THE HIGHER SELF
Bob Ludden
http://www.essex1.com/people/robert/
We live beneath a blowing stream
To which our consciousness pays tribute
Now and then, and sings a rhapsody
Which always trails off
To some oblivion, self-made perhaps,
Recovered in a dream, or
Scrawled on tissue, and
Performed again
by weak-eyed songsters,
apathetic to the vision
mothering its birth.
Yet, there are times that melody
Will sing itself, and bound around
This drama of our sojourn here,
To fit the niche carved out by forces scarce defined
By you or me, or God, for all we know.
The song is truly ours,
A cosmic bank account,
Backed by credits we could never store.
Ours alone to use,
(Not always when we will).
But we can cock our heads and listen more.
To sense the riches there!!
An endless rush it is, without incipience
--Aligned toward some unknown cynosure.
And I would breathe a prayer of thanks
For high adventure, nothing less,
And celebrate this spirit hurricane
With shouts of jubilance....and awe.
Just so, another mystery is ours,
And mystics we become as by default.
Would we be gods?
No better course there is for any man
than standing by in conscious readiness
to feel upon his face this wind...
This personal resource no other man can sense
Or ever understand...
This mighty Breath of God.
