Scrantchum
Martians used to preach
Of days they’d reach
The earth
Now they’ve given up
Discovering what it is worth
- JF Sobecki ( !967)
- Inspired by the nonsense word “Scrantchum” coined by the late DJ Dan Ingram
“If you comprehend it, it is not God”
- St. Augustine
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Witness the wonder.
The sun rising illuminating everything beneath.
The fresh springs leading to streams , the streams to rivers and
The rivers pouring life into the great sea of mercy.
Mountains majestically reach to kiss the the passing clouds
Just below the virgin blue canopy of heaven.
Oliver’s mockingbirds’ voices sound soulful
Singing sweet psalms.
Leaves and swamp reeds sway sweetly
Left and right gently moved by a breeze
Born a continent away by a cocoon birthed butterfly
Testing her new wings in flight
As hawks and robins soar sharing the remaining pure air.
What is this solemnity, this deep holiest of the most holy solace,
The peace that passeth all understanding?
Is any of this creation benefited or better off because of the presence
Of the two legged sentient beings gifted with reason and creative arts?
Is that natural magnificence made any more peaceful or beautiful by these landlocked spirits?
Do they help any of that which was gifted to the universe breathe any easier
Or grow in genuine purity as a result of their efforts?
Was it the same divine artist that started this universe
With the most incredible hues of love , beauty , compassion , peace and mercy
Who also devised the distorted colors of greed , violence, selfishness, ownership and control to share on the same canvas together?
Did something go array with the grand plan
Or is it all really a matter of faith and belief that in the end it all works out?
How?
It’s a mystery
- JF Sobecki
____________________________________
“I do believe; help my unbelief.”
Mark 9:24
Treat a stranger right - Ry Cooder
Have a little Faith in Me - John Hiatt
Give Me Love , Give Me Peace - G. Harrison
Autumn Poem by Mary Oliver
In the last jovial, clear-sky days of autumn
the mockingbird
in his monk-gray coat
and his arrowy wings
the mockingbird
in his monk-gray coat
and his arrowy wings
flies
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing — but it's neither loose, nor lilting, nor lovely —
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing — but it's neither loose, nor lilting, nor lovely —
it's more like whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges.
All birds are birds of heaven
but this one, especially, adores the earth so well
he would imitate, for half the day and on into the
evening,
All birds are birds of heaven
but this one, especially, adores the earth so well
he would imitate, for half the day and on into the
evening,
its ticks and wheezings,
and so I have to wait a long time
for the soft, true voice
of his own glossy life
and so I have to wait a long time
for the soft, true voice
of his own glossy life
to come through,
and of course I do.
I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look
inward
and of course I do.
I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look
inward
to the sweet spring of himself, that mirror of heaven,
but when it happens —
when he lifts his head
and the feathers of his throat tremble,
but when it happens —
when he lifts his head
and the feathers of his throat tremble,
and he begins, like Saint Francis,
little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock,
resettling his strong feet each time among the branches,
I am recalled,
little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock,
resettling his strong feet each time among the branches,
I am recalled,
from so many wrong paths I can't count them,
simply to stand, and listen.
All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness
of desire, ambition, accomplishment.
simply to stand, and listen.
All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness
of desire, ambition, accomplishment.
Now the bird is singing, but not anymore of this world.
And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is
trying
And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is
trying
to type it down, in lumped-up language,
in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.
in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.
“One day I will find the right words and they will be simple”
- Jack Kerouac
“The only truth is music”
- Jack Kerouac
amdg
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