The Beautiful Thing About Poetry

One of the most beautiful things about life
Is the way that it ebbs and flows
With the rhythms of the moon
With cycles that we know will come:
Dark nights with mysterious stars
Bright nights with majestic moonlight

Yet, when we look to the sky
We do not always know the moon
And where she stands
We do not always see her dance
Or feel her gentle and persistent pull upon our souls

One of the most beautiful things about death
Is the way it rises and sets
From the moment we are born
Death is walking beside us
Mostly silent and unknown
It follows us like a shadow

Usually we are unaware
But occasionally the brightness of life
Makes the shadow of death darker
And we see a grim reflection of our sun soaked self
Cast upon the grey pavement

The sun reveals the shadows
And it rises and sets with the same certainty
With which God disposes of our lives

One of the most beautiful things about poetry
Is that it allows the moon to pull upon the shadow
It allows the mortal person
Wandering across the grey concrete
To glimpse the brightness of what is typically dark
It gives colour to the shadows
And makes the moonlight shine
More brilliantly than the rainbow

What more beautiful gift could there be
Than to make death a source of life
To make the moon brighter than the sun
To make shadows clear as mirrors?

If you allow the shadows to reflect back to you
Your own inner condition
You will find that there is both deep darkness
And bright light dancing together
In the depth of your being

So, be a poet
My beloved Stranger
Be a poet
And preside over the marriage
Of the sun and the moon
Be a poet
And dance
In the radiant shadows of this beautiful life

Allow the flow of divine words
To stir your heart
Allow the grace of bright illumination
To dispel the darkness
And allow the ancient shadows
To cool the heat of the burning sun

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8 thoughts on “The Beautiful Thing About Poetry

  1. These beautiful words are worthy of daily meditation, to dispel any fear.
    Just as I’ve integrated into my soul the words of William Wordsworth, so I will these.

    Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting,
    The soul that rises with us, our life’s star,
    Hath had elsewhere its setting,
    And cometh from afar:
    Not in entire forgetfulness,
    And not in utter nakedness,
    But trailing clouds of glory do we come
    From God who is our home

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