“The Peace, That Is

“The Peace, That Is”

The peace that is, some sense of fortune, love

Of life, that is, the promises that dwell in hearts
Whose beacon is the present.  Darts
And shafts, phantoms’ arrows, doves
Of superstition and the flights of eagles not yet dreamed
Become the weights of weariness, embellished chains of thoughts,
Of past and distant memories; all these are. The nought’s
Outweigh the should’s, the clarion chorus of what seems
Will drown the melody of what is as patently, the past
Is nothing more than magnification of future’s cold deception.
Certainly, who’s to know but that at conception
What was sure to be could never really last
And what endures is petrified in quicksands of false alarms
Because we dwell so near the morning’s light and yet so far.

3 responses to ““The Peace, That Is

  1. “Because we dwell so near the morning’s light and yet so far.”
    Beautiful ending to this poem .

    I must confess, I also appreciate the absence of obscurity of the whole poem, perhaps more so because english is not my mother language (which is french – trying to decipher is also a pleasure anyway!).

    I always love your rhythm though, and the fulguration of images, as well as the fact that, from a simple incident or an trivial observation, your poems launch your readers into meditating about life and death and spirituality .

    Thank you,


    • Your remarks are so kind, Lou. From what I can glean from what you say and have said in previous notes, you apparently appreciate the obvious in Creation that to the physical eye is far from evident or obvious, but to the inner sight―the “thing” we are that is watching all that is both in front and behind our own eyeballs―almost goes without saying, or worse, is better left unsaid. With anything of worth in this world, there is a kind of effortlessness in admitting that the whole experience of life is beyond comprehension but, at the same time what is certain and eternal as the premonition that the sun will soon rise on yet another morning and another day and that when it does, we will discover that in fact we live but one long morning in this world, the dawn of what is just as certain to follow in the next. The demarcation of days with seven names or months with names almost as absurd as those of the days, and decades of years of habit and ritual to be recorded only for the convenience of historians and biographers in case something of note occurs in this world, all of this and more while we are here pales in the glory of what eternity surely is…

      …But perhaps, Lou, as Pascal put it, “Je vous écris une longue lettre parce que je n’ai pas le temps d’en écrire une courte.” It was an uplifting thing to hear from you.

      • Ah! Merci beaucoup pour la longue lettre!
        To keep faith in the glory of eternity is not always easy in our self-centered often mortiferous society, but I think that protecting that little flickering light of hope in our heart and acting accordingly will make us better humans, ready for a transfiguration in God.
        When all’s said, it is a question of trust. We must try and be humble in order to trust . Then we’ll feel ourselves in His capable hands. In peace.

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