Flicker Flame And Nebulae

Let me paint a picture. Me, my chosen brother , speaking and me forcing him to read my poems yet again. I give him serious credit as he is self described as a basic dude, he totally shows up and reads nearly every one.

He asked me if I would ever write about anything Other than God?

This is the lightning fast emotional response and I’m sharing it with you fresh off the press.

Gather round,

The circled fire,

Bonded high in prayer,

As we tell tales by the pyre.

Once was said,

To mine own self,

That, “Impossible was it,

For one such as me,

To utter verse absent Glory.”

Aghast, I withdrew,

The mere thought absurdity,

Why ever would I

Change my topic

Away from Love’s gilded Glory?

Chuckle must I,

This poet of salt and dust,

That ever should I,

Or ever shall be,

Would even imagine darkness

As glory gone to rust.

So now, fire-lit are we,

Settled, slowed, in warmth,

By flicker flames crackled pop,

And heat rising as smoke mingled in night,

Distance lost as we look to stars above,

The Moon, the galaxies,

The painted panoply of His hands,

Shone as canvas beyond any artist’s palette.

White pinpricks, yellowed dots,

Purple nebulae swirling like clouds against the black void,

We see the barest kernel, bound as we are to time,

Limited in singularity.

The answers were given to us in plain sight all along,

Written in celestial bodies above:

The Father,

The Son,

The Spirit,

Holy,

Holy,

Holy.