...
(folio continues)
See the breeze through the trees
That sweetly sings with voices vast
Yet hidden, as only holy things are
Hidden, and must be hunted
By the whole man.
(folio cuts off)
...
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
Showing posts with label Echoes of Heaven. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Echoes of Heaven. Show all posts
December 9, 2009
November 24, 2009
"In the large dark room"
In the large, dark room I sat waiting for God.
The hills had all crumbled into desolate dirt,
The beautiful faces mere specters of shame.
The words could not come out; I could not
find the words.
In the stuffed and stuffy dark I sat;
The cool breeze brushed a door I could not see.
"Let us hang ourselves," said my strange companion,
"If he does not come tomorrow, we hang ourselves."
Shall we accept springtime from God
But not the dark captivity? Shall we?
Silence is louder than any symphony.
Shall we not listen to the songs of stillness?
Shall we not sit at His feet and hear the
needful thing?
The stars have their sonnets and the sea its horns,
But my God has His own song: silence---
Thick like the itching wool sweater, twice as warm.
You know its presence on the cold winter's day:
It the cocoon that waits for the morning
Past mourning, when the world will be
as a star.
It the cavernous closing; the descent into hell
Before the ascension into heaven. Hang ourselves?
We are already dead; we wait for the resurrection.
In the large dark room we wait for perfection,
For the cracks of dawn to split the sky and cast fire
round about.
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
The hills had all crumbled into desolate dirt,
The beautiful faces mere specters of shame.
The words could not come out; I could not
find the words.
In the stuffed and stuffy dark I sat;
The cool breeze brushed a door I could not see.
"Let us hang ourselves," said my strange companion,
"If he does not come tomorrow, we hang ourselves."
Shall we accept springtime from God
But not the dark captivity? Shall we?
Silence is louder than any symphony.
Shall we not listen to the songs of stillness?
Shall we not sit at His feet and hear the
needful thing?
The stars have their sonnets and the sea its horns,
But my God has His own song: silence---
Thick like the itching wool sweater, twice as warm.
You know its presence on the cold winter's day:
It the cocoon that waits for the morning
Past mourning, when the world will be
as a star.
It the cavernous closing; the descent into hell
Before the ascension into heaven. Hang ourselves?
We are already dead; we wait for the resurrection.
In the large dark room we wait for perfection,
For the cracks of dawn to split the sky and cast fire
round about.
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
November 3, 2009
...fragment of the Divine...
...
(folio continues)
I am the culmination and execution
Of all perfection. The logos -longing
That's been haunting the habitats
Of humanity.
The cracked mirror has not splintered
My light, neither is the madman's sick sponge
An end to my ocean nor a hazard to
My horizon.
I am the Constitution of all subjectivity,
And the harmony of my fullness fills up
The ever-expanding escape velocity that
Outlines ontos.
The many facets and faces of the mind's
Latent content are but a jewel, one of many,
On the crown of my head; each soul
Is but a spark shed from my
Infinite flame.
(folio cuts off)
...
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
(folio continues)
I am the culmination and execution
Of all perfection. The logos -longing
That's been haunting the habitats
Of humanity.
The cracked mirror has not splintered
My light, neither is the madman's sick sponge
An end to my ocean nor a hazard to
My horizon.
I am the Constitution of all subjectivity,
And the harmony of my fullness fills up
The ever-expanding escape velocity that
Outlines ontos.
The many facets and faces of the mind's
Latent content are but a jewel, one of many,
On the crown of my head; each soul
Is but a spark shed from my
Infinite flame.
(folio cuts off)
...
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
October 21, 2009
At Sandusky
"In the century old cemetery, where cracks
Etch the features of the granite faces,
Monuments to moments lost in the dirt,
See how the leaves, drops of blood and gold,
Burn off the many names of the
Mossy stones.
See the trees of the cemetery!
See the sad green limbs and woody fingers
Bearing their burdens low,
With the chalky sky slowly creeping
Through the scars scratched
Between the leaves.
