Makalani

Fore’er To Love

He asks me if I’ll be his wife;

He says he loves me – that I’m his dear.

I should be glad! And yet a knife

Of ice has pierced my heart with fear.

“How long shall last this passionate care?”

I ask, to which he says, “Fore’er.”

Fore’er – I’ve heard that word before;

Heard that promise – been deceived.

A blade had split me to my core:

I was betrayed – and how I grieved!

“Fore’er is not a thing,” say I.

He whispers: “Fore’er, or I’ll die.”

“Die? How so?” I counter swiftly

What can he mean? A hope is lit

Within my heart – it beats so quickly!

I see a chance by Fate is writ.

“Die,” says he, all while his eyes

Long for me, “As the consumed dies.”

“Consumed,” I murmur, and from this word

I draw a thought: an idea to prove -

If he true means as I have heard -

A chance to try this ever-love.

“Then this,” say I, “Shall test forever.”

I hold out in my hand a feather.

He looks confusedly at it,

I know he thinks it is a game,

Yet moments later and ‘tis lit

By a bright and sparkling flame.

“Love that truly lasts fore’er,”

Say I, “Will not fear the fire.”

Up he looks into my eyes

And searches them to understand.

At once I see him realize -

He reaches out and grasps my hand.

The flames creep slow and soft and hot

Along his arm – but he cares not.

“Then I’ll withstand” says he, “For you.”

And in his eyes the flames do gleam.

I watch. A wind doth spring and blow

The leaping flames all around him.

What agony it is! No shame

Is there, then, when he screams my name.

The desperate, broken, consumed sound
Of his voice tears my heart in twain.
The fire is binding my love ‘round!
I leap into the flame.
“I’m here!” I call, and through the storms
I find myself within his arms.

“For now and e’er,” he murmurs low.
And though all ‘bout the flames do wreath,
We two are glad – glad even though
Our flesh does burn, nor can we breath.
“For now and e’er,” I soft reply
As in each other’s arms we die.

Yet soon as Death has set her pangs
Within us and we’re slain together,
Upward from our burnt remains
Rises Truth – that sparking feather.
Fore’er is tested and true doth prove:
Reborn, we rise. Fore’er, we love.

Cracks

Cracks creep out of the hole in my heart

Splitting, splintering me apart.

I try, with hot tears, to seal them close –

Each crack a canyon which my grief flows

Down in streams of boiling tears;

This grief only widens and deepens my fears.

I wish to be healed! For this bitter rust

Corrodes, like acid, my broken trust.

Cracks like a web seaming me through

‘Till pieces break off – first one, then two

Fall and are lost in the yawning void:

Pieces of me – lost and destroyed.

Alas! Who will help me? I’m falling apart!
Oh, gather the pieces of this broken heart-

.

.

.

There’s nothing left now, naught but this hole

Wherefrom the cracks came – wherein lies my soul.

Cracks, reaching out with their clawèd hands

To wrap my soul in shattering bands.

One touch more and I break for good –

These streams of tears turned into blood.

I cry: “Will no one heal this soul?

That fears to be broke and longs to be whole?”

But no - the silence reechoes my lack.

I shiver. I break. I fall through the crack.

To Be

To be or not to be:
When being is all grief?
For being is but to endure
Torment without relief.

To grieve or not to grieve:
When grieving is fore’er?
For grieving melts our fantasies
To prove what’s really there.

To pine or not to pine:
When pining is a bain?
For pining drains our life to tears
And in the end is vain.

To see or not to see:
When seeing is a curse?
For seeing shows the light we lack
And then our dark is worse.

To wait or not to wait:
When waiting is but woe?
For waiting holds our bated breath;
It proves that we can’t know.

To try or not to try

When trying we may lose?

For trying leaps and hopes to land,

To have the chance to choose.

To hope or not to hope:
When hoping is so free?
For hoping makes the worm a man -
We strive for what may be.

To strive or not to strive

When striving is our due?

For striving builds our will to live,

It grows the more we do.

To live or not to live

When living can be good?

For living gives us all choice

To be that which we should.

