About pwchaltas

Willing Servant to the Word and Art ..Wherever they take me.


Call it a a “translation” or reinterpretation of an ancient poet and one of his works:

Your love leads me
along the treed and verdant paths
Along the babbling brooks that speak of vast and endless silence.
I often walk with eyes closed
My blind steps treading
on right roads,
hearing only your music and your name to guide me,
to the sacred destinations of the heart;
And even though at times
I walk encompassed by the depths of darkness,
The darkest forces
Of the night
my faith
your example guide me
To leave me no fear.
And so the bountiful tables
Are often spread out before me
In the midst of all the many that would harbour me ill will;
That would see me harmed and lowly
to placate troubled souls.
Your gifts are many,
rich,and blessings;
a finger dipped in oil,
an abundance
Of the flowing fruit of vine;
Your well springs of
Water, life, and wine
revive me
I seek, I walk,
Sure footed and
In your paths of goodness
and compassion,
To arrive,
And rest finally
in the unending
mansion habitations
of your love.

The Boatman Disappointed

The boatman

Has grown a long
grey beard,
Like a holy man, a monk
With a tall hat,
And a strumming
Ancient oar.
He waits today
and the fates
there are no takers,
For the journey anywhere,
And just before I’m ready
To pay his fare and more, to distant shore
He overturns his boat
On sandy shore,
and disappears.
Somehow, sometimes,
we all retire and disappear

instead of waiting,
To succeed,
Just before the next new
Is about to pay;
But tomorrow;
Tomorrow is yet
another day.

The Land

The land was distant

and unknown.

Fathers had spoken of it often,

but back then we simply

couldnt have known


there was no becoming then.

We were not ripe,

We we were not grown.

Years past

we laboured

and it remained

a sepia coloured

picture slightly stained.

A place far away

and vast;

A place away,

A place unknown,

A place of peace,

And just a dream,

a single digit out of grasp.

A place trees,

of dancing leaves,

of stone,

of flowing streams;

A place of sunlight

set in midday dreams,

that quiet white blankets

covered on distant winter eves.

As generations grew

to men and women,

as did the strifes and labours too,

with loss and fear,

And costly prices paid

the children died,

the children grew.

Yet with many long and distant


coursing back and forth,

sometimes with the many,

sometimes one alone,

The father’s dream in time


the children’s

father’s home.

Hemingway’s Conversation


Hemingway contemplates
In a new found darkness.
He wonders when it will
And asks Cohen:
“Do you know?”
“How was it when you left?”
Cohen answers
No – it was so, so,
It hadn’t been that dark
Since 1939,
But the light
Eventually will come.
And we may see ourselves again perhaps In ways,
we haven’t seen,
Since very long ago.

YOU whose heart was
Enormous, cracked, and sympathetically flawed-
radiating light
from a blazing great fire;
whose eyes
Puffed with weariness
In a body too tired,
and too frail to go on,
With eyes clear and luminous
And shining with wonder
as they often are
in the aged and wise.
The time arises that souls
need to move on,
Like a bird on a wire;
And you knew it was coming,
-this journey-
With a Hineni in song

Continuum’s Beat

So many
Moments of a life,
A fleet of
stitched together,
A soul’s sum
in the continuum,
And often laced
With joy
And bittersweet.

#LeonardCohen #CarrieFischer #DavidBowie #Prince #GlenFry
#poem #poetry #micropoetry