See the hands that hold their final
Sacrifice, a frail yet fine offering
For autumn's fires. See the shades
Of green, like a many faceted emerald,
Give way to the vibrant death
of fall.
See the golden blood sprinkled across
The doorposts of the earth, doors
Continually open to the winds of the
World, ever receiving and losing; green
Then gone.
See now! The fruit of the fire tree is a
Shimmering star that, like a
Candle before a canvas, makes vivid its
Object: the red curtains that drape across
The arms of bark.
When the world grows weary of itself
At last, it takes the cold autumnal heat
Into its bosom and is burned to death.
Then the pure white snow will come
And melt, bringing the resurrection
Of the dead.
So burn on you trees of jaded green;
Burn on you shimmering stars!
May the burning snow rattle the bones
Planted by one, who in fear
and trembling, leaves the dead and looks
To Spring."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
(Update: This is a revised version of the original. The original can still be found posted on Facebook.)
Etch the features of the granite faces,
Monuments to moments lost in the dirt,
See how the leaves, drops of blood and gold,
Burn off the many names of the
Mossy stones.
See the trees of the cemetery!
See the sad green limbs and woody fingers
Bearing their burdens low,
With the chalky sky slowly creeping
Through the scars scratched
Between the leaves.
See the hands that hold their final
Sacrifice, a frail yet fine offering
For autumn's fires. See the shades
Of green, like a many faceted emerald,
Give way to the vibrant death
of fall.
See the golden blood sprinkled across
The doorposts of the earth, doors
Continually open to the winds of the
World, ever receiving and losing; green
Then gone.
See now! The fruit of the fire tree is a
Shimmering star that, like a
Candle before a canvas, makes vivid its
Object: the red curtains that drape across
The arms of bark.
When the world grows weary of itself
At last, it takes the cold autumnal heat
Into its bosom and is burned to death.
Then the pure white snow will come
And melt, bringing the resurrection
Of the dead.
So burn on you trees of jaded green;
Burn on you shimmering stars!
May the burning snow rattle the bones
Planted by one, who in fear
and trembling, leaves the dead and looks
To Spring."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
(Update: This is a revised version of the original. The original can still be found posted on Facebook.)
October 15, 2009
Nightlight
"A cloudy evening sky:
Smoky black, tinted purple,
Deep and dark like deadly pitch.
The only illumination is the
Electric orange glow of the
Chemical plant.
But in the west a dissipation
Appears, and in bleeds the night
Sky, a curious light, its ghostly
Gray hues shine like a beacon
Scratching through the silent
Ceiling.
It fades; the clouds resurge
Lazily, enveloping the sight in
Apathy. Yet the damage
Is done. I have seen behind
The smoky shell the edge
Of infinity.
Beyond the blanket that covers
This earthen bed lies the
Endless expanse, the great dance
Floor with innumerable participants
Twirling and twinkling
Without end."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
Smoky black, tinted purple,
Deep and dark like deadly pitch.
The only illumination is the
Electric orange glow of the
Chemical plant.
But in the west a dissipation
Appears, and in bleeds the night
Sky, a curious light, its ghostly
Gray hues shine like a beacon
Scratching through the silent
Ceiling.
It fades; the clouds resurge
Lazily, enveloping the sight in
Apathy. Yet the damage
Is done. I have seen behind
The smoky shell the edge
Of infinity.
Beyond the blanket that covers
This earthen bed lies the
Endless expanse, the great dance
Floor with innumerable participants
Twirling and twinkling
Without end."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
October 14, 2009
Moonlight and Me
"As my eyes grow accustomed to
This midnight hour, the dark
Hues of the shadows deepen,
And I am troubled to learn
That the night is darkest when
It is brightest.
The moonlight is a curious thing:
Its light seems to be still.
It sits, like its source, without
Motion or gesture, bathing all
Without effort.
Moonbeams are lazy. Daylight
Is not so: it seems to dance
And romance everything that it
Touches, enriching all
With its fire.
But the silv'ry spill of that great
White throne covers all like a
Man collapsing into his bed. He will
Not be moved until the morning
Bids him 'Come'.