To be or not to be:
When being is the point?
For being is why we were born -
To be – We prove the point.

 Stony ground

 Paved stones

 Granite

 Asphalt

Pave-stones

Let This Acceptance Take

“Let this acceptance take.” But nay!

Accept we not, nor can essay

To say: “’Tis true – Harry has died

Who all the hosts of France defied,

Who won that country for his own

And giving up to God the crown

Did say: ‘Tale it, God, for it is

None but Thine!’” What utterance

Could speak our grief that on this day

That same God takes our King away.

No words you give – O, poet bold –

Nor epitaph written in gold;

Ye only say as our hearts break:

“Let this acceptance take.”

Candle-light

Golden upon my mantle stands glowing

A wavering taper, so softly bent

By winds from the Northland, which are blowing

To wake my mind into wonderment.

I see in the flames a ship-boy climbing

Up to the crow’s-nest, hoping to sight home.

I see the old sexton, walking, rhyming

His weary old Psalter on through the gloam.

The there! A torch lighted in deepest cave;

Explorers go seeking by its brave glow.

And the there’s a mother beside the grave

Of her only child, igniting her woe.

Ah! For the tales begun in the night

And all by the glow of this candle-light.

The process is begun

There’s More to Life Than This

Oh, world, you are so busy!

So full of things to do

It really makes me dizzy

To rush around in you.

Like some vast carnival ride

You spin and toss and soar

My heart is flipping inside

And all I want is more.

But when I disembark from

The twisting, hurtling game

I try to find a new home

And try to make my name.

There’s something all about this

Which clings inside my breast

I must go back and not miss

The rides! I can’t resist.

So weary with vain trying

I get busy again.

I hope that with this vying

I’ll have oblivion;

Peace from this soft, small voice

Which calls me from my bliss.

Which with a word gives choice:

“There’s more to life than this.”

“What more to life can there be?”

I challenge with a cry.

The small voice answers softly:

“The more of when you try.”

“I’m sick and tired of trying!”

I exclaim midst the noise

Of all the world’s fay lying

And all it’s gleaming toys.

I tried one day and falling hard

Longed only for an ease

To free me from my own heart

And all her vain duties.

This rushing gives me purpose!

“How dare you scorn my game!”

I say, and whisk away lest

The voice should speak again.

Yet always these rides must

Bring me back to the place;

The stopping-post of time’s rush;

The beginning of the race.

And there, still waiting for me

The still small whisper saith:

“This freedom is not truly free.”

With sweet and truthful breath.

I cannot help but falter

And wonder if there’s more

Than all this world’s vain clatter;

I’ve heard it all before.

“If this is not true freedom

And life has more in store,

How can I then be free from

This game to find the more?”

I ask and wait in silence

The carnival’s begun

I worry lest in this chance

I miss out on the fun.

The music calls me gaily

Alluring every song,

I feel the struggle vainly

And know I can’t last long.

“Listen now, dear child,”

The still, small whispers says,

“Your heart has been defiled

By what the world calls bliss.

Simple is freedom’s road

Though harder than ‘tis to say

If you’d be freed your load

Get up and walk away.”

“Is that it?” I question softly

Daring not believe my ears.

Can the way be so simple

Yet I’ve missed it for years?

The rides are moving under me

A desperate break I make

And tearing loose, I’m free!

But one moment I take.

One moment and the fever,

Excitement of my lust,

Fades all away, and pleasure

Is born out of the dust.

I take one slow step forward

And trying to be brave

The still small voice urges onward:

“You’re stepping from the grave.”

For freedom’s not in pleasure

And toys are not your life.

Get out and taste the fervor

Of long and bitter strife.

Our lives were made for doing

And in the deed is bliss.

Be brave, and always striving

For:

“There’s more to life than this.”

As I Sit By The Shore

Salty is the sea-shore

And salty are my tears

Falling forevermore

To mourn the passing years.

Tide-swept ever-onward

Too swiftly borne away.

Time moves only forward

I wish that time would stay.

Bitter is the myrtle

And bitter are my tears

Dashing on every hurtle

I’ve crossed in all my years.

