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Saturday, January 12, 2013

Pay day poems

Hello dear reader,
It's still January the new year, 2013, and I had the idea this morning that this year
for my blog I would write and post a poem twice a month right about pay day time. Why? Just because it seems lucky. So here is the first pay day poem, it has nothing to do with pay day. It is about faith which is something I hope to bring with me to 2013. I reserve the right to revise and replace these poem-posts over time. :)


The source of faith

There is no need to feel threatened,
When you could have confidence and freedom from doubt.
Such faith was made to be a balm for shepherds and hunters
Suddenly alarmed, alive and trying to do something
Such as protecting their lot and procuring food.

It’s only natural to feel panic
A fight or flight reaction can also infect your blood
And make your movements swift and flighty,
Your voice hysterical and snappy.
There is no need to feel threatened,
When you could have confidence and freedom from doubt.
Such faith was made to be a balm for shepherds and hunters
Why not you?

Out in those fields and forests their God
Pan, induced panic,
The original fear of the lord, I suppose.

 “Give me faith!” I call out, “Hear my doubts and give me faith.”
Yet asking for faith do I get any credit for bringing it about?
Doomsayer, thorn in the side of a mythical self-made society.

I’ve been infected with a panicky mood. It’s a sickness I’m going through like the flu. At the same time it’s fair to say I’m always susceptible to panic. To gasp at any sudden movement caught out of the corner of my eye is classic Alice. None-the-less I’m calm and quiet, and these times when worry cracks over every bump, pass like a phase I’m going through.  Perhaps a spiritual touch through the veil.

Faith comes from Pan’s pipe, I believe. Out in nature, seized by that odd combination of peace and fright – the God pan pipes up.
Through panic the shepherd takes up a note,
Who hears? Who responds?

I looked up to a very human sky this morning, clouded over except for a bright dime-sized missing piece, not Sun herself, only blue sky peeking out
from the grey mass of her crowning glory.
Indirectly through the blanketing clouds, she looked at me.
An infra-red smudge where her body rested, behind the covers,
a pink humanly suggestion of celestial form showing through a layer of fluff.
It’s as if she didn’t want to see me directly. Perhaps she is shy,
Yet she does look over me, like a goddess. Her blue skies always there,
very often hidden under clouds and far away. I think she smiled a loving smile because I look funny in my panic, and in her eternal mercy she gives us the Arts.



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