Poetry

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Trying a new poetry style. Okay, so maybe it’s only new to me. :::smile::: I hope you’ll enjoy...

‘The Wanderer’

Made more thirsty still by the Living Stream, encouraged by a vivid dream, and inspired by the promise: He that believeth on me, as the scripture hath said, out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water.

She walks among the pines,
oh, and all the evergreens, leaving signs
of crushed leaves in her path,
unaware of lions that drool
at the sight of her.
When the moon doesn’t rise,
no star lights the skies,
and darkness covers the way,
she crawls beneath
the hollowed tree
to sleep and to pray;
“Faithful One, keep me
while nights occur.”

The sun rises come morning,
her soul yearning,
her spirit thirsting,
while the ground
is steadily bursting
with new growth.
A miniscule stream
winds its way downhill,
a slow path, but still,
clean water,
filtered by the rocks.
And it stops.
A cruel embankment,
or so it seems,
but it knows
its purpose -- to stop the stream,
yet, to build its strength.

She perceives the still dance
as naught but chance,
nature’s simple act.
The embankment remains intact,
though the stream builds
slowly, so slowly,
so very slowly. And she’s lonely.
But still she’ll wait,
as the lions watch on,
and she anticipates
through the nights so long
her Rear Guard’s song:
“Trust Me,
oh My wandering one,
in the wilderness and
in the desert sun,

in the shadows of death,
in the bounteous times.
I’m here, My girl,
daughter of Mine.”
And nature moves on,
though slow,
and the embankment holds
while the miniscule stream flows.
Only enough to *whet her lips,
no overflow.
“Where did the River go?
Am I left alone
to thirst for more
than I have found
on this forest floor?
Surely, this is not home.”

Times, seasons, days and nights pass.
New trees, new lions, new grass.
But the embankment holds.
The stream still runs
from winter’s thaw
at the mountain’s peak.
But the wanderer saw
in a deep, deep sleep,
what was to come,
if she would but keep,
holding fast,
the Word buried deep
in the crevices of
her heart vast,
more vast than even she can see.
There is a season to reap.

She sits assured of her
Shepherd, beneath the fir,
shaded for a moment
and watching silently,
while the nightingale sings
and the church bell rings
in the distant city.
The stream pushes vehemently
and the soil begins to break
slowly, so slowly away.
She prayed for this day,
when the embankment
would give way
for the stream’s sake.

The stream beats hard,
breaking the soil apart,
and surges violently away,
winding through the forest floor.
The wanderer runs
in the afternoon sun:
“Oh, the opened doors!”
She runs. She runs and runs,
keeping her eyes on the stream.
To another it would seem
strange, or perhaps in vain.
But they think nothing of
her dancing in the rain
or bathing in the waterfalls
to rinse away the pain.
With the stream,
she meets the river deep.
They both dive in
and she’ll always keep
the Waters buried deep
within the heart
of the wandering sheep.

Now, they are one,
the wanderer and the Son,
as the Son is in the Father.
He flows out of her,
even beneath the fir,
for other wanderers
who trust the God of streams
in the mountains high,
valleys deep,
deserts wide,
and deepest sleep.
“Come away with Me,
My wandering sheep,
and be shepherded by
your Keeper.” The Deep
calls out to the deep.
And the streams build
on the forest floors,
carving the way,
opening doors
when the wanderers pray.
© Joyce Pool

*“whet” synonyms -- stimulate, sharpen, hone, file, grind, arouse, rouse, kindle, increase, awaken
ANTONYM -- QUENCH

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