Old and New
by Jason Motsch
There are too many flowers to notice the weeds,
although at times weeds are beautiful.
Clothed in the finery of kings and queens,
the countryside gets a makeover every season.
The leaves are earrings decked out with God's finest jewels.
Why talk about death?
Whatever happened to transformation?
The longer I gaze into the heart of autumn
The more my spirit spills over into the air,
mingling with the canvas of the countryside and
warming by the fireside of the sun.
Change into the wonder dazzling the peace of nights
under Christ's watch and growing into the days of Pan's desire.
Ages past they knew what we know so let's continue
to dine with our ancestors on the food of old,
the stuff of today,
the masterpiece of creation.
Leaf
by Jason Motsch
I hold a trembling leaf in my hand
And with faithful abandon cast it to the wind.
The forge within is shaping the blade
Which is to carve a whole new sculpture
In my soul.
Further along the wooded path
The wind returns the leaf with a gentle gust nestling it in the branches
Of a nearby tree.
My spirit melds with Creation,
and flies to the air above where it
Sings with the birds of the sky.
The terrain below is a patchwork quilt
Of blessings and life.
I see the earthen vessel that has been
carved by the Unfolding- my life, my words,
My song.
Tree, forge, wind and dust now mingle
and begin to stitch up wounds godly within.
The throes of birthing pangs give way
to a new life envisioned in the reality of now.
Waters rush through the cascading fires of yesterday
wearing away at the canyon walls and forming new streams
that feed the Ocean Light.
I am a thing of the sea and breath in the liquid like
the holy eucharist of old, inebriated by the blood of Christ.
The mercurial ichor flows deep through the cosmos and I am but a drop
falling endlessly through space and time.
There is a quilt of stars reflecting the earthly foundation below.
And above, beyond, yet still within it all,
Is the nameless, endless, timeless
Source.
Railway
by Jason Motsch.
My mind is a railway station,
with many trains converging on the tracks.
Passengers spill out of cars and
Into the city where they live out their lives.
There are parts of town I have not visited for awhile,
Some way too much
And some not at all.
These travellers turned denizens form the body
Of my life.
Sometimes I am not cautious enough when
Inspecting for explosives.
Whole city blocks erupt in fearful destruction.
Jesus and Buddha have walked these streets
Handing out free food and I try to follow them
When I think of it.
But sometimes the sewers call and I am swimming in sludge.
All in all, though, its a city on a hill lit by the sun
and I am getting better at rooting out the gangs that roam
the alleyways looking for trouble.
My thoughts are living proof of successful missions
Into unrestful parts of the suburbs.
Neighborhood watch groups are set up now to police
the avenues of my being.
I let in a little of everything.
I am small.
I am tall.
I am human.
I am a traveller.
Movement
by Jason Motsch
I don't know if i am returning or departing
or resting at home dreaming.
the one of the ages has blown in from the east
and drives me toward the sun.
I feel it in the countryside bleeding from the
earth and trees, the waters and the rocks,
and in the flame within my heart.
I am always sitting at the well
waiting for the bucket to come up
out of the holy waters to renew my soul.
It has come.
