Dancing on moving ground

Politics is the art of the possible 
...they say
and religion is the field of the implausible
...I say
and music is the food of love
...the bard said
and poetry is saying one thing
while meaning another
...if it's worth the candle.

No search ever finds its object.
No ambition can be justified.
No mountain is scaled often enough.
No monument does justice to history.
No hope is ever satisfied.
No river is entered twice.
No love will not be tested.
No journey ever ends.

Terra firma is illusion;
and so is certainty and belief.
Bedrock shifts and quakes
while the wind howls 
and waves undermine
the shores of confidence.

Nothing lasts.
Yet, the poet dares
to speak a truth
that can't be spoke
and dances a jig
in a no-man's-land
between certainty and doubt.

Take off your shoes,
my poet friend
because the shifting ground 
on which you dance
is holy.

I am conscript

I have been conscripted,
by circumstance and the illusion of choice,
into the ranks of a ragtag army of faith.
I have been dragged in,
kicking and screaming;
lined up, numbered, uniformed,
put through hoops
and marched off
to fight the good fight
with whatever might
I can muster.

What a motley crew we are!

Some sit, some stand.
Some kneel, some bow.
Some drink, some don't.
Some sing but others silent stay.
Some clap and sway,
while others stand erect.
Some sit while others kneel.
Some read, accepting,
while others read, comparing.
Some lead,
and some are led.
Some listen, some shout.
Some discern, some debate.
Some confess.
Some move and shake.
Some fear and tremble.
Some embrace ecstasy,
and fall about in rapture.
Some carry the shield of dignity
with vaunting pride.
Some want a future.
Some seek the end.
Some know a god.
Some doubt.
Some want grace.
Some sing and dance.
Some point the finger.
Some take the blame.
Some accuse.
Some forgive.
Some lean on works.
Some march to war.
Some make peace.
Some forgive and some restore.
Some hate, some love.
Some laugh, some cry.
Some advance, some retreat.
Some are bold.
Some are humble.
Some are old
and others young.
Some declaim.
Some feel pain.
Some heal, and some are healed.
Some explain, some confuse.
Justice drives some.
Compassion drives others.
Some see their god in fire.
Some wash away their sin.
Some seek their god in beauty.
Some find their god in the folks next door.
Some craft their gods;
some get them over the counter.
Some talk to evanescent spirits.
Some rely on senses.
Some deny their senses. 
Some are grounded.
Some soar.
Some have dogmas.
Some have faith.
Some embrace doubt,
while others are confident and sure.
Some write and paint.
Some carve their faith in rock.
Some venture the odd poetic line.
Some are all of these
and others none of these
and some have not the foggiest notion
of what it's all about
and some make it up as they go along.

I am conscript;
ambitious to a fault;
hopeful in the face
of overwhelming force 
and rejoicing in the march
to God knows where...

© Karel Reus

Is your church a health hazard?

We know about bats in belfries.
and churchly mice in dire straits.
We know of rising damp and crumbling bricks,
and leaking roofs.
This entropy of things
(depressing though it is),
is not what ails the body that is Church.

Complacency and weariness
are much more to be feared
-- and lassitude and worldliness.
Blindness to glory and numbness to hope
will as surely rot the bricks and mortar of the soul
as tempest, storm and strife.

Love consumed by jealousy,
and empty words and doctrine
and joy embalmed in management and rules;
all suck from us the essence of our faith
and bring about a sickness unto death.

Feel, if you will,
and feel again,
and make your own
the incarnated Word of Life
that freely brings
vitality to souls
that they may rise
and risen, boldly build.

© Karel Reus

Soundings

It all began with a Big Bang
...they say,
and it will end with a Big Fart
...I'm told,
And between Bang and Fart
...you and I
will weave illusions into tales
of love and sacrifice
and derring-do
...and hope.


© Karel Reus

Decisions, decisions...!

Decisions, decisions!

If only my mutinous decisions

would fall in line

and parade in disciplined and serried ranks

before me.

Then I would direct them

to a worthy cause or two,

marshalled and constrained

by my strategic will

and oversight.

If only my decisions

obeyed the rules,

I may then claim

some minor victories

-- or fewer defeats.

© Karel Reus

If only...

I'm sorry...!

If only I had walked a different path,

with clearer eyes.

If only...

Then, maybe, my journey

would have been less marred

and more worth marking

and remarking.

If only I had held my tongue.

If only I had valued truth.

If only I had shone a light.

If only I had loved a little more.

If only...

Excuses, excuses, excuses!

My penitence is paper-thin.

If only...

I'm sorry...!


© Karel Reus

Celebrating liminality

Rejoicing in elderhood

As my rapidly accelerating life moves into overdrive,
and as it reaches and passes the speed of eighty years per hour
I find myself entering a liminal landscape
where all caution can be thrown to the wind,
and where the approaching precipice
is not a threat but an invitation. 

At last, at last,
I can allow my captive spirit a chance to roam;
to think what it may and to say what it will.
The guardians of correctness no longer have a hold on me.
Rejoicing in my elder-hood, I am free.
In this new land-on-the-edge I am both king and subject; ruler and ruled. 

Since I am defined by the world as irrelevant,
I will celebrate irrelevance in final acts of resistance and rebellion,
and as for the censure of my younger betters,
well frankly, my dears, I don't give a damn.
I will leave traces of my errant thought
like so much scat in the undergrowth. 

You have been warned.
Be careful where you walk!

© Karel Reus