On peace, left with us. An autumn poem.

all around, grace
cathedrals
the liturgy longed
for in the whitewashed
clapboard weary
world
all around, mercy
symphonies
the dry bones of
summer finally finding
technicolor
hope
all around, peace
preaches
eschatology reserved
for rough hewn pews
under azure
skies

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Do your ears itch?

Do
your
ears
itch? Mine do. More
often than I care
to admit beyond the old sayin’
that means
someone’s talkin’ ’bout you (‘cept for the other old sayin’ ’bout
the shoe fittin’)
so yeah, my ears itch.
Don’t yours? After all we long for
something
someone
a chorus
a beat
anything but the divine
surrender to fill the gap lost
in the exegetical mirage and abandonment of
small
Creeds which mean
everything
except to the folks with itches
that can’t be scratched any longer by Word
or Creed or that old
time
religion
but only by the deed of their own
play, the lead in their own
act, a curtain call of
fables traded for afflictions
a swan song snuffing out
grace
and
holy
So do your
ears itch?
Mine do. But for the ache of
truth.

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The Holy Ghost rides in the chariot of Scripture, and not in the waggon of modern thought – Spurgeon

What would old McGregor say: thoughts in an autumn garden

What would old McGregor say if he wasn’t too busy chasing rabbits and stopped long enough to notice the creeping ebb of color

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If he quit worrying long enough about the straight rows

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And saw that the fruit wasn’t ripe within the fences but rather

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Well beyond them

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What would old McGregor say

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If he noticed the sun angling lower along the horizon igniting truth in long forgotten places

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And secrets waiting to be told

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