Dark.
Buried deep between sun-cast shadows,
these are the hours of dark.
Repeated, daily, cycled thru seasons
nature's reply to unspoken why’s.
But this night, the dark deepens, blanketing
even the glimmer of star-lit dreams.
All now clouded, funeral-shrouded,
thirty years erased in thirty hours;
The very hope of hope has died.
All has led to this, all leads away
seed of light buried deep in dark chasms.
In this moment, eternities away
from both dusk and dawn
I scream, cry, wonder why
that which I longed for, hope uncalled for,
dream of a life of love and light
has faded, flickered,
been blackened by death.
Buried deep, between sun-cast shadows,
this is the hour of Dark
Dawn.
Every day starts like every other,
beginnings birthed in darkness.
Sliver of moon, shiver of cold,
frosted blades piercing weary footsteps
In this hour, between worlds and time,
echoes of doom drown out heralds of hope.
The funeral pall lies heavy, still,
over the setting hope of a rising sun.
Obedience, folly, love, we know not which
compels us to this place, this point,
where we gather to remember
that which was,
under the heavy fog
of that which will never be.
But amongst these gardened graves
stands a beacon of light, beckoning
all to come, all to stand, all to see
this death of death, life of life…
The sun has risen.
Memorial to a memory now transformed
into a split-rock sanctuary, stone reborn.
Standing, walking, sprinting,
echoing out in radiant beams;
Dawn has come, light unlooked for
was here, is now, will be forever
celebrated not in a place,
but in the passing
of dark to dawn,
every day now sunday.
This day starts like no other,
Beginning birthed from darkness
Noon.
All has changed, all has remained;
All now normal, all now not.
How to dance, speak, divine
new meanings from the old same?
Where does one go, once they’ve walked
dark roads of hopeless sorrow
into sun-lit paths of glorious splendor?
Too short the time, too sharp the shift;
finite minds in an infinite drift.
Safety sought in wooden boats,
closed rooms with close friends,
grasping for anchored points and places
in a world suddenly set adrift,
turned and tossed on this sea of change,
set in motion by sun-swept waves.
Unexpected strength and power now
threatening to disturb, capsize, sink
the old, good and bad that it was,
under the tide of the unexpected new.
But the anchor is gone from this boat,
swallowed by fathomless depths.
Point of reference now found
neither on land or at sea, but in
the cracked side of the ancient rock;
space for a hand, holding fast
to the junction of was and will be.
Pain of death and joy of life
giving strength to the feeble hopes
of all who desperately, doubtingly,
plunge hand-first deep into
this anchored embodiment
of curtains torn, hope reborn.
All has changed, all has remained;
all now normal, all now not.
Seeds of new life sprouting
in the cracked side of the ancient rock
Night.
Night still comes, daily, setting sun
dipping behind distant curtains.
But the memory of that ancient dawn
that was, and yet will be,
overshadows and outshines,
colors temporal with hues divine.
Long though the nights may lay,
forever longer will day remain.
Now, in the hours of dark,
tears still come, pains still spasm,
but shadows dance across deepest black;
seeds of light, bright in dark chasms.
Night still comes, daily, but the setting sun
refracts heavenward star-lit dreams;
Dawn awaits, behind distant curtains.