Poetry

Faithful In The Fear

The Boat

the one that felt so strong and big

feels shrunken

and flimsy.

 

The Push

from sitting blithely in a meadow

to staring over a precipice into – what?

The cliff was always there

but so often out of sight

and out of mind.

 

The Pride

our playgrounds built at the top of Maslow’s Pyramid

we stare at them through windows

and sense the spectre

of real, not imagined, scarcity.

 

But, God.

 

The Truth

of His power made perfect in weakness

is witnessed

in collateral beauty

that begins to grow like shoots

through cracked tarmac.

 

The Wings

of safety yet adventure spread

over the abyss

ready to catch

ready to soar to unknown height.

 

The Boat

was never what really mattered.

Instead the Man, the God,

who made the waves

who made my soul

and says to both

“Quiet. Be still.”

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