God of all hope when hope is dying
And under darkened skies fast graying
Restore my hope which has become
Like shrunken cloth with edges fraying
Within the stillness let me hear you
And understand what you are saying
The white bird limps with broken wings
Draw near to me and guide my praying

Proud rocks of hope which stood so firmly

‘Gainst ocean breakers as they pounded
Crumbled to shingle by the tide
Which turned with nature’s power unbounded
Sad tears of pride which has been wounded
Fall from the white bird that’s been grounded
Humbled to shed the tears that I’ve cried
Are all my hopes to prove unfounded?

Cry to the Lord of salt water
To send us streams which shall refresh us
Clear sparkling streams to match our dreams
The rock’s been struck that God may bless us
Come feast your eyes on hidden diamonds
Secreted gems, concealed and precious
Divine Physician lay your hand
Upon this wound, come heal and dress us

Lord, we will follow where you lead us
Your Holy Spirit’s here to guide us
We open up our lives to you
We’ve no defenses left to hide us
We’ll serve no other God but you Lord
We seek no fame, no touch of Midas
The gold we seek, refined and pure
Comes from the furnace where you’ve tried us.

WEST PARK REVERIE

It’s almost as if she knew me,
As I am fully known,
It’s almost as if she grew me,
Though I am fully grown.

With clear starlight rays
To brighten my path;
A seer’s far sight gaze,
To lighten my wrath.

Claude Debussy refrains, Clair de lune cascades,
Chord held loosely sustains, air of gloom fast fades,
My Spike Milligan of the Goons phrases, so inane,
Shy, like silver man-in-the-moon phases, on the wane,
Like a plate glowing yellow, with etched lunar surface,
Quite a straight, growing fellow, been hexed without purpose.

Cast in a fated, unfortunate role, a late developer,
Vast inundated, lunar portrait, soul mate enveloper,
This rune’s hesitance, I’m thinking slower and slower,
The moon’s eminence, is sinking lower and lower,
Now softened, replete, over cotton wool cumulus waxing,
How often I repeat this mot, an old humorous maxim.

It’s almost as if she knew me,
As I am fully known,
It’s almost as if she grew me,
Though I am fully grown.

White grace of a lily,
Demure strength of a stone:
Right space to feel silly,
Unsure, angst to the bone.

But into my head with the swarm of gremlins in,
She brings back instead, her warm, soft, feminine gene,
Caught by the event, but I’ve no embarrassing false guile or spleen,
Naught will prevent, full life’s poem harassing, what’s vile, obscene,
The moon’s face scattered with rife craters, like visceral pock-marks,
This goon’s made haggard by life-haters, firing ritual shot sparks.

I think I will leave these bewitched, dutiful elements to atrophy,
Not shrink from achieving a rich, beautiful elegance in God’s tapestry,
The counsel I’ve received from within you, in no way is useless,
The groundswell, I believe, will continue, will never prove fruitless,
Thanks to your wise discernment which grows evergreen,
I emerge from West Park complete, comforted, clean,