Some hurtles rose too highly

And so the moment’s gone

When I leapt not so bravely

As I ought to have done.

Lasting is this flavor

So lasting are my tears

Which wash for now and ever

Down all the briny years.

Life’s full of woe and sorrow

But life has wonder too.

Tears now shall make tomorrow’s

Sky shine brighter blue.

Gentle is the rain-fall

And gentle are my tears

For now I wait the last call

To make worth-while the years.

The call to bear me homeward

To where tears are no more.

My thoughts are bent Heavenward

As I sit by the shore.

This Sword

An oath upon this sword I swore

And with this sword I won a war.

Now peace is gained

And yet I’m pained

To see I need this sword no more.

This sword nevermore shall be drawn

For now, fore’er, I lay it down.

Consequences

I told the truth:

A link un-made.

I told a lie:

A link re-made.

I kept my oath:

A chain undone.

I broke my vow:

A chain redone.

I saved a life:

A shackle snapped.

I took a life:

A shackle clasped.

I chose the light:

A bar is cut.

I chose the night:

A door is shut.

I loved the good:

A lock unrust.

I feared the bad:

A key is lost.

I hoped in life:

A light is shone.

I despaired all:

The light is gone.

When the Leaves Are Green

Gray is the ground and gray the skies,

Over the land a gray wind flies.

Softly, within my heart it sighs:

“Wake when the leaves are green.”

Brown is the earth and brown the trees,

Between their boughs a brown wind flees.

Gently unto my heart it breathes:

“Sing when the leaves are green.”

Warm is the light and warm the air,

Dancing lightly a warm wind fair

Whispers its song into my ear:

“Laugh when the leaves are green.”

Gold is the sky and gold the light

And through the gold a wind takes flight,

Laughing so gently that I might:

“Dance when the leaves are green.”

'Live is the world and 'live the eaves;

A 'live wind blows amongst their leaves.

So bright within my heart it breathes:

“Wake, for the woods are green.”

Faith is a fundamental aspect of human life. We have and exercise faith more often than we realize and, sometimes, more often than we are willing to admit. I have faith that tomorrow the sun will rise. When I sat down, I put an automatic faith in my chair to hold me up. It hasn’t failed me yet.

If such logically simple faith is so omnipresent in our lives, where do we draw the line between it and belief? What – in a literal sense – is a belief? For this we turn to Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary and find that: Belief (is) confidence in the truth or existence of something not immediately susceptible to rigorous proof. In other words – to believe or have belief, is to put faith in something we cannot yet completely comprehend or explain.

There are many beliefs in this world – for man is always seeking to explain the universe in ways that he can at least partially comprehend. Amongst these beliefs are ones such as Catholicism, Buddhism, Darwinism, Creationism, Hinduism and Romanticism. Each explains the world in a different way and all differ, fundamentally, in their origin stories. What, then, happens when two of these isms collide? They stop, consider and take a good look at each other and themselves.


That is what we are going to do. Here, we will stop, consider and look at two almost completely opposite isms – Darwinism and Creationism.


To start off – where do these isms come from? Darwinism did not, as the name would imply, originate with the notable scientist and scholar, Charles Darwin. The idea of a chaotically random existence, sparked by a purely chance-induced explosion has been around since the time of the Greek philosophers, and probably even before then. On the other hand, Creationism comes from a documented account of the world’s beginning which has been proven, time and time again, to have no foundationally logical flaws. Many scholars, both biblical and scientific, have admitted that, though there may be some aspects we do not understand, that is our problem. We do not yet comprehend some of the things recorded in the Creation account, but neither does it refute the basic scientific principals we know to be true. Thus we leave the unknown to remain unknown and allow this to remain a belief.

So we have established the origins of these origin stories. Now to look closer and discover what these two isms are. Many have called the science of Darwinism, the Theory of Evolution. However, when tested against generations of data, we find that this so-called ‘theory’ is little better than an unconfirmed hypothesis. This is why, unlike Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, Darwinism is classified under the label ‘belief’. It takes just as much faith to believe in Evolution as it does to believe in, for example, Hinduism. Darwinism states – in a nutshell – that man originated from animals and is thus little better than them. That no intelligence went into the ‘creation’ of the world and that all things happen through random chance. Finally, that when men die they simply cease to exist. On both ends of Darwinist belief are empty wells of nothingness.

