Strangeness Of Familiar Light

Strangeness Of Familiar Light
© Surazeus
2024 11 30

I no longer hear sweet saints in the church 
singing hymns about that fantasy land 
they hope exists beyond this messy world 
where no one ever suffers pain or dies. 
I stand on street corners and play guitar 
about the mortal beauty of our souls. 

With slight adjustment of my attitude 
I now see this horrible messy world 
as beautiful as that fantasy land, 
and flawed mortal humans are now my saints. 
I wade out in the swirling ocean waves 
and float in strangeness of familiar light. 

Gathered around wood table in the park, 
we smear mayonnaise and mustard on buns 
with pickles, tomatoes, and lettuce leaves 
for hamburgers grilled over crackling flames. 
This family fellowship in the lake park 
on Sabbath afternoon is my paradise. 

Bright angels singing solemn hymns of love 
welcome every child ever born on Earth 
for we are all incarnations in flesh 
of that divine soul that glows in the sun. 
I see my mother in eyes of my child 
who grows to evolve beyond both of us. 

Farmers produce food from the soil of Earth, 
workers package food for the grocery stores, 
truckers deliver food to each small town, 
and mothers cook food for children to eat. 
We are angels loyal to paradise 
in our global food-production machine. 

After sharing our rich Thanksgiving feast, 
we sip wine as Phoebe plays haunting tunes 
on guitar deft as crows in freezing trees 
that leave us reluctant to say farewell. 
When I climb the mountain trail beyond clouds 
I see only the world I want to see. 

When snow begins to shroud crop fields in white, 
and birds desert the leafless trees of hope, 
we write to people who live far away 
so we all know the others are alive. 
I like the meaningless world where we live
and tell each other stories of our faith. 

Assembled in cathedral of sunlight, 
we hear wingless angels in love-clean robes 
sing hymns to rebirth of the broken heart, 
while planes drop bombs on homes in distant lands. 
I carve names of the dead on mountain cliffs 
with runes that writhe with grace of apple snakes.