Re-doing myself … ten years hence and done:
a re-plasterer of fallen entry ways,
a retreader of tired old poetry
and all the customary statistics
supporting temporal variance –
having no time to write a wrong,
and no space to receive it.
Like the Lord, I change not.
When the Word bows out.
(Recall the God who sees in secret.)
Of others it was easy seen –
myself never quite so blessed with a vision:
aligning the ark with the stream of non-existence
toward whose flood all must wistfully flow.
I am content to write,
and paddle me on,
without ever righting a single turn
from mountaintops’ final sentence.
All articles of justice and items of fairness
have become moot,
and in my struggling for them,
my speaking of them, I am become mute:
incensed by the excuses all around,
of never bringing any sense
to this forgotten globe’s pointed message.
Make prayer and do good in secret,
and the Father who sees hidden things
shall reward you in private or otherwise –
were it ever so easy in phrase of time and word,
in measured life;
when the watch in heaven is always shuteye …
and on earth, songwriting is a passion refrain,
such that no one cares, when the Word bows out.
The lumber houses creep up next to giants;
doomed are the crestfallen in their downing.
The sands have been framed by changing streams,
overturned are the rocks of understanding,
yet I remain the same.
what does it mean when the permanent changes,
but the temporary does not?
Remember me, still, crushed by space and deranged with time.
Dr. Walter Boswell