Adversely, Creationism is a belief which supports intelligent design, a beginning sparked by an all-knowing mind and the truth that man is not an animal, but a being made in the image of God. Thus, man possesses an everlasting soul which was meant to begin since time itself began and which will continue into eternity. Creationism is classified as a belief because we cannot see this God who created the world, and the manner in which He did so is beyond our comprehension. It will very likely stay that way.

Now we know where the isms come from and what they are about. We must next discuss where they are going.

Upon placing belief in Darwinism, a person must hold that men are no better than animals, and that that is how it was meant to be. Therefore, because of this, we need not be any better than the survival-of-the-fittest philosophy which Darwinism is founded on. Brutal murder, torture and genocide are thus, through Darwinism, justifiable. Also, because man was descended from animals but is above them all, he has reason to be proud of his ‘superior ancestry’. This gives him the right to create, each man for himself, a pure branch of this ancestry that the ‘best’ may survive. Random chance controls the world and we are both subject to it and dictators of it. There is nothing before life and there will be nothing after death. We have no hope, save in the now, and the now is passing by quickly with the end in sight.

Creationism, however, has a person believe that they are created in the image of a perfect God and that this God, who though in every way is greater, wiser and better than themself, desires to have a personal relationship with them. This belief gives a foundation for morality and pictures humans as precious beings, the whole earth as our gifted stewardship, and our very lives as on-lend for us to make something noble out of. There was a purpose before we were born and there will be life after death. We who believe in this intelligent-design ism, have hope for the future and, even more, a reason to live our best for both ourselves and others in the now.


In conclusion – to rate Darwinism and Creationism in the 1-100 scale of ‘which is better?’ would be worthless here. Each person’s belief would determine how they rate it, for a man’s world-view is based first upon his belief. Thus, while I might rate Creationism at 100 and Darwinism at 1, another might do the exact opposite, while yet another could hover both around 50. What we believe, however, does not spell what is true. Men’s belief may change. Truth never changes.

So as far as isms go? They are both fascinating possibilities with each it’s own ‘flaws’ (that is, places we cannot fully comprehend or explain – this is what makes them beliefs). The question is – what do you believe? I believe that Creationism is the truth from God and that Darwinism is a lie man has told himself to escape the responsibility which comes from God. I could support my belief. Or I could argue against it. The point, however, is to present each one as it is and leave every person to decide for themself.

Where do you put your faith? Do you put it anywhere? If not, you should. If so – be certain that the chair you’re sitting on will not evaporate beneath you. The greatest test is death, but to wait until then would make it too late. Be careful where you sit, but choose a seat soon, for faith is a fundamental aspect of human life.


Where does your faith come from?


What is it about?


Where are you going?

I Defy

Stack my pains and grief’s and woes

Upon the corpses of my foes.

Now light a match and make of fire-

-y grave for all of them. A pyre

For every fear and grief and pain

And foe which will not rise again.

Thus may they burn to ash and dust

And all the blood be turned to rust.

Yea, all my drops of sweat and tears

And streams of blood that o’er the years

Have poured from me to steaming lie

And show my face set in the sky.

I will melt them - every one

Until the last bright drop is gone.

I draw my sword and raise it high -

The bloody blade piercing a sky

Of threatening clouds – and here I cry

In voice of woe: “I do defy!”

“I defy the ghosts that haunt me!”

“I defy each piercing mem’ry!”

“I defy with blood and tears

All my pains and woes and fears!”

“I defy and have defied

And fighting thus all foes have died

Beneath my raging, smoking sword.”

So lies the cursed, haunting horde.

Upon a pyre their corpses set

And while I never will forget,

I spark the hottest, brightest flame

To burn my past and clear my name.

The pyre is bright and sky is gray;

I sheath my sword and walk away.

The Loneliest On Earth

Empty without, empty within

Burdened by grief and filled with sin.

