PROMISED LAND

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December 9 by The Running Son

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 PROMISED LAND

So strange, this striving by men
locked in symbiotic dependance
and the sharing of magnetism, and of air,
and of childlike care,
and of moments that bare shared pain
(and similar spectrums of imagination),
over some silty thin, ever-shifting
multigrain mud-blend.

Certainly, though,
to a soul thriving
in the alchemical petri slide moisture
of a cultured higher mind,

everything
means
something,

and the tides that scatter or mend
the designs of men
are no more the dry river-bend
than the floodwater rising,
and from the ageless, wide,
and magnanimous eye of god,
will never matter.

But this roughneck shouldering of levee pylons,
so to sleep hypervigilantly safe and dry on,
or the coveting of keystones,
or the trigger-happy tending of lynchpins
cementing in knuckle-white hope
in a redemptive Zion,
are all signs – wind tattered yet telltale –
that to them

nothing
means
anything

by natural design,
and only spilled blood will reveal
their neighbor’s ills – their scheming –
or the Holy Grail’s old gleaming,
or that empty chalices can be filled,
via strife,

with meaning.
 

 

 

by Jim Aldrich (:

©2013 JimAldrich

All Poetry by RunningSon, aka Jim Aldrich

.namaste.   -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •-   .namaste.

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RFB editor Jim Aldrich, Joshua Tree CA 2013

RunningSon aka Jim Aldrich, Joshua Tree CA 2013 | This site is dedicated with the deepest gratitude to Dr. Cláudio Naranjo, whose writings gave me life.

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