Yet never has something so
Static been so alive, enchanting
What it lands on: the billowy
Foliage of the near oak tree
Seems to me a giant; its branches
A low leaning hand.
The grass is given faces: every
Shadowy crevice is the rim of
Some eye or mouth. They gaze
At the tops of the trees, at the
Lingering giant, their mouths agape
As though to speak.
How I wish that they would speak!
That the lazy moonbeam magic might
Animate leaf and bark, and that the
Distant creaking that I hear would be
The old bones of the oak baron bending
Down to greet me.
But those creaks and crashes
Are but the fall of the dead
Branches: too heavy to remain,
Though leafless. They strike the dirt
Without a word.
The moon has magic; just not
The kind that I am looking for.
One day the trees will talk
By the light of the moon. They
Shall answer the grass and me
At last.
For now, let the silent influence
Fall where it may, like snow
The night before it melts.
I shall enjoy the stillness
Before the daylight wakes
And bids me 'Come'."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
This midnight hour, the dark
Hues of the shadows deepen,
And I am troubled to learn
That the night is darkest when
It is brightest.
The moonlight is a curious thing:
Its light seems to be still.
It sits, like its source, without
Motion or gesture, bathing all
Without effort.
Moonbeams are lazy. Daylight
Is not so: it seems to dance
And romance everything that it
Touches, enriching all
With its fire.
But the silv'ry spill of that great
White throne covers all like a
Man collapsing into his bed. He will
Not be moved until the morning
Bids him 'Come'.
Yet never has something so
Static been so alive, enchanting
What it lands on: the billowy
Foliage of the near oak tree
Seems to me a giant; its branches
A low leaning hand.
The grass is given faces: every
Shadowy crevice is the rim of
Some eye or mouth. They gaze
At the tops of the trees, at the
Lingering giant, their mouths agape
As though to speak.
How I wish that they would speak!
That the lazy moonbeam magic might
Animate leaf and bark, and that the
Distant creaking that I hear would be
The old bones of the oak baron bending
Down to greet me.
But those creaks and crashes
Are but the fall of the dead
Branches: too heavy to remain,
Though leafless. They strike the dirt
Without a word.
The moon has magic; just not
The kind that I am looking for.
One day the trees will talk
By the light of the moon. They
Shall answer the grass and me
At last.
For now, let the silent influence
Fall where it may, like snow
The night before it melts.
I shall enjoy the stillness
Before the daylight wakes
And bids me 'Come'."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
October 8, 2009
In Church
"Within these warm milky walls
Where hangs the brazen fixtures
With spheres of light, specks of white,
There hangs the satin curtain
Red like wine, dark like blood.
Upon it lies the golden icon,
The emblem of the amalgam
Of suffering and joy.
The rain clouds outside make
Gray the tall windows, but
The voice of the violin within
Warms like a fire in its hearth.
And as the bread and blood
Passes from mouth to mouth,
I pray that beauty and holiness
Adorns this house forever."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
Where hangs the brazen fixtures
With spheres of light, specks of white,
There hangs the satin curtain
Red like wine, dark like blood.
Upon it lies the golden icon,
The emblem of the amalgam
Of suffering and joy.
The rain clouds outside make
Gray the tall windows, but
The voice of the violin within
Warms like a fire in its hearth.
And as the bread and blood
Passes from mouth to mouth,
I pray that beauty and holiness
Adorns this house forever."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
October 1, 2009
A Car Ride
"The sky slides slowly along,
Its clouds like a great stone wall
Etched with snow-filled cracks
And stained with indigo oils
Along the edges.
The last lingering glow of daylight,
A river of golden copper,
Underscores the solemn shroud
That sits like sackcloth on the
Shoulders of the sky.
And at the pinnacle peak of
That gray sky plane, a flare
Of white creeps along like frost
That clings to the car windows
In the cold.
The darkest shades of the sky
Spread far and wide like the feathers
Of some great and terrible bird
Of the night, chasing the sun
From her nest.