Lost and ashamed

And cruelly named:

“The loneliest on earth.”

Broken without, broken within

Shattered from what I once had been.

Stumbling long

And singing my song:

“The loneliest on earth.”

Laughter without, laughter within;

Nothing is joyous and all is grim.

Joy is a tale

To which my stars wail:

“The loneliest on earth.”

Trying without, trying within

To light my way by hope that’s thin

Pale candle-glow

Can only show:

“The loneliest on earth.”

Grieving without, grieving within

Misunderstood by friends and kin.

Wandering lost.

Bearing the cost:

“The loneliest on earth.”

Seeking without, seeking within

For someone to free me and to win

This war of verse.

To break my curse:

“The loneliest on earth.”

Clamor without, clamor within,

Drowns out my song beneath its din.

Racking each dream

Until it scream:

“The loneliest on earth.”

Refusing without, refusing within

To lay down my sword or to give in.

Thus I will burn

These words to earn:

“The bravest one on earth.”

She tried – oh, how she tried! One agonizing step after the other she made her way down to the deeper caverns and after a supreme battle of will, left the gems there to lie. Slowly, painfully, she forced her reluctant steps upwards – back to the golden light. At last she would be free! She could resume her journey and make up for the time she had lost. Maybe, if she tried hard enough, she could earn her way back to the sunlight.

But she had not been strong enough. Ever the aching longing within her grew, overwhelming her reason and conscience’s protest until she found herself going back to where she had vowed she would never return; to find that which her heart hated and yet longed for, ‘till it burned.

They are hers once more. She clings to them, whispering, muttering over them like something crazed. She will never let them go again. It will hurt too much – and the agony within is already too great for bearing. Her conscience is dying, she can feel its weakening tremor still her slowly beating heart. But it has hurt her – it deserves to die.

Yes, she has them, and believes herself complete. But now . . . now she cannot get out. Any movement, any breath too deep or whisper too loud, and she will fall down an endless pit. She dares not even blink as the moments slip by – nor could she if she wanted to, so wide are her eyes paralyzed by the fear. Each breath prolongs the agony of her plight, and still she holds her lifeless, cursed jewels close. They are hers – she will not let them go.

Alas, but she does not want to die! Why? She does not love life anymore. And yet . . . there is something. What is this glimmering flame deep within? Its light is not from the gems. They smother it and sear her heart to seal it in forever. She does not want to lose it . . . and yet knows that it is from this that the pain is coming.

“Please,” her thoughts whisper brokenly, “Please get me out. I don’t want to fall! Please . . .” she clutches the gems closer.

There is no one to help her, yet hope flickers still. She cannot be alone! He promised . . . a sob slips through her parted lips. Stones crumble from her narrow foot-hold, plummeting downward into endless night. She does not hear them strike the bottom. It is a fall of forever.

“You promised,” she whispers and a hot, bitter tear falls from her face to land on the gems in her hands, “You promised.”

“Yes,” a warm voice rolls from the stillness. Ariel gasps, jerking her head up to look around. More stones loose themselves from beneath her feet. With a whimper, she clings to the stone wall . . . and her gems.

“Where are you?” she breathes.

“Look up, Ariel.”

And she does. There, on the far rim of this midnight pit, a gleaming figure stands. He is robed in gold, silver and brilliant sky blue, but the sword at his side and shield in his hand do not diminish the soft, pitying glance which beams, like a promise, from his deep-blue eyes.

“Why are you here, Ariel?” he asks.

“I . . .” and her voice trails off. Why is she here? Because she was not strong enough to resist the lure of the gems. She glances down, away from the brilliant man, and into her treasures. Her gaze turns dark. What right has he to know?!

“Why are you here?” she spits.

The man’s eyes become sad at her tone, “I am here to help you, Ariel,” he says.

“How?” she asks, her voice still sharp, though she glances up with a desperate curiosity, “You aren’t . . . Him,” peering across the chasm, she shakes her head, “You don’t look like Him.”

“The Adonai may appear however he wills,” the man replies, “Yet I am not He, but a messenger,” he gives a slight bow of his head and smiles, “Call me Oswald.”

