ALWAYS EXTOLLING – A COLLECTION

TEEMING MASSES

There is such prodigious activity on the anthill of humanity.
How much of the anthill is visible to each one?
How much must we understand?
The pain of the intensity of the movement takes so much from each soul.
To the individual, space and time is lost forever.
Who will teach the children of tomorrow how to lie laughingly in the sun of summer?
Do we know where to begin?
We must stop rushing and turn into ourselves before we rape them all!
How can we instill that needed measure of sensitivity that breathes gently the sigh of Truth?
And what is it that so much activity produces?
Is it a finer linen tightly woven?
Do we know our present purpose,
or do we just push them all uncaringly toward the future?
Can we touch the gentle face of God and be one with Him and still rush them from cradle to grave,
brushing by the violet of Eternal Mystery?
I truly believe not, for those so caught in the vortex,
but we must remember when the water boils the mist gently rises to give birth in its softness to another season.
We must turn the heat down!
Hope is so difficult to practice when we see only the confusion of the present.
But we must!

BURNT OFFERING

Armies
Barrages
Sweat pours from brows
Fingers blister, pulling triggers
Insanity in history
Reality of war
A child
Trundling across the battle field
Volleys from both sides
A halo of bullets
A child
Struggling, running and stumbling
The middle of the battle
A cease fire
A child
Staggers and falls
Blood stains a ruddy face
Death takes a life much too soon
Regimental colors strike the ground
Screams cease
Smoke drifts
Burnt offerings to some lustful, awful god
Soldiers face their foe
Silence reigns
Throats ache
Eyes water
Guts rend
Death of many
Loss of a child
Zeal, yet sympathy