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The Empty Cup The Spiritual Traveler
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 1.
My life is an empty cup
waiting, waiting
for one precious drop.
It is a smoldering fire
begging for fuel
that it may rise higher,
a seed unplanted
praying that its wish be granted.
It is a dream yet unfulfilled -
that one day I might know God's will,
upright stand,
and hearken to a clear command.
2.
My life is a slender thread.
I pull and pull,
unwind the spool,
until it's ended.
Meanwhile, such thread as mine
may have its uses,
though it draw abuses
from coarser rope and twine,
for every action
of my fingers
leaves a stitch
implanted -
a subtle satisfaction;
in their fabric lingers
that which
others take for granted.
3.
My life is an ocean strand
and memories lie on the sand,
washed each day by new experience
by a tide which comes I know not whence.
4.
My life is a placid pool
whose dulcet waters shimmer,
a lake so fresh and cool
I revel to bathe in her.
Each droplet is a jewel
from which I catch a glimmer,
a spark which means renewal
of awareness once much dimmer.
5.
My life is a raging torrent,
a sea of restless motion
constantly in ferment.
Nothing can calm
its hurtling current.
There is something in its temperament
so icy it refuses every balm.
Would that I had some respite sent
from a life so turbulent
its merest ripple is like a storm!
6.
My life is a quiet hour
spent within my room,
waiting for a knock upon the door
or the ring of a telephone.
Time to read some pages of a book
or to write a poem,
glancing in the mirror for a look
at how my face is worn.
But outside the battle rages,
the tempest and the storm
roar like lions in their cages,
paw like bulls with dagger horns.
So it is, throughout the ages,
that we lock ourselves up warm,
live our lives in gentle phases
while the world remains unknown.
7.
My life is a sudden shout
that does not reach a hearer;
before I can ask her to come nearer
she has turned about.
I think: "If my words were only clearer
they might leave less doubt,"
but whether out of fear, or
simply chance, they do not come out.
Thus, each shared moment
is dearer than the last,
til the echoes of my voice fade out.
8.
My life is a tangled chain
of pity, grief, and woe.
But there is no one to explain
what has made it so.
There is but one who could forge that chain;
it is myself, I know.
Yet there is none to whom I can complain,
on whom blame I can throw.
If I could set out on a quest,
unaided, all alone,
to separate each link from the rest
and bring them singly home,
then I would be like stout Cortez,
who, in his thirst for gold,
brought back with him more treasure chests
than the world could hold.
Thus, from a tangled history
of pity, grief, and woe,
I would wrest my victory
like the conquerors of long ago.
9.
The world is a spider's web;
our countless rules of conduct are its strands.
The spider has a steady step.
He never trips,
for he knows each and every inch
of the track on which he stands.
Alas, the unhappy fly, condemned
to lose her grip
and plunge into those tight-fastening bands
from which she cannot slip!
I am like that fly, my friend,
I ride a sinking ship...
Upon whatever seas it wends
its way, an encircling net
waits in some cloistered bay.
10.
My life is a naked blade
against whose razor edge
the world is parted,
a balustrade,
a rocky, mountain ledge
which casts its shadow on a sunlit glade,
and keeps its mystic spaces guarded.
Like the birds that nest within its shade,
flying over that ridge
before the sunlight fades,
their way uncharted,
if there ever was a creature made
that by such magic means
could thus invade, and
so sway my steely heart,
it need but perch upon my shoulder, word unsaid,
and my tragic arms
would sheathe their fusillade,
stung by the tender touch imparted.
11.
My life is a fragrant rose
of whose existence no one knows.
It spills its odor to the wind
and away that fragrance blows,
lost amid the freewheeling oxygen,
which garbs itself in scentless clothes.
Ah! if it but knew its sacrifice is not waste,
but sweet offering,
which the winds do taste,
and in its proffering
of such delicate perfume to the air
it makes a gift to God - a gift most rare!
12.
My life is an ancient script
writ upon a wrinkled sheet of parchment.
I think of all the times I've wept
that I could not decipher it,
as if without a key to fit
that might unlock my soul's compartment.
And yet, reading between the lines,
there is this much I can divine -
I know that others have lived lives like mine
in other lands and other times.
There is for every man a tongue he speaks
and one, inscrutable, which he seeks -
a timeless secret buried deep,
a meaning, to each discoverer unique.
I think this language, if it were spoken,
if its mysterious cache were opened,
would whisper to me like the ocean,
stir my blood like a magic potion,
engulf me with emotion,
soothe me like a fragrant lotion.
Then, like a man upon an island swept,
or one who a thousand years has slept
under the power of enchantment,
I'd vow never to forget,
to live my life without regret,
with joy, and with detachment. |
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Date Submitted:
2001-03-07 00:00:00 |
Copyright Information:
Copyright © The Spiritual Traveler, 2001 |
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