Litanei

I am a story with no beginning, and no end. I am our story continually untold. Seen sleightly. History objectively pronounced. Widthless I, emergent reality we.

Histoires, eglantine entwine.  Tsunami of becoming.

Mine und dein. Aller Seelen. Gilt mesh, braided golden vine in guiltless compassion wound.

Wherein.

Electric pain imprison’d, refracted joy enprism’d. Fire and Rose.

Infinitely time divides, bounds and binds –  differentiating an all-embracing integration.

We are mystery with no beginning, and no end.

Though as we flow – we shine.

 

Strong Brown God

Strong brown God is the river

Reiver of sods and odds thrown

Our brownian drownian motion a-quiver

Deep pooling in currents its own

 

Still life flowering river

Our silver shiver of life

A gurgling-guddling quick’ning sliver

Wrangling-tangle of strife

 

All we be is water-taught

Aught but water our withal

A tumbling jumbling ripple of thought

Pride before a waterfall

 

Day the rose-garden lifetime

Wild thyme and strawberry day

And infinitely nightly tight-coiled our lifeline

Running through death and decay

 

Well the still point of the world

Whirled without end to be well

For waving and curling dimensions unfurled

Love and its ocean-tide swell

 

All shall be well; Christ re-unifying Space and Time

“We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

Through the unknown, remembered gate

When the last of earth left to discover

Is that which was the beginning;

At the source of the longest river

The voice of the hidden waterfall

And the children in the apple-tree

Not known, because not looked for

But heard, half-heard, in the stillness

Between two waves of the sea.

Quick now, here, now, always –

A condition of complete simplicity

(Costing not less that everything)

And all shall be well and

All manner of thing shall be well

When the tongues of flame are in-folded

Into the crowned knot of fire

And the fire and the rose are one.”

TS Eliot, Four Quartets; Little Gidding (extract)