterflies
we feel embraced
by the breath
of angels.
Beating
so softly, so
delicate-sweet that
velvet on a virgin’s
skin
might touch us
with an offering.
Though
we are there, out
in that other place
the familiar cup
of a summer’s rose
rises
from this ground
to kiss us
with the miracle
of its pouring passions.
And
we are downed
supine
into the common
haunting symbolum
of earth’s
dense mystery.
Though
not a single
word has swollen
to the lips
like a cherry
freshly swollen,
but the heavy
buzzing
of a working bee
lost
in the ecstasies
of pollen.
And
we are spellbound
and complete.
Like fruit.
Like garden.
That is the great mountain.
A breath of beauty
in a tower
of living stone.
The top of the mountain
like the head of Adam Kadmon
is crowned
with a glacier of
blue-white ice, is
black
with velvet of night and
star scatterings
from a hand of majesty
is gold-fire, red gold
in the cosmic blessing
of each morning sun.
In Spanish
this is called
Beso del Sol
kiss of the sun.
And in Ireland is
a dancing girl who
calls love a
cosmic hug.
The philosophers
like to speak of
a leap of faith.
I am happy to say
Tahoma
the way that
others breathe
the holy word OM.
In Israel there is
a singing woman
who walks
in the garden of Lao Tzu
who weaves in her song
a union of souls.
This is what I would call
healing, and others;
who are beautiful as
angels of the Earth;
refer to as peace.
*Tahoma, the Native name for Mt. Rainier;
The Mt. Fuji of the Pacific Northwest
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Have a BEAUTIFUL SUNDAY and a WONDERFUL WEEK!
With a Peace embrace!!!
Samuel Rodriguez
Spicecomments.com - Good Weekend Comments
LISTEN
You’re not listening
Sky is falling
You’re not listening
Sea is rising
In tempest-rage
You are not listening, no
And the angel of death
Comes on
Like rolling thunder
Earth is eaten away – this place
Now
This is a terrible moment
In the valley of tears
In a time of tribulation
Terrible, it is terrible I say
Truly terrible
When truth is at risk
And the heart and lungs
On all sides
There is betrayal
And everywhere, everywhere
In the eyes and mouths - poisons
Now, not before
Not after – Look – be sensitive
The ecstatic flame of angel
With the eyes of crucifixion
The one crucified
This
This is when the senses
(And the soul
Housed, ecosophic, inside the body)
Need to be alert
When choices are monumental
When life, all of life, life is in the balance
Answer this:
Do you need to
Hear the sirens screaming?
Do you need to
Witness the perfect storm?
To feel black rain, as in
August ’45? Does
Creation need to split apart for you and
Death weld together for faith
Dead Earth, dust
And deadly sky?
Where are you, where really
When I turn to look around
When I search to hear your footsteps
Feel you breathing
Do you dare to know
We-you and I-we are still alive?
There is difference
Life is on one hand, death on the other
Different
To live and die
Than to live for death, to
Be death’s ambassador,
The pallbearer, the anguished who
Tore the puzzle apart, flung it, pieces
Into furnace—end stop, endgame, ominous
Into oblivion
Answer to that – know it
Know (no), know
Your answer will be binding
Wait, wait, wait then… wait I beg you
For here there is love
There is
God in the shape of prayer still
And that is Kingdom
Blessed
Are the peacemakers, the
Earth-walkers
The brave who
Turn aside to feel the heartthrob, heartache of the world, to
Hear a teardrop fall
In velvet morning, an
Angel sigh despair, a newborn
Cry in the blood pool of life
To share, to taste, to give, to take
Our common bread
Our days
Body
Holy
Flame
Cross
He walks upon the water
In a wounded whisper
Word
From mouth to ear
Far off and near
The sound
Of spreading morning
Star fallen
On Hiroshima and the end
Star of Bethlehem!
Listen…
It is not prosperity
That the midnight bells are swelling
But Christ Mass and the dove
The dove
The dove of now
Peace – the cleansing rain
Listen…
Hush, be gentle, gentle I beg you
Listen…
Christmas Eve, 24 December 2007
from HEALING, A Book of Poetry by David Sparenberg
Shekhinah
maiden of midnight
mothering side
of the God of life
descend now
to this troubled heart
this garden soul
lift me
as if on eagles’ wings
to wear the fiery
robes of lightning
let my thunder roll
let me sit
in luminal darkness
meditating prayers
in the shapes of light
let me dream
dream beneath the breathing rainbow
of your love.
There is a place
that place is nowhere
and a time
pierced by eternity
known to pilgrims
as the rest of God.
There
the man of roads and
child of his returning
bow together
in everlasting peace.
David Sparenberg
1 May 2008
Lets change a little part of the world...
Peace and grace for you!
Not everyone comes wearing
a red dress.
Many are content with
white shirts, plaid skirts, blue jeans.
The wounded are wearing
overcoats,
because for them
the world is prematurely cold.
The silly and the cleverest
are dressed as clowns.
And the angels are
naked, between the eyelashes
of our setting sun.
Not everyone comes wearing
the reminder of black,
although pain is everywhere
and loss attends us.
Those who are painted in blood
have wept in the wasting of war.
And those who are
painted with light
are here to heal us.
Friend,
even if I came to you
in the rags of weariness,
the cloak of invisibility or
dust of neglect, the
web of a spider,
would you offer me a drink of water
seeing thirst,
and help to decide
a way, at the crossroads of life?
If I look into your
hands, what will I find:
a golden thread,
the strength of beauty,
a loaf of bread?
David Sparenberg
18 July 2009
thank you and welcome.
The expression
of the beautiful genius
opens like a wordless
rose
and clothes us
in the fumes
of paradise.
Somehow
when we are
listening to the wings
of crows and the
tender melodies
of elfin butterflies
we feel embraced
by the breath
of angels.
Beating
so softly, so
delicate-sweet that
velvet on a virgin’s
skin
might touch us
with an offering.
Though
we are there, out
in that other place
the familiar cup
of a summer’s rose
rises
from this ground
to kiss us
with the miracle
of its pouring passions.
And
we are downed
supine
into the common
haunting symbolum
of earth’s
dense mystery.
Though
not a single
word has swollen
to the lips
like a cherry
freshly swollen,
but the heavy
buzzing
of a working bee
lost
in the ecstasies
of pollen.
And
we are spellbound
and complete.
Like fruit.
Like garden.
David Sparenberg
That is the great mountain.
A breath of beauty
in a tower
of living stone.
The top of the mountain
like the head of Adam Kadmon
is crowned
with a glacier of
blue-white ice, is
black
with velvet of night and
star scatterings
from a hand of majesty
is gold-fire, red gold
in the cosmic blessing
of each morning sun.
In Spanish
this is called
Beso del Sol
kiss of the sun.
And in Ireland is
a dancing girl who
calls love a
cosmic hug.
The philosophers
like to speak of
a leap of faith.
I am happy to say
Tahoma
the way that
others breathe
the holy word OM.
In Israel there is
a singing woman
who walks
in the garden of Lao Tzu
who weaves in her song
a union of souls.
This is what I would call
healing, and others;
who are beautiful as
angels of the Earth;
refer to as peace.
*Tahoma, the Native name for Mt. Rainier;
The Mt. Fuji of the Pacific Northwest
David Sparenberg
Summer Solstice
21 June 2009
It's long overdue, for sure.
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