Geoffrey Groom

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Hol Hermitage 2

POETRY

It is not only the frail frozen flesh
that looks to future faith-borne journeyings:
We who live, whose cells must daily, food refreshed,
find the warmth of wanting, or the heat of hating,
look also to the dawn of self-knowledge,
the re-awakening of the higher melodies,
whose subtle cell-strewn singing first chorused us to life.

Do we think less of, degrade or deplore,
that stormless sea that laps upon an apathetic shore,
than we can think of those thrashing storm-blown sprays
that seek to drown us in a million ways.
Is not the mighty sea even so the giver
of that flashing, dashing source of sustenance.
And was not this life lived just the same.

Yeah. I tell you in all truth,
we shall not measure by the sweet foolishness of youth,
nor seek to rage at confusion's middle-age;
and even less shall we, though oft-wearied in our wonderings,
strive to decimate the tryings that have sat
imprisoned in the frailty of this strong willed flesh
that finally surrendered to the dust and ash.

No. Rather let us see the radiant rainbows
of that loving which oft visited his years.
Those deep, rich colours of his caring tears,
irrespective that we could not hold for long
the misted rhythm of his poor-voiced soul-song.
Rather let these half formed circles of prism'd personality
become those multi-faceted diamonds of mature memory.

For what is it to love if only discord be our course,
and to what city of contentment shall we journey
if the stars of forgiveness do not point our way.
And with what satisfaction shall we taste
the bitterness of our self-ship's netted harvest.
For what is it to love if only imperfections
mirror within our own oft-confused spirits.

Hah! Who are we that in our striving for perfection,
we who still learn the lessons of dependance,
should dare to test the foam
or measure the wanderer as he roams.
For, if perfect we will be
then perfect love forgives, unlimited and free,
that it may fly unfettered to it's own perfection.

Perchance in the brief touching of the rainbow,
this short, momentary grasping of the diamond's brief shining,
We may behold the source, the central common core,
that has echoed long upon humanity's shore.
And who knows but that we may also climb
the mountain of our own misunderstandings
to stand upon the summit of self-knowledge
and gaze into the powered beauty of salvation's sun.

Fare Thee Well,
my dear, imperfect, caring friend.
Lay down the compass of your doubts
and travel, trusting, to your journey's end.
Take with you, if you can,
these crumbs of gratitude from yet another imperfect man
and eat from them, just now and then,
if needs be you must taste imperfection once again.

In memory of my friend, Lars, whose
internment took place in Tjeldsund,
North Norway.
Written 04-00 hrs Sunday 12th October 1997


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