Poetry is to the ear what art is to the eye
©1996-1998, C. Jeff Richardson

[ ARTINYOURHANDS ]
[ s l o w t i m e ]
[ j o u r n e y ]
[ h e a r t t o b r e a k ]

[ a b b a ]
[ 2 a m ]
[ y o u a r e I A M ]

[ t h e w a l k ]
[ i R e m e m b e r ]
[ DAYSTOHOLD ]

[ v o i c e s ]
[ i e r u s a l e m ]
[ p r a h a ]

[ p o e m s & L i n k s ]




















did I hear voices that day?

wind curls around like a serpent's coils;
with biting cold it snaps my hands;
the distance surrounds me and closes me in,
for a moment in - outside of - time;
and from my craggy overlook I see
mountains cloaked in downy snow
like a lady's wrap of softened wool;
and all the world is standing here
it seems -
waiting;
waiting
for some better way, perhaps?
or some kinder answer to come?

the peaks with granite countenance raise a brow and shrug,
"have they not heard That Voice
that called us to exist?"
the clouds - though shy today - whisper back,
"or commands our comings and goings?"

did I hear voices that day?

the rocks cried out -
and the sky spoke;
the wind bellowed from an airy belly in blustery silence
as he tickled my ears
with a secret he longed to tell;

there were voices, to be sure
and they rang with baritone timbre
and rich, full tone
yet like a young girl's alto they gathered
to my ear
like all the voices that ever were or would be,
they spoke the thoughts of newborn
babes and old men;
some so shocking that we would never bear
their telling;
some so tender - tears leapt at their hearing;

with simple truth the voices spoke -
with a knife-edged glee
that cut away my prejudice,
they brushed aside my confidence in Reason;
they simply spoke,
and I was a child in the presence of the schoolmaster;
like a blinded prisoner brought to the morning's light -
I longed to cover my eyes,
but longed even more
to see

some have never heard;
some hear but laugh in mock disbelief -
with darting eyes and loud-mouthed curses;
unsure if the voices are true,
or some tell-tale precursor of an awakening madness;
or better, still, an ancient fear -
a primitive superstition;
or perhaps just Chance - man's favorite totem -
pointlessly pounding against
the timpani of time

but I heard voices that day
they were unafraid and free -
free to believe
and to abandon themselves;
and free to shout only to join the Shouting;
for no other reason;
in spite of Reason;
and I heard the voice within me
cry out to be set free,
to join with the voices in this unrestrained chorus
to lift up my voice with the Voices
and if I would not, if I would not,
the rocks would still cry out
and not be lessened by my silence;
indeed, only I would be the lesser
ignorant in my reason;
fearful in my confidence;
lost in my independence

written 1/15/96

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i    t e l l    y o u
i f    y o u    k e e p    q u i e t
t h e    s t o n e s
w i l l    c r y    o u t









In the Shadow of the Cross

















o jerusalem,
jerusalem,
...how often I have longed
to gather your children together,
...but you were not willing!

Ierusalem, Ierusalem, convertere ad Dominum Deum Tuum

little lives lived in desperate moments

living is a thing we do
between the cradle and the grave
but life is often spent in one or the other
never between

can it be that we flee the light for
fear of revelation or submission?

would we truly rather
reign in Hell than serve in Heaven?

do we flee the dark for
fear of facing ourselves as we really are?

would we hide our faces from ourselves?

or perhaps we live in a gray neither;
never between;
shun the light,
fear the dark,
embrace the gray;
an answer?
perhaps;
but a life it cannot be