“Then where is He?” she exclaims, caring not for name or person, “He promised He would . . . He . . .” but she cannot say it. To repeat the words of that promise would be to admit her own wrongdoing. She knows one truth will lead to another, each equally painful and they will wrench the precious gems from her grasp. She could not, cannot bear it . . .

Then Oswald speaks: “Yes, He promised that He would neither leave nor forsake you. That you would never be alone,” he leans forward, gaze fixed intently on Ariel’s face. She shudders and clutches the gems ever closer.

“Then where is He?” she whispers, soft tears whispering down her face. Slowly, Oswald shakes his head.

“You know the answer to that, dear Ariel,” he says, “And yet you still choose to quench the Spirit.”

“But it burns!” she cries, “Too hotly . . . too brightly. Why does it burn?! He said he loves me.”

“Yes,” Oswald replies, his face eager as he leans a little further, “He does love you and that is why it burns. The best and truest refinement is that which comes from flames. Though they burn, yet you must trust Him! He knows what is best for you, and all the dross will be purged-“

“THEY ARE MINE!!” Ariel screams, hunching over her gems and panting wildly, “He cannot take them! I can’t let them go . . . it hurts too much.”

“Have a care, child!” Oswald replies, standing straighter and lifting a hand, “Or the thing you covet will seal itself to you and pull you into the abyss!”

Ariel gasps, struggling to straighten as the gems suddenly grow heavier in her hands. She tries to open them, but cannot feel anything anymore. Anything, save the searing burn.

“Why?” she sobs, trembling and gasping, “Why won’t He help me? Why didn’t He make me strong enough? Does He want me to fall?” The horrible thought chokes her as she struggles to breath through the roaring pain in her hands and the growing weight on her chest. Eyes widen as there appears beneath her feet a slivering crack.

“You will never be strong enough,” Oswald murmurs, “For your own darkness is what draws you downward. There is nothing good in you save what He put there.”

“Then why didn’t He make it strong enough?” she asks.

“He did,” Oswald replies, “He is stronger than anything. Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, says the Adonai of hosts. The Spirit dwells inside of you. The question is . . .”

Ariel glances up, weary, streaming, widened eyes meeting those of deepest blue.

“Do you want to be saved?” Oswald says.

Does she? The world stands still as Ariel hesitates. She wants to be free, to be safe from this pit, but . . . but will He catch her if she falls? Will any good come of letting go the gems she yearns for and hates, just as she yearns for and hates herself. But she does not yearn for and hate Him. There is yearning, but it is sweet, and so deep and sure and bright and hopeful – like a fountain of living water. All she wants – all she could ever want! – is to be at peace again. But . . . does He truly still care? Is He really there? Will He catch her if she falls?

“Yes,” she whispers, breaking the spell, “I want to be saved. But Oswald,” she shakes her head, voice catching, “Will He save me? I left the path. I chose these over Him. How can He . . . love like that?”

Oswald smiles, “He can love like that because He is the Adonai, and love is His name. Therefore, He says: ‘For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God . . . for God gave you a spirit, not of fear, but of power and love.’ ”

“Fan into flame,” Ariel murmurs, “How?”

“Believe,” Oswald’s voice booms into the darkness, “Draw near to Adonai and He will draw near to you. Let go the sin which bears you downward. Only ask, and He will forgive you and save you from your own curse.”

“Ask, believe, let go . . .” Ariel whispers, closing her eyes and trying to block out the pain, “Adonai . . . Adonai, I can’t open my hands. I cannot let them go! The darkness is too strong. Please,” she takes a shaky breath and murmurs, “Be strong for me.”

A soft clink sounds through the darkness. Opening her eyes with a start, Ariel watches as the three luminous jewels plummet into darkness. She looks at her hands and for the first time in so long - yes, so long she cannot even remember! – she smiles.

“I’m free,” she whispers, glancing up to meet Oswald’s gaze. But he is not smiling.

“Not yet,” he says, and at that moment, the ground begins to shake. Ariel gasps and braces against the wall. A roar thunders from the depths of the pit, pulsing tremors through the earth and crumbling stone from the walls.

