Charlie Glendinning
A hidden path,
Trod naught save prints of saints gone by;
And by the phosphor of their step --
A guiding light
For such as I.
No mark, no blaze,
Save these in crusted earth to show,
The way less traveled -- lesser still
Desired by aught
At play below.
This sainted path
Has trespassed on another's land
Who bought it from the fools who walk --
How vanity has
Loosed the hand!
This Watcher's land
Full sown with thorns to tear the flesh,
And narcoleptic flora's scent
The soul to snare
Through mind enmeshed.
And roots he tends,
By gleaning thoughts of bitterness;
To halt our journey through his land
And trip the foot
Of happiness.
How vanity
Has shorn the soul of indwelt power
And raped the lock of glory's crown
It's glories own
But for the hour.
This vanity
Plucks out the eye's reality
That sees and sees, yet does not see
This folly of
Insanity,
Where what we love
And tend with covetous heart most high
Falls in the dirt -- and stranger still
Becomes the root
To trip us by.
Insidious.
The Watcher tends another vine
Of beauty, fair beyond the word --
How hasty hearts
Can fool the mind.
The lustful eye,
Enrapt by beauteous vine's deceit
Has deigned that root to pierce and spew
Adulterous seeds
That sate conceit.
Then unto us
A vine is born, indigenous.
Of bitter seed and ovum's gall;
The offspring of
Feigned righteousness.
The Watcher rests.
His job complete, we take the rein
And tend the vine that eats our souls.
O, civil war's
Uncivil pain!
O, how he laughs --
The Watcher as he views this cirque
The naked boy atop the tree
Sees each eat each
And gut the Kirk.
The steps lead on.
I cannot stagnate in this place.
The way grows hard -- and thicker still
This vine of pride
That shrouds my face.
In misspent rage
I rip the vine that clouds my sight
But joy fills one who likes to Watch
The vine grow up
Near overnight.
So thicker grows
The legion of his progeny
And strongholds gaind through lust of pride's
Connubial
Polygamy
'Til in the end
The house swept clean should ne'er been built
If doors be op'ed to demon spawn
And rooms be filled
With seeds he spilt.
Hark! Sainted ones!
Speak from these footprints on the path;
And guide me to the Word who breaks
This vicious sphere
Of sin and death.
I hear a song;
So faint and distant Moses sings;
A song of Mera's bitter pool
The tree: ex crucio
Sweetness brings.
And serpent raised
Hangs from the staff as bronze on high;
Its healing in the bitter pill
Of swallowed pride.
"How sweet!" I cry.
This bitter vine
Becomes the food to feed my soul --
Becomes my balm in Gilead
To kill the root
And make me whole.
O precious Christ!
Your grace unbound through wounds I share.
Your blood flows fresh from empty cross
And kills the pride
That put you there.
God bless, Charlie