The gray cloud curtain holds
Bumps and bubbles like the
Laminate sticker that just won't
Hold its grip to the edge of the
Foggy glass.
A burst of orange on the horizon!
The high hilly clouds still hold
The daylight on their crests like
Crowns of fire, jewels beyond the
Wealth of kings.
The fiery hills peek out from
Amongst the deadened gray.
Their wispy influence stains
The sky with flakes of bronze
Warmly bright.
The burning snow of those highest hills
Puts to light all the blues and
Deeper hues of the granite vault.
The snow-tops burn quickly, like
Most fires do.
A gash of white streaks across;
Like a steam-filled crevice, its airy
Contents reach higher than its
Source, and inch into every nook that
They can find.
The darkest blues raise like a wave
Their presence, but halt their
Advance and linger without one
Word. They are fearsome, friendly,
And silent.
One great and dark cloud,
Like a spot of ink, hovers over
As a hooded specter lost in
Thought, its song made still by
Its hesitation.
The night now comes and colors all
With coal tinted blue; hinted through
The smokey puffs, the meager moon,
Like a headlight in mist, offers its
Blurry light.
And in the distance, beyond the edge
Where the night crawls and claws
Like a shadow across the ceiling,
The golden ribbon lingers just beyond
Billowy mountain tops."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
Its clouds like a great stone wall
Etched with snow-filled cracks
And stained with indigo oils
Along the edges.
The last lingering glow of daylight,
A river of golden copper,
Underscores the solemn shroud
That sits like sackcloth on the
Shoulders of the sky.
And at the pinnacle peak of
That gray sky plane, a flare
Of white creeps along like frost
That clings to the car windows
In the cold.
The darkest shades of the sky
Spread far and wide like the feathers
Of some great and terrible bird
Of the night, chasing the sun
From her nest.
The gray cloud curtain holds
Bumps and bubbles like the
Laminate sticker that just won't
Hold its grip to the edge of the
Foggy glass.
A burst of orange on the horizon!
The high hilly clouds still hold
The daylight on their crests like
Crowns of fire, jewels beyond the
Wealth of kings.
The fiery hills peek out from
Amongst the deadened gray.
Their wispy influence stains
The sky with flakes of bronze
Warmly bright.
The burning snow of those highest hills
Puts to light all the blues and
Deeper hues of the granite vault.
The snow-tops burn quickly, like
Most fires do.
A gash of white streaks across;
Like a steam-filled crevice, its airy
Contents reach higher than its
Source, and inch into every nook that
They can find.
The darkest blues raise like a wave
Their presence, but halt their
Advance and linger without one
Word. They are fearsome, friendly,
And silent.
One great and dark cloud,
Like a spot of ink, hovers over
As a hooded specter lost in
Thought, its song made still by
Its hesitation.
The night now comes and colors all
With coal tinted blue; hinted through
The smokey puffs, the meager moon,
Like a headlight in mist, offers its
Blurry light.
And in the distance, beyond the edge
Where the night crawls and claws
Like a shadow across the ceiling,
The golden ribbon lingers just beyond
Billowy mountain tops."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
September 23, 2009
Someone Asked Me Why I Read
"Line upon line, precept upon precept,
Image upon image, theme upon theme;
Conceits and words wedded together
Fall soft along the sharpened beam
Of light, the white refracted blade.
The empty page, like mirror of nickel,
Catches the falling coals of fire:
Rose red petals, cracked like a jewel
Whose facets house the sunset's orange.
The page, a drum the embers strike;
Its vibrations send sparks flying upwards.
Breathed in, purging tongue and mind and soul,
They fit a fool for the enfolding Flame;
His language fire, and Love His name."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
Image upon image, theme upon theme;
Conceits and words wedded together
Fall soft along the sharpened beam
Of light, the white refracted blade.
The empty page, like mirror of nickel,
Catches the falling coals of fire:
Rose red petals, cracked like a jewel
Whose facets house the sunset's orange.
The page, a drum the embers strike;
Its vibrations send sparks flying upwards.