“Adonai!” Ariel screams, clinging to the wall.

“Climb the pit! Ariel, climb out of the pit!” she hears Oswald’s voice call. Tears stream as she shakes her head.

“I can’t,” she whispers, sobbing, “I’m not strong enough. It’s too high.” He did leave her. Why had she not known He would?!

“Ariel, believe in Me,” a still, small voice whispers through the terror. Deep within her heart, a blossoming flame grows. Ariel looks up, and sees a stone jutting a little above her head.

“Adonai is my refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble,” she murmurs, grasping first one stone and then another. Slowly, she pulls herself up the pit wall, still murmuring, “Therefore, I will not fear though the earth gives way.”

“Be still and know that I am God!” a voice calls from above. Desperately, Ariel increases her speed. Then her hand-hold breaks, her foots slips and she falls. She screams, but a hand reaches from the clouds of dust above and seizes her arm.

“Keep praying, Ariel!” Oswald’s voice calls. She feels him struggle to pull her from the yawning black hole beneath.

“Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful, for in You my soul takes refuge,” she sobs, clinging ever tighter and struggling against a sudden-sprung wind. Stones rain in a hail of chaos around her. In the depths of the pit, she sees a molten fire burning, “In the shadow of Your wings I will take refuge, till the storms of destruction pass by,” still the fire churns beneath, and Ariel shudders, scrabbling wildly at the crumbling wall. She will fall!

“Why are you cast down, O my soul?” Oswald’s voice booms suddenly from above, “And why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him-“

“My salvation!” Ariel joins in the cry, and at her words a brilliant white flame shoots from her into the surrounding darkness, “And my God!”

With a roar deeper than the thunder and stronger than the wind, the silver-gold flames shear the shadows, casting aside the blackness, bearing Ariel up from darkness and into a golden light.

~ ~ ~

Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit, says the Lord of Hosts.

Zechariah 4:6

The lone figure struggled wearily up the barren, stony slope. Catching his foot on one of the many black and protruding stones he fell to his hands and knees with a low groan. He reached down to gently massage the new injury before pushing himself, once more, onto his feet. As he stumbled upward the collection of scrapes, bruises and patches of torn skin grew. Wearily he paused every ten or so steps to lean against a tall stone, or to stand, swaying in the cold wind and wipe the clammy sweat from his forehead. He was hot and cold, his mouth was dry and his body, wet with the sweat of his exhausted exertion. A days-old fever pounded through his head like a herd of raging bulls and sent flashes of hot and cold throughout his every limb. He licked his lips and sought vainly to recall when he had last eaten bread, but his mind revealed only blank and monotonous memories of walking and climbing. He could not even remember why he was climbing this mountain. All he knew was that he had to get to the top, he had to get over, and soon.

Another low groan and the man forced one foot above the other. Always higher, colder and dryer. Wetter and wearier, would it never end? The evening shadows loomed dark above him, menacing and foreboding. The wind whistled in his ears, turning them blue and causing his teeth to chatter. He was so cold, cold and weary. As the sun disappeared behind the towering slopes the man lifted his eyes, expecting to see stars above the mountains' peaks, but something else caught his gaze. He peered, blearily upward. A light! A golden, warm, flickering light, like the rays of a warm fire shone enticingly out from a cavity higher up.

With a sense of rising hope and desperate longing the man quickened his pace, stumbling a great deal more and wounding himself terribly on the jagged black stones. Yet he cared not and could hardly feel as the stones tore into his feet, shins and hands. He had to get to the light. It filled his vision, controlled his mind. All he could think of was the light. Not a single idea of why he wanted it so ravenously filtered through his numb thoughts. He simply knew that he needed it, and quickly.

At last, after what seemed like an eternity of weary, desperate climbing, the man stood, swaying and trembling with fatigue, before the cave's entrance. A sense of caution awoke in his mind as he stared into the stony mountain's depths, so that it was with faltering step that he walked, warily, into the mountain. For a long while he could see nothing save the reflection of golden light off of the tunnel's smooth, amber-like walls. It gleam, warm and comforting, inviting him to pursue it, to find it and to claim it as his own. The man quickened his pace as the light grew until he stumbled out into an open cavern.

