Since April is National Poetry Month . . . (2)

For me, blogging is primarily about the writing process. That is, the blogpost is essentially a stage in the process, and not really a finished product. It's just that writing happens to be an impulse of mine and blogging is just another kind of "page" to do it on. But it is in the nature of this "page" to de-privatize the process, allowing engagement with others. So while it is true that for me this process is not primarily about satisfying the requirements of a reader-consumer (as say, writing for publication can be), nevertheless "others" are the essential part of blogging that makes it different than keeping a private journal or something.

This having been said, while some of what I do here is intended to engage or encourage others, and so if there were no readers it would fall short of its purpose, other things I occasionally put up on Mr. Standfast are simply things I wrote which really have their purpose within themselves and "stand alone." I am blessed when readers respond, but on the other hand, my purpose was simply to write it out. This would describe the poems I put up here occasionally. They are not usually identifiably "Christian," and they are often quite dreamlike and enigmatic. I often imagine my regular readers simply shaking their heads and clicking "back" as soon as they see one of these things, muttering, "There he goes again," and moving on to something more edifying.

Nevertheless, Mr. Standfast is my world and a reflection of me. Therefore, with apologies to all who were expecting something different, here's my latest:

Toward
(a poem intended for two voices)

Somewhere in the world
the red leaves float toward the distant sea

Somewhere in the world
the little boy runs toward his forgotten home

Somewhere in the world
the two canada geese wing toward the undiscovered lake

Somewhere in the world
the hand of the woman moves slowly toward the lips of the man

Somewhere in the world
the grass on the hillside leans toward the fire in the west

Somewhere in the world
the hammer descends toward the spike

Somewhere in the world
the invisible worm bores toward the heart of the blighted rose

Somewhere
the express train races toward the faraway city

Somewhere
the wounded dog limps toward the line of trees at the edge of the field

Somewhere
the little boy runs toward his forgotten home.