Breathed in, purging tongue and mind and soul,
They fit a fool for the enfolding Flame;
His language fire, and Love His name."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
August 20, 2009
Sonnet for the Dusk that I Saw From My Car
"Blue sky, bed soft; purple rimmed, peach and gold
Crease the angel's pouting face. Billowed wings
Lined with sunset scene: an orange disk. I'm told
It burns out colors like fire does smoke; sings
"Its rays like the marching band in the street:
Trumps blow; drums roll beneath the burning blue
Of sky and cloud, in celebration; feet
Stamp in exaltation. They know what's true.
"Sound is true. The sound of the sun. The burn
Of its light, symphony of sight. The night
Lets stars take up the bars. For now we turn
To the dusk's deep dance; trance of color. Right
"Now the band creeps on; the road is silent,
But dusk is not. It asks us what it meant."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
September 25, 2008
Echoes of Heaven: Love Comes with a Rattling Sound
"Sold out souls,
Hollowed out holes
Scattered, shattered,
Forgotten forever on the
Wasteland.
"We are the wounds in the world where
Endless slings and arrows have been hurled
And disappeared.
Do not stand too close,
Lest ye fall in
And disappear as well.
"I am a broken man,
My bones left out to dry;
Our bones made bare to all.
Death is our only parade.
"Love comes with a rattling sound,
With a mighty noise
Like the wind.
It fills up the ground
With a rattling sound,
With a mighty noise
Like the wind.
"Fill up the barrenness,
Fill up the wilderness,
Fill up the dry earth.
Fill up all the sticks and stones
And all the broken bones
Forgotten forever on the
Wasteland.
"Love comes with a rattling sound,
With a mighty noise
Like the wind."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2008
Hollowed out holes
Scattered, shattered,
Forgotten forever on the
Wasteland.
"We are the wounds in the world where
Endless slings and arrows have been hurled
And disappeared.
Do not stand too close,
Lest ye fall in
And disappear as well.
"I am a broken man,
My bones left out to dry;
Our bones made bare to all.
Death is our only parade.
"Love comes with a rattling sound,
With a mighty noise
Like the wind.
It fills up the ground
With a rattling sound,
With a mighty noise
Like the wind.
"Fill up the barrenness,
Fill up the wilderness,
Fill up the dry earth.
Fill up all the sticks and stones
And all the broken bones
Forgotten forever on the
Wasteland.
"Love comes with a rattling sound,
With a mighty noise
Like the wind."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2008
September 18, 2008
Echoes of Heaven: Our Burning
"Love is the movement; love is a revolution. This is redemption: we don't have to slow back down." -Switchfoot
"Cursed to be paused:
Allowed neither the dignity of slow motion,
Nor the possibilities of neutral;
Only stillness and static
Forevermore.
"I know why the lowest pit
Is ice:
Life is in motion;
If you are frozen, what good are you?
You are dead, and good for nothing;
To be cast out,
And trodden under the feet of men.
"I would take fire over ice.
Fire is motion; burning is life.
If I am to be in the pit,
Oh God, let me burn and not freeze!
"Is there no fire in Heaven?
No divine dancing sparks
With which to have and to hold
Till death do us bind?
Is damnation my only hope?
Can I burn in Heaven
As well as Hell?
"Does holiness burn?
Does it burn at the touch
Like a sword through the skin?
Like a nail through the hand?
Holiness is a fire
Spilt like blood;
Blood so amazing,
So divine.
"No news is never good news.
No news is stillness;
Good news is motion.
What good news is there?
The sparks have danced with the dust,
Holy blood has burned the stillness and static
Forevermore.
"They dance,
They burn,
With us,
Forevermore.
"Silence, oh static stillness;
Love burns eternal.
All things, great and small,
Menial and monumental,
The dust, and the Divine,
And the damned,
All move to Empyrean Love.
In thus we live and move
And have our burning."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2008
"Cursed to be paused:
Allowed neither the dignity of slow motion,
Nor the possibilities of neutral;
Only stillness and static
Forevermore.