Ierusalem, Ierusalem, convertere ad Dominum Deum Tuum

written 3/10/96

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Praha

dimlit streets of gray-yellow stone
evening's shadows dancing in puddles
of afternoon showers' reminders
I walk along the St. Charles' Bridge
while the river rolls by
and time stands still

riverside artists peddle their fare
with smiles and grins and
pleading - subtle but desperate
while sunlight illumines
long-dead saints
and puppeteers play with giggly children
in the path to
crowded cafe's and jewelry markets

and I, I feel like an old man walking with
a young man's stride
in a city decorated with age and dignity
like a woman with silver and gold
in a city that breathes again the breath of youth

written in June, 1995

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a slower pace of time

in distant-from-home places
with emotionless chairs
and crumpled shirttails
the clock, he moves, yes, he moves
but he stares as he does
and time takes his sweet time
no hurry

half-dreamt images of home
dance in the brief in-between seconds
of an eye-batting yawn or
full-body stretch
a baby a wife a Saturday's couch
these are the mortar and brick of a life
a life spent too often
in distant-from-home places
with emotionless chairs
and a half-smiling clock

written 13 June, 1996

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A Journey Too Far

A soul so bruised and battered
Tossed about in Doubt and Fear
World-worried; turned in anguish
Longing only to be drawn near
But answers are hard to come by
And peace a fleeting dream
Comfort seems a ghostly shadow
And hope a distant gleam

But is there no soul-harbor?
No rest for weary minds?
Is the desert of wandering
A landscape for all time?
Or is the arid wilderness
A purifying fire?
A proving ground of sorts
To test the soul's desire?

Some learn to mask the questions
That, unbidden, rise to view
Some seek to hid their faces
From self-revealing truths
But the heart of human reason
Speaks in tandem with Nature's voice
That life here has purpose
And humanity has freedom of choice

written 16 July, 1996

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A Heart to Break

There is a room in every heart
a sanctuary dark and safe;
and in that room from all apart
we hide the things we can't replace

And some have dared - but very few -
to open wide their hearts
to let some lover their solace view;
and bared their souls without regard

But I had seen such passion played
across the faces of broken men
and sought to guard this holy place;
and gave my strength to its defense

But there is a peace that costs too much,
and an ease that proves untrue;
and things can make these fortress walls
a prisoner's cell; a white-washed tomb

So I spoke to you with cautious tones
and you answered without pretense,
but still I felt I'd said too much
my words are my self-defense

But I would choose to be with you
here in this holy place
and in this room to share with you
the things I can't replace

And at this altar bare at last
I put this heart at stake
you can take these sacred things
and you can have this heart to break

written 9/9/96

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A Home In Days

meloncholy glances of would-be lovers
pass away through painful ignominy,
lost in the shuffle of everyday, everyday

moving like cool cream through a thought, a dream
time lilts gently it seems
but time charges on, on at its heady pace
unencumbered by lost chances, furtive glances

and as the night rests his weary back against a groaning sky
somber tones of days gone by suspended in the crisp air
hold my countenance for brief moment - forever and then
I welcome the embrace of a comfortable warmth
with only a casual turn of a half-bowed head
and reside in everyday, everyday

written 11/7/95

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Abba

Know me fully, now, Abba.
And make known to me your presence.

But carefully.

I am still weak
And cowardly
And arrogant
And wretched
And I am unworthy.

Unworthy.

Cover me with the shadow of your wing
And draw me closer in my fear and misunderstanding.
Teach me your ways.
Remake me like Him;
My Brother;
My Savior.

And show me the More Perfect Way to love;
To Love.
That I can -
Not show it to others -
But be it to others.

And forgive my pitiable failures.
My vain attempts
To walk upright.
Let me lean,
Now,
Again,
Against your breast
And feel the beating of Your heart.

And let its gentle thunder
Enclose me
And surround me
And absorb me
Until my heart -
In its feeble, frightened timpanic pace -
Beats with Yours; and is Yours.

But most of all,
Abba,
Just be with me.

Not in metaphor;
But in reality.

Be closer than the next breath
I borrow from You.
Closer than the sin
I tumble over my tongue and contemplate.
Closer than the fears and doubts that dog my steps.

And if Your path leads now
In this wilderness a while longer;
I will stay, then.
Though I do not like the rugged roads
And long for those valleys of joy
In which You first revealed Yourself to me,
I will seek to walk with You.

