TRIO

Concert hall full, no empty places,
cacophony of happy voices,
calls, shrieks, and laughter

stage is dark, a spotlight
dimly shines on the bass fiddle
lying on its side, two empty chairs,
a few bottles of drinking water

there is a call to silence,
an introduction with good-natured banter,
then three young men stride onto the stage,
two with guitars, one picks up the bass,
without a word they begin
as the spotlights burn down,
black coats and pants, casual shirts,
open at the throat, black leather shoes,

exploding into complicated rhythms they begin,
no tones, each one tapping with his feet,
fingers and palms beating on his guitar and fiddle,
such elemental complications
the names of which no English tongue
could ever pronounce, nor has been heard
ever before in this millennium
upon these shores--

Suddenly fingers flew
like hummingbird wings,
iridescence interwove vibrating strings
warp and woof among the beats
unbroken layers of melodic vision,

fingers running like children
pouring from school
skipping, playing notes
shouts and laughter

kaleidoscopic paisley melodies
folded in layers of swirling rhythm
wafting from hidden places
that suddenly smoke or mist
in smoulderings of love,
where elves and faeries dance
rings in gardens of mortal men

I saw the moon was full.
a night like this happens only once
and not the same again.

DEBTORS ARE CHAINED

What the seers are seeing
is setting them trembling
the entire world has mortgaged
its entire production
for the next one hundred twenty-eight years
and someone demands that payment be made.

Someone.

The entire earth has lived wildly beyond it’s means,
charging its luxuries up against the future,
not the poorest nation anywhere is exempt,
bankrupting all the unborn for the next
one hundred and twenty-eight years.

Someone is calling the bluff,
laying down his hand,
the wild game is over.

Not everyone sees this,
most do not yet,
will never understand,
but what the seers are seeing
is setting them trembling.

The world as we know it
has ended.
In the next world,
debtors are chained,

but if the Son shall make you free,
ye shall be free indeed.

POOL OF SILOAM

Even when you try, you can never go back.

Lord Of All Variety
moves differently today than yesterday.

He may stir another pattern wave
into the same pool.

Others are watching now,
do they know it was an angel?

the old power awaits the arrival
of His channel,
the old watchers have forgotten
why they are here,

it has been so long since the water
has been stirred,
why should the water be distorted now,

its placid surface reflects
our faces so well.

TO BE MADE AGAIN

You made me, when mist
hung low on the mountains,
every microscopic droplet
you suspended,
encased every branch and twig,
every needle on every spruce
with crystal frost,

You made me on a night
when moon shone on sculpted
landscapes,
rounded every stone and craig
with shallow valleys
of drifted snow,

this was your promise
to the universe
that you would shelter, shield,
and cover me to surely grow.

When I fell through the ice,
or lost your trail under
the northern lights,
or stormed from my warm cabin door
without a jacket to snowshoe
in the sweaty moonlight until I dropped
in self pity and despair
you would be there.

I even heard your angels sing,
opened my eyes to find my table set
in the middle of nowhere civilized
dead centre
in a ring of music and light.

The universe has watched,
you have kept your word,
you led me not into temptation,
you delivered me from evil,
but I searched it out,
I studied the stars,
forbidden books
in the library of constellations
of my own heart,
and found it anyway,
lost myself where only you
could find me, my tracks
washed away with freezing rain,

yet still on a silent night like this,
a star of hope shines
over Bethlehem,
and I know
you will make me again.