"I know why the lowest pit
Is ice:
Life is in motion;
If you are frozen, what good are you?
You are dead, and good for nothing;
To be cast out,
And trodden under the feet of men.
"I would take fire over ice.
Fire is motion; burning is life.
If I am to be in the pit,
Oh God, let me burn and not freeze!
"Is there no fire in Heaven?
No divine dancing sparks
With which to have and to hold
Till death do us bind?
Is damnation my only hope?
Can I burn in Heaven
As well as Hell?
"Does holiness burn?
Does it burn at the touch
Like a sword through the skin?
Like a nail through the hand?
Holiness is a fire
Spilt like blood;
Blood so amazing,
So divine.
"No news is never good news.
No news is stillness;
Good news is motion.
What good news is there?
The sparks have danced with the dust,
Holy blood has burned the stillness and static
Forevermore.
"They dance,
They burn,
With us,
Forevermore.
"Silence, oh static stillness;
Love burns eternal.
All things, great and small,
Menial and monumental,
The dust, and the Divine,
And the damned,
All move to Empyrean Love.
In thus we live and move
And have our burning."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2008
September 11, 2008
Echoes of Heaven: Beautiful Defilement
"The divine has danced with the dust.
How shall we survive such a touch?
From dust we came; to this Dust we must go,
Or return to the dustbin
As ashes to ashes."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2008
How shall we survive such a touch?
From dust we came; to this Dust we must go,
Or return to the dustbin
As ashes to ashes."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2008
August 24, 2008
Echoes of Heaven: Sacrament
"Broken vessels are where His grace
Fills up the cracks of shattered cups
And makes chalices fit for kings and royal hands.
And what is more basic then a cup?
What is more plain then a cup of cold water?
"What is more basic then blood?
More visceral? More base? More vulgar?
Yet in this thing is the life of men.
These things, cups and blood,
Are the things that save our lives.
Baseness and vulgarity are holy things.
"If you are whole already, healthy and clean,
Then depart from us, ye cursed!
There is no place for you
In the presence of holy things;
No place for grace to fill you;
No rags to trade for righteousness."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2008
Fills up the cracks of shattered cups
And makes chalices fit for kings and royal hands.
And what is more basic then a cup?
What is more plain then a cup of cold water?
"What is more basic then blood?
More visceral? More base? More vulgar?
Yet in this thing is the life of men.
These things, cups and blood,
Are the things that save our lives.
Baseness and vulgarity are holy things.
"If you are whole already, healthy and clean,
Then depart from us, ye cursed!
There is no place for you
In the presence of holy things;
No place for grace to fill you;
No rags to trade for righteousness."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2008
March 31, 2008
Echoes of Heaven: Let My Bones Burn
"Let my bones burn whenever they see
Another pretty face, or a fragile flower,
Or the cold mountains in the blaze of dawn.
Let the restless rattling rage, lest they rest without You.
"Let my bones burn as I fumble about
This sensuous curtain, bumbling about
Like a blind man in a fog, double blind,
Unable to even see shadows as they are.
"Let my bones burn until I tell
All that there is to tell in this tale that
I find half-told and unfinished, with an end
I shall never know, until I am known.
"Let my bones burn to a crisp
If I foolishly fall into fakes and forgeries
And dare say that this is Thou.
This is Thou; yet this is not Thou.
"Seeing many, may I see One.
Of a sea of faces, burn One into me.
Let it burn, lest I forget it; let it burn,
So I know that I am known.
Let it burn in my bones forever."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2008
Another pretty face, or a fragile flower,
Or the cold mountains in the blaze of dawn.
Let the restless rattling rage, lest they rest without You.
"Let my bones burn as I fumble about
This sensuous curtain, bumbling about
Like a blind man in a fog, double blind,
Unable to even see shadows as they are.
"Let my bones burn until I tell
All that there is to tell in this tale that
I find half-told and unfinished, with an end
I shall never know, until I am known.
"Let my bones burn to a crisp
If I foolishly fall into fakes and forgeries
And dare say that this is Thou.
This is Thou; yet this is not Thou.
