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[Home] [Up] [Christmas] [Real Joy] [Poetry by Irene Attwood]

Drum beat, At the doorway, The rose of hope.

Drum Beat

Oh my soul, I strayed far too long,
Far from my Father's home.
Feet blistered, fatigued,
Map crumpled,musty,frayed to the very edge.
Vision flawed.
Dust for air...no one caring.
I could scarcely utter from painful thirst.
Unable to bear the gulf between us
I sought to flee beynd.
Down,down,down to my endless death.

Swiftly grace stooped low,
Scraping away at my salt-encrusted core.
Such sweet caress brushed upon a tear,
Loosening anchor toward the arms of hope.

A tiny wing-warped,dirt-ladden sparrow flies bravely past,
Bursting song within its blood drenched breast:
"Time,time,time,time."
The seasons have passed,
Days circumnavigate short.
Time to fly,far to winter's crawl of chilling breath.
Prepare to wing together.
Time.Time.I tell you.Time at last.
Time,time,time to bring them home.

New-sighted eyes fling joyfully upward,
Catching sun's dazziling
Secret smiles in an angry sky.
Our Lord gently lowers His kingly mantle upon His earthly child.
Bells chang!
Jewels tumble forth.
Crystals of fire crashing upon sunlicked rock,
Shattering awake millions of sunken dreams.

Beyond the chasm I start
To the sound of children,wet,dancing naked under drought burst sky.
Rain spills its tears upon my wounded,weary soul.
I open wide,as far as a cracked and ravenous desert can bear
And allow the drenching to rush on in.
Filling the void,a torrant of living delight.

No longer bones bleached but flesh.
No longer pierced,broken,captured
But made alive inside the shadow of the passing cross.
Scars,splinters a phantom gladly adorns.
I sit in retrospect,waiting,wating...the window is no longer dimly lit
Quietly closed.
Night after rain falls...frozen...framed.
I close myself in, gloved in feathered lace,
And hum soft songs of going home.

 

AT THE DOORWAY

The false god stands at the doorway
glowing wings surrounding
giving pretense it is still but day.
But inside the music the magician is now conducting
his entrance into his masquarade ball
while his soldiers outside whip up war and strife
as his merlins crystalize prophecies from the
whirlpools of man's hidden desires.
The night creeps in like a fog through a doorway
blinding but all.
A vision of fire falls as a star from the sky
to which the orchestra weaves its ethereal spell
to all but few who enchantedly whirl.
Chaos and confusion takes its steely stand
and hearts crumble like ropes of sand
Christ pleads weeping He is the doorway
but his blood not forever flowing.
It is dusk already and they dare not to take any notice.
My people are grown tall and outwardly look strong
but round the corner captives stunned
and badly frightened they freeze torpid in ranks of disarray
unprepared to face the war ahead.
The trumpets blow silent as glory grows to the doorway
once again the ushering speaks the defeat of men.
But the pity of God falls down earthward
to lift the pages ever forward and backwards and forward again
to reveal what is sins utter naked and wretchedness
for us to hide safe,warm,bonded and loved
that as the storm steals on in God's people
may choose to be aware and thus prepared
to fight victorious to the very end
to the end of finality.

 

THE ROSE OF HOPE

The road goes only as far as we can see
Often twisting into shadowed lanes
where only Christ walks with us
where hidden in the dark
lay masses of blossoms of rarest flowers
that breathe into our souls fragrances
sublime transforming seeds
that mingle with God's sweet breath
that prepares us for the way ahead.
The soft glow of his light
grows brighter ever onwards
revealing a bridge for us to cross formed by Christ's nailed scarred hands
to carry us to safety over earth's stormy black waters below
Into the very heart of love
where every need is met by every drop of blood
and every tear that falls from the beautiful
face of God falls upon our own.
He wore our crown of thorns upon His Head
that along life's journey towards our home
we may as lovers remember he has
layed gifts along the way
The rose petals strewn before our steps
that stumbled over sharp cruel rocks in the night
crush and bleed hope and faith in prayer alone
bearing total belief in Christ's all consuming
sacrificial love and life for us each one.

By Irene Attwood, Perth WA, 14 December 2003
 


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