The walls on either side of him fell away as a few feet before him the ground dropped into a sheer cliff. Edging cautiously out onto the tongue of stone the man stood, still swaying and blinking feebly, to observe the cavern about him. It's walls continued as if pouring out from the tunnel's mouth and flowed into a circle, warm and glowing with the inner fire. For the man now saw that the flame was indeed hidden in the walls and streaked down their outer sides in vast cataracts of rippling gold. The roof of the cavern arched upwards, forming a smooth dome on which the golden flames fell and streaked down it's gleaming sides. One more cautious step forward and the man peered warily over the edge of the cliff.

Far, far below and curling up the round sides of the cavern – the golden pit – lay a long and shimmering shape. At first the man thought it a work of the golden fire and stone, so similar was its appearance to the walls and ceiling of the cavern. He thought, that is, until the long shape stirred. With a slow and sleepy movement, as that of a giant waking from slumber, the long, luxuriant coils of deep-amber and shimmering gold, unwound themselves and began gliding around the walls of the pit. Faster and faster they went, undulating like a continuous wave of fire, never faltering in movement or shifting in shape. The man stood, staring, his eyes transfixed and fever-numbed mind hypnotized by the living current beneath.

From it's sides and back there spread a fan-like array of shimmering golden feathers, widening in the wind of it's speed and rippling as if blown by an unceasing gale. As it began to slow it's circular dance the man espied the creature's head. Long and gracefully formed it was, like the golden crown and helm of a dragon lord. Slowly the creature wound it's way up the cavern's sides, slipping with a faint swish up the golden walls. As it grew nearer the man could not help but feel a tinge of fear. Something, a memory, awoke in his mind. Once a person had described to him such a creature that lived, deep within the mountain. It's name . . . he could scarcely remember.

Looking down past the approaching coils the man saw three golden baubles glowing. Their color nearly melded with the gleaming golden floor that lay streaked beneath with yellow flame. Oblong they were and pulsed as if possessing a life of their own. The man heard a low sound, as of leaves rustling in a fitful wind and looked up. There, above him, the great serpent had come to a rest. It's long golden coils wrapped in unending spirals down the pit and it's head a mere five hands breadths from his own.

The man stared with awe into the enormous creature's magnificent face and saw that he had been mistaken. It's gracefully formed head, like a crown and helm, had no appearance of the dragon lord. No, but this, with it's long and pointed nose, delicately formed webbing behind it's head, sweeping curve of jaw and arc of bone under the eyes, arc of bone above the eyes and their upward tilting slant – this was the face of a dragon Queen.

Yet dragon it was not and the man, gazing awestruck into the majestic face, realized with a cold stab to his heart, that her eyes were not open. The name of the great serpent floated through his mind ~ "Basilisk" as with another low hiss, she opened her eyes. A rushing moment before his gaze fixed on hers and the man felt every sore, ache, cold and pain in his body. Would it not be a relief to sink into the golden oblivion? The golden oblivion of her eyes . . . and he met the fiery gaze.

Because when it rained
The rain froze.

 (This last one is a streamer of ice in the side of my white car. 

Strange how the light is casting almost geometric patterns inside of it?)

I Live

‘Tis completely impossible,

And yet at once so wonderful.

I cannot see

How I could be.

I live and still can’t grasp it all.

Science cannot explain the man

Nor any myth speak truer than

The evidence:

Intelligence.

I live and sense a Master Plan.

This world does not simply revolve

So men can say we did evolve.

A purpose waits

Stronger than fates.

I live this mystery to solve.

A ball can’t roll unless it be

That someone push it. Thus we see

That each ‘square 1’

Must be begun.

I live ‘cause Someone started me.

So do not fear the oracle –

Which has been proved implausible – 

That by romance

Of random chance

I live – this is impossible.

 Not Contrasting

 Contrasting

 Contrasting

 Not Contrasting

Which are your favorites?