You have the Words of Life, where else shall I go?

Bless You, Abba.
Bless You.
All that I am
(Little though it be!)
I offer to You.
I am not much of a follower -
And even less a leader.
And I do not understand Your love.
But I welcome it again.

Living springs wash over me.
White as snow.
White as snow.

Let the Fury surround me;
The Tempest snatch me up;
The Storm drench me in Its joyful outpouring;
Your Love take me and break me and make me again.

Through Him Who Is Worthy And Able.

1 March 1997
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2 AM

Bleary eyes, barely focused
and ears jerked awake by a cry;
Stumbled steps in the darkness
and muttered words with a sigh;
Tiny hands reaching out and up
and tear-filled eyes opened wide;
Grasping, clutching; spasmed breaths
finding, at last, my side;
And as quickly as the startling cry
and the frustration in its wake;
A peace and warmth washed over
and over my weariness breaks

3 March 1997
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You Are I AM

you are the air that I breathe,
and you are the circumstance;
you are the question I raise, and you the last dance;

the ground that I stand on
and the sky above
the ocean I drown in
and the pain I love

you are the voice in the darkness,
and you are the source of light;
you are the dream awaking,
and you are the sound of night;

the hand that I hold to
and the lie of the land
the lover I long for
and the desert sand

26 November 1996
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t h e W a l k

tumbling beams of golden sunlight
falling, careless, on the ground
seduce the eye with furtive glances
spinning, turning, up and around
and comes a cool and calming bluster
to dance amongst the browning leaves
filling, breathing sweet and simple
swaying in rhythm the green field trees

and in this solace held by nature
I fall into the well of time
there to wander through the chambers
of simpler days that wax sublime
time was then a hopeful drifter
who spoke in breathless, staccato tones
of grand adventures and of dragons
of misty mountains far from home

10 March 1997
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i Remember

you are the one
I remember
never before
and ever since
I have felt such seduction
overcome and lifted up
I consider
your love to be so recklessly
raging through my heart

you are the one
I desire
always at bay and ever since
I find in you a question
that I could never ask
but it's answer
is all I can require

you are the one
I rejected
deep in my soul in mocking breaths
I stayed your love again
in fear of revealing
I disguised
my fear for disbelief
but you have broken through
and swept my fear away

9 March 1997
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D a y s T o H o l d

In darker days a fleeting thought
of cloudless skies and wonders wrought
Might dance awhile in weightless time
and then be gone in silent rhyme

(dragons rage
and angels fell
to hear the secrets
we now tell

prophets speak
of coming days
when tears like dust
are blown away)

A brighter day from time to time
might respite feign to mortal minds
But I've heard it is a veil of tears
where we tread away our years

(dragons rage
and angels fell
to hear the secrets
we now tell

prophets speak
of coming days
when tears like dust
are blown away)

A final day ahead I know
will light the spark that yearns to glow
Within the breast of reckless souls
Where joy is birthed and mercy rolls

10 july 1997
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Art in Your Hands

at first i disregarded
my reaction to your gaze
and conjured hasty thoughts
to forget my awkward daze
but soon, again, it found me
and took me by surprise
and left me empty handed
with fear i could not disguise
      it seems to me i'm shaken
      when i look upon your face
      and am reminded how i've fallen
      and how i long to see that place
      that i knew before i remember
      and have forgotten in my fall from grace

    i am frightened when i listen
    to your laughter on the wind
    of the holy breath that flows in you
    that bids me let it in
    to blow away these massive walls
    of selfishness i've built
    to ride again the reckless waves
    and cast away my guilt

but the feeling of forgiveness
is often much to bear
i would owe so much to another
with nothing to compare
and the debt would grow until
my heart could be repaired

        as i hold your tiny hands
        i wonder at the art
        that is painted on our souls
        that the many have forgot
        the brushwork is still bright
        beneath the soot and stain
        and the holy wind is rushing
        to make it clean again

17 october 1997
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