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     Testament, p.1

       Pam Crane
An Anthology of Spiritual Poetry
by Pam Crane

Copyright 2017 Pam Crane

Thank you for downloading this free ebook.

<><><>Forward to Index of Poems<><><>

They Who Kiss Mind

to whom I do belong
to My
to My Self alone

My is a wide net cast
between time
hither and past

Self a sense of eye
in privacy

the blue nerve seen
through wax
is ice-keen

of uncommon kind
are they
who kiss mind

risk discovery in
Angels’ skin

the people of Light
behind my sight

we are the white-gold
We are very old

<><><>Forward to Index<><><>

The Return

In the holy of holies
in thick dark
smelling of birds and stone
my blind hand’s
the symbol of life

I have come back

my trails of
four thousand years
and all their images
twist to a single
focus, spin
to one fine brilliant vibrant
this Egypt
this temple
this soft dancing-ground
of yellow dogs
echoing sparrows
and buried shame

I have come back

in shadows
my long strange face
beholds me
The sun and my son
haunt me
in the reed baskets
jostling crushed notes, cats
cheap azure scarabs
ubiquitous images of my peerless wife

where is my city
flat hot dust a rubble of stones
between the holy cliff
and sun-caught sails
stare from donkey-back at the gates
of death that swallowed me
my hymns
my sweet children
flying and creeping creatures
all I knew

pilgrims cluster
in temples, in musty tombs
tracing my broken features in the torchlight
following with their finger-tips
fine rays
slim hands of the sun

I have come back
like the dog to its vomit
I cannot undo
cannot erase
cannot abase myself before my golden boy
weeping begging his pardon
cannot unmake
the silly myths of heretic as hero
nor can I dissuade
a thousand souls from wanting to be me

For I am he
stripped of imagination’s glamour
of eyes name scraped away
in the king list bones
regalia food for thieves

I am he
trapped in another life and pinioned
to this shock newsreel
ancient failure
abject penitent
powerless to plead
to all these enchanted eyes
my god delusion

Drowning in memory grasping
my own debris
as it passes
the last feather to outweigh
my guilty soul

<><><>Forward to Index<><><>

The Thrill of the Chase

I came in nineteen forty-three;
You are a child compared to me!
But every year we share a date
In January; we celebrate
Four seasons more since we were born
In late, ambitious Capricorn.

At eight, you’re racing in your Kart;
At eight I’m winning with my art
And then my writing - oh, the thrill
Of chasing prizes! Love it still.
But by the time you came to be
A champion driver in F3
I raced toward another goal,
The understanding of the soul.

Came the millennium, came F1
And Pluto transiting our Sun.
You diced with Kimi, Massa, Seb
As I went hunting on the web
For information, dates and times,
For synonyms and perfect rhymes.

One decade ended, one began;
From Oz to Yas you were The Man,
Jenson; you had chased and won
Your longed-for moment in the sun.
And I? ... was being born again
After the years and years of pain,
After my Jesus’ great surprise,
After so many fruitless tries
To greet the waiting world on-line,
I built a Site. Entirely mine.

Now I can hunt for distant friends,
And show them where my rainbow ends;
Share the excitement of this chase
To comprehend the human race
As tiny shards of the Divine
Through Sun and planet, arc and sign.

And you? ... are stepping from your car,
Drawn to where the athletes are.
Your F1 training made you trim
And super-fit to run and swim,
To cycle Riviera hills;
You still need racing and its thrills.
Another track, a wider smile,
Pushing your limits mile on mile.

What are we chasing? Money? Fame?
The fire inside us is the same,
Both driving - driven - for a prize
Which no amount of money buys:
The joy that yet again we’ve done
Our Maker proud - and it was fun!

<><><>Forward to Index<><><>


On my right, the voices of love and hope.
On my left, the voices of pain and war.
Between extremities there is so much scope
For the soul’s philosophising ; we can soar

On wings as angels - oh, how like a god!
Or fall beneath the bloody boot, the rod
Of iron, or the bitter ghosts of ice.
Be wary, Man, for God does not play dice.

<><><>Forward to Index<><><>

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