"Seeing many, may I see One.
Of a sea of faces, burn One into me.
Let it burn, lest I forget it; let it burn,
So I know that I am known.
Let it burn in my bones forever."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2008
March 6, 2008
Echoes of Heaven: Old Man of the Hills
Within the fog-cloaked hills of the Appalachians, just about ten miles north of Williamsburg, Kentucky, there walks a lone old man, thin and sturdy, like a withered tree. He walks a path worn and torn by many years of his endless, relentless trodding. In his right hand he holds a sapling; in his left hand he wields a shovel. His balding head is covered by a grey fedora, his back and shoulders by a thick, grey coat, and his hands and feet smell of earth. There is a wiry smile on his face, and a slow, comfortable stride to his step, the heels and soles of his feet caressing the ground with a familiarity that has been well earned. The farther up he went, the further the fog clothed him in an odd robe of splendor, single-colored, a fitting addition to the man as the man was to it. As he walked, it was as though he slowly and silently gave himself up to the fog, to the hills, to the earth, all the while holding a tree in one hand and wielding a shovel in the other. Unperceivable to the naked eye was that strange and holy fellowship between man and nature in which all the trees are his brothers and a walk through the hills is the communion of saints.
His walks into the hills are a might matter of legend to the people of
The children, however, had the most interesting stories. One boy said he buried treasure where he planted trees; he always talked about going up there and finding some of it. Another said that he buried the dead bodies of victims he had ceremoniously axed to death; he said he’d write a story about it some day. One little girl said that the man had lived forever and had planted the trees on all the hills, that he kept the hills alive. Whatever the story (or lack thereof), however, no one ever thought to simply ask the man what he was doing, or (even better) follow him up that hill, along that worn path, and see for themselves what things he hath done. That no one asks is sad; the stories are becoming fewer and fewer, the children more and more indifferent. The fog recedes higher into the hills these days; the old man must walk farther every year, but he is not weary. His stride is ever faithful, his face ever friendly, his grip ever firm as he holds a tree in one hand, and wields a shovel in the other.
February 21, 2008
Echoes of Heaven: Magic
"It never comes when you look for it,
But only on its own terms,
On its own time,
In its own way.
To seek it is to lose it.
"It's silent, then sudden,
Like a stab in the dark
From a friendly fiend
Trying to make us remember what we forgot.
To lose it is to seek it.
"You hate it when it comes to you:
Its pains are too deep, too heavy, too eternal.
You hate it when it goes from you:
Its pleasures are too sweet, too joyous, too eternal.
May they ever end and never stop.
"Oh to place the pool that runs these rivers!
Oh to find the fountain that sends these streams!
Will I ever find that exalted ocean,
Of priceless pearls and unglittering gold,
And drown forever beneath its waves?"
-Jon Vowell (c) 2008
But only on its own terms,
On its own time,
In its own way.
To seek it is to lose it.
"It's silent, then sudden,
Like a stab in the dark
From a friendly fiend
Trying to make us remember what we forgot.
To lose it is to seek it.
"You hate it when it comes to you:
Its pains are too deep, too heavy, too eternal.
You hate it when it goes from you:
Its pleasures are too sweet, too joyous, too eternal.
May they ever end and never stop.
"Oh to place the pool that runs these rivers!
Oh to find the fountain that sends these streams!
Will I ever find that exalted ocean,
Of priceless pearls and unglittering gold,
And drown forever beneath its waves?"
-Jon Vowell (c) 2008
Echoes of Heaven: Into the Ever After
"I come to the edge of all things,
Beyond the fragments of the shattered sky,
Beyond the vanished horizon and dried ocean,
Beyond the cold clouds, beyond the burning blue,
Beyond all learning and yearning,
Into the Ever After.
I take it in,
and am consumed."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2008
Beyond the fragments of the shattered sky,
Beyond the vanished horizon and dried ocean,
Beyond the cold clouds, beyond the burning blue,
Beyond all learning and yearning,
Into the Ever After.
I take it in,
and am consumed."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2008
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