Anaverse for this February Twenty-ninth

Anaverse for this February Twenty-ninth

Four years have passed
since the day that never was and
I find myself here again,
in this unwanted moment,
this day that never belonged,
this February Twenty-ninth

I was running that year
full strength, head strong
hurtling right off the edge

where I remain, still.

Sick now, pained now,
wearied soul, and forlorn

over empty space where I remain, still.

No sign from above has appeared
to save me though many below bludgeon and harass.
I am lost
but I still hold my ground.

Here is where I hold my ground
and here is where I make my stand
for her my beloved,
for the hand of my beloved.

Here has been, and is, my leap of faith,
caught in between, caught in the middle,
on this day so-called,
this February Twenty-ninth.

It is Well with My Soul

It Is Well With My Soul

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life,
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

But Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul.

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
A song in the night, oh my soul!

It is Well with My Soul

Sanctus Valentinus: Behind the Verse

Oh, Saint, to your name, thereof,
My question is this, what is love?

On a warm summer’s day, sunshine beaming down on country fields, and in the vibrant spring of my life, many, many years ago now, I once spoke these fateful words to a certain girl I liked very much: I don’t know what love is. What precipitated this sad half-truth was a silly conversation, strewn with longing undertones and yearning unsaids. Half-truth, I call it, and still do, even from the moment the words slipped from my mouth. I knew I could love, I believed I had been doing it for some time, but with such an abstract term, complicated by our overuse, I still wondered at, and was haunted by, the question: What is love?

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The Fourth Year

The fourth year is a dead, dry sea of shifting sands. Each week is a new staggering climb to crest a new mountain of sand, to be greeted again by another vicious valley and one more dead, dry sea of shifting sands.

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In this brush…

In this brush, quarks flip topsy-turvy, up and down, top to bottom, charming strange electrons and protons to smash together in orbital attraction, while excited gluons carry chaotic forces. In this brush, a quantum world explodes, rockets skyward shattering every stratosphere in its path, and lays bear a crescendo of crashing realities.

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Sanctus Valentinus

Oh, Saint, can you hear my voice from ages past?
I hope against hope because your voice seems to be the last.

Oh, Saint, may I ask a question?
Will you proffer a suggestion?

Oh, Saint, to your name, thereof,
My question is this, what is love?

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In this hour…

In this hour, I awake to find you awake. I’ve seen you here before, but not from this place. It seems fitting then that I have lost mine. In this hour, even this hour, I know His hand is at work.

Out late, up late, I don’t know which – but concern, and troubling jealously, turn within me, and I can do nothing but let what may inspire my pen to comfort you in some unknown hour to come.

You’re restless, and I worry, but I’m strangely comforted by ills, forgotten, that brought me here to conscious moment, here, in this hour, to see you and plan for your good.

In this hour, I awake to find you awake. I know the many reasons why, so I do what only I can do: I pray to God above, this night, to care and love you through.

vincens ut vinceret (a reponse to Henley’s Invictus)

After writing my own response to William Ernest Henley’s Invictus, I’ve come across some responses to the poem (I admit, I google my own blogs!), including vincens ut vinceret by Will Hapeman. I quite like it. It took largely the same tack as mine, swapping words and phrases, and ended up with a number of similarities.