Mount Angel

Poetry must be the voice of Creation
Resounding through the human person;
Caught up in the human senses’ wild abandon

Seeing radiant colors streaming
Hearing waves of laughter rolling
Feeling wet moss on the jagged limb
Scenting the rain blown over evening hills
And tasting tears of sorrow and abandon.

And love must be the voice that renders
The heart’s stillness
Breathing in deep breaths of peace
The chest rises and falls
The heart pounds its way rejoicing;
Still no word reaches up to the ear
Only beauty radiates invisibly
embracing other hearts to its bosom.

I would like to hear the music of love poetry
Bathing my spirit in healing waters’ calm

And then rising up,
Sing a song in the wonder.

This evening, Good Friday,
As the final clouds recede
Swollen and grey
And night hangs over Mount Angel
Edging the daylight away.

Some songs I hear:
The tripping, rippling of goldfishwater;
And taste the coool breeze on my lips.
Birds whistle and chatter
Drawing me into a dream.
The darkfrocked heavy monk silhouettes
The Redwood walk
And quickly fades.

While I drift into sleep
Some ancient voice calls me back:
It is the echo of the Almighty
Whispering right into my ear.