A Journey of Note
With these, the words of my language
and pieces of my heart, are memos of
this journey to the top of the mount.
It was not easy and I cannot say for sure
how long in years the trials have gone.
It consumed a private life as dogma
was pulled out of folds of memory,
housed by many lifetimes of discontent.
I knelt as if in prayer on the tiled floor
as the tenets from childhood into maturity
were raped by thoughts pulsing
the rotted gut of my thinking and expelled
into the enameled pot and fixtures
in the only private room in the house.
It is hard even now to bring to mind
the fears which left me cold and wet
in rising high temperatures
of the hot summers and sent me
for the flannel robe to simply wrap
a terror stricken body shaking to death.
And all the while I held posture over
the children’s growing years.
They would not know what went on
when I bid them good day as they
went out the door while I secretly wished
for any reason for one to stay home.
It would then be a blessed relief,
from an ordeal that was an imperative.
This physical portion mirrored the
mental onslaught that was unending.
Life went on as terrors surfaced
with life’s crises paralleled
in rigid profusion, family problems,
requiring parental intervention.
And in the narrows of public life
was harrowed a private one to appear
more nearly normal. I manicured lawns
and maintained the premises as
guests and families were entertained
and holy days held their accustomed
rituals and patterns. Life went on
in an orderly fashion and I found solace
in the garden on speaking terms
with my hands in the Earth.
I have been told that many
a muscled man of girth has
turned away from this journey of note,
never to give quest again
to heaven’s knowledge.
Better to leave heaven to their own secrets,
they often said, than to forever cripple
the unsuspecting journeyer.
Wrath of the gods is vengeance
upon the heads of those intent on
simply making a difference.
Life itself ventures on with wars fought
on various battlefields, as cultures
take issue with customs and verdicts,
long held to be what peoples portray as somas.
It has taken a lifetime and still in process
in this the eighth decade of my life.
I still see the first hours of the new day on my clock.
Sitting with my notes and journals and books,
as I did a half century ago, saying this was the time
when my part of the world slept. It was the speaking
time for the gods with me in class.
I see we as humans reflect our Indwelling Gods
as they be in reflection of the Great God.
And the Great God worries in Process as He grows
in wicked splendor to reflect the
ever increasing universes’ wonders. Meanwhile,
I near my journey’s end. . . . .with
the peace as said to pass understanding,
the triumph, the joy in meeting
life’s hardest work of discovering
the core of Me to know
the divine nature bestowed within.
‘Ye are gods!’ the Nazarene shouted from
the book of words pulled through my heart.
I did not know
that to search out the divinity of my God
would be to discover my own.
I would make space for the journeymen,
and lift my arms to catch them should they stumble.
The prime purpose of this, my journey,
was the paralyzing need to know
as much as I could grasp
and not be found inadequate
by those I had borne.