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These poems, with all their crudities, doubts, and confusions, are written for the love of Man and in praise of God, and I’d be a damn’ fool if they weren’t.
~ Dylan Thomas, Collected Poems, “Note”
What you perceive without
is what you have built within.
The border between them, too,
is only your-Self, divided.
The thickest wall
of the strongest fortress
on the highest hill
is nothing more solid
than a line scratched
in the dust of time
by the hand of a careless child;
a line that the gentle breath
of inSpiration would effortlessly erase,
simply by Being.
That which you fear is projected
from imaginary reels turning
and turning on spindles of self-styled fate;
is beamed from within the dark,
karmic closet of the self-imprisoned soul;
projected through the lens of the flesh
onto the screen of pure white Light
that is the only Reality.
The beauty of the rose is only a sign,
a step removed from Beauty.
A portrait of the beauty of the rose
is one more step back from Truth.
The sketch, the concept, the yearning,
every distance within the mind’s desire,
is but a rung on Jacob’s ladder.
One must climb existence to the top
and either leap from those heights
into the waiting arms of the Eternal,
or else climb back down into the darkness
beneath the root of that imaginary blossom.
You who are the artist of who you are;
You who feel so all alone;
You who would stand with your brother,
with your sister, naked and unafraid,
unashamed in Beauty’s bright Light;
You who would reach out to your neighbor
with your word of love,
must address that word to God,
in Whom every movie is a Happy Ending.
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