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Monday, February 22, 2010

A Call to Faith

In Chapter and Verse


the mind rings out - oh! how it rings -
heavy with peals of bells
that call us to prayer
in a lover's pilgrimage with the Maker:

I beg you to save me,
my saviour, my salvation,

lost in absolution
in this journey of two as I bow to you,

                  I sniff at your earth;
you are wet and I am filled
with morning dew, as welcoming
as the early summer's haze - we join
as the day settles its pact with the sun;

I, a burgeoning seed
in the scent of this watery wrapping,
bury myself in you -
you and I, we become one
in a heated maze of skin:


the praying and the prayer move together
on lips mouthing on heated air -
the climb is slow, from deep within,
like a sublime ascent to heaven,
but we feel the interest in life
heighten, it does not ebb away:

and as you kiss me
and breathe into me, I come alive
like potter's clay; and I wonder whether
God breathed into Adam to make life this way -

you are my call to faith,
my cause to believe as I
journey over a burning Jordan
to get back home;

                  I move in you, you stir in me,
we're an embodiment, a concert
of words carved on stuff stronger than stone
that tells us we're not alone,

but neither free to be anything
but love's soliloquy;
it refuses to let us bow low -
as low as I bow to you -
to any other Pharaoh
apart from it's own deity;


our bodies cast all else aside
as they become flowers that close and open
in a temple of daylight,

you make me shine so bright
and as the day grows, we glow
yet brighter still than its light
brimming over the sky's sill,
I stream in through your windows
and our colours spread out wide,

                  courageous bodies with no need to hide,
guided by the chime of your voice
that makes need grow, and grow to
tightly soak up all dreams
and hopes together, to rejoice in the sowing
of faith immemorial -

you are the proof of such faith,
where no proof is needed,
in you all belief is safe

                  you are my only testimonial;
particles of light that shine on your hair -
Apollo's small children
playing with a fair Aphrodite -
are no less a miracle to me than the birth of Christ
during King Herod's heist;

if this is wrong - then who can tell me
why our nature bids such unity
for us to be strong, or -


when it's the very core of me
that tells me you're the one
to whom I should pray -
then who am I to deny the very nature of my soul?

no matter what others say,
                  you are my only way:
whether the journey be rough and steep,
I'm following a shining star,
it's the only road for me
and I take it willingly as did blind Saul,

suddenly seeing like someone born blind
sees for the first time;
your sensual mime awakens
the baffled boy in me;

for not believing in you
is the biggest blasphemy; and
when all I know is how fervently
my fingers shake when I touch you,

then how can I care
to breathe any air
or say any prayer
without a taste of you?

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