Reinterpretation

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
and
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
Cupped
revive me
I seek, I walk,
Sure footed and
certain
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
Declare
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
Traveler
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

that

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

journeys,

coursing back and forth,

sometimes with the many,

sometimes one alone,

The father’s dream in time

became,

the children’s

father’s home.