Cicero Alone With Scipio

by CWK 

Publius Cornelius Scipio, the first of that family

to be called Africanus,

used to remark that

he was never less idle

than when he had nothing to do,

and never less lonely

than when he was alone.

We have this on the authority

of Marcus Porcius Cato, the Censor,

who was almost his contemporary.

It is a fine sentiment:

as you would expect

from so great and wise a man.

Scipio means that

 – even when he was working  –

his thoughts were occupied

with public affairs;

and, even when he was alone,

apart the maddening crowd,

he did not stop taking counsel

 – with himself.

That is to say: he was never unoccupied.

When alone, he was never lonely;

often, the only company

he needed was his own.

Other men are depraved and deprived

by leisure and seclusion,

but he derived stimulation and concentration

from them.

He was never unoccupied.

I wish I could truthfully

say the same of myself.

Of course, however hard I try

to imitate Scipio,

I cannot fashion myself

a remarkable character like his.

Nevertheless , nota bene this

– if aspiration and perspiration

counts for anything, for anything

 – I come as near him as I can.

He was, after all, like me, a man.

I am unlike him, but he is like unto me.

He was, after all, a man.

I come as near him as I can.

At present, seeing that criminal armed violence

prevents me from political and legal practice,

I have no work to do.

Scipio, when he felt the need to rest

from his splendid services,

used occasionally to take a holiday.

My leisure, unlike that of Scipio,

is not prompted by any desire to retire.

It is forced upon me

and, therefore, I have nothing to do.

My son! The senate has been abolished!

The courts have been annihilated!

My son! I have been excommunicated

from all that I loved by all whom I loved.

My son, justice lies lame, like a beggar

in the street: trampled on, discarded, and hungry.

My son! O, my son! What has become 

of the Rome I loved? – by which,

I am now only hated.

I built Rome,

and very Rome has torn me down,

and left me here, degraded.

Upon a time, I fancied Rome

a shining star, beaming with good will

to me and all mankind

from seven serene and solemn hills.

I fancied Rome the hope

of the just, the beautiful, and good:

the home to me and all humanity.

That Rome is now to me

a washed-out memory:

a place, perchance, which never was:

a place that shall, more than likely, never be.

Rome is now to me

a set of seven severed hills:

to which, no roads now lead:

to which, no road ever will.

And still I love Rome; I love Rome still.

Wherein I failed Rome, I weep.

It is not that I loved Rome less. Rather, justice

I loved more, and still more. 

Even here, in exile, utterly lonely,

I repent my sins against State –

but the crimes where not mine only.

Greater crimes than mine have left me desolate;

greater crimes have left Rome a ruined State.

Against such crimes I acted – I fear too late.

My crimes were crimes of time:

the penchant to believe too much, and hesitate –

but even my crimes were

born of love, and never hate.

My son! The senate has been abolished!

The courts have been annihilated!

Therefore, I have no work to do.

What work, in keeping with my position,

is there for me to do?

I have no work to do.

I have no work to do.

At present, criminal armed violence

prevents me from political and legal practice.

For this reason, I have left Rome,

and am traveling from place to place,

from one country to another

(with no friends and not a home)

among barbarian tongues

and strange crooked faces

 – and I am often alone.

Once, I lived with great crowds around me

at the forefront of Roman publicity.

O, how I loved to hear the cheers

resounding oft in that Eternal City.

The City – the City, I see now, more clearly:

less eternal, more ephemeral.

And, I now hear those cheers

in the light of recent history.

They were of but a moment; 

momentous, only deceptively.

Now, I shun the sight of scoundrels

who swarm to harass and surround me.

I withdraw as completely as I can

– and I am often alone.

Scipio, was like me, a man

and he used to remark that

he was never less lonely

than when he was alone

 – and I am often alone.

My son! The senate has been abolished!

The courts have been annihilated!

My son, I am often alone,

and I have no work to do.

— adapted from  Michael Grant’s translation, Cicero’s Selected Works, “On Duties,” Part 3.

A Soldier Unsettled

by CWK

Last night, the sky was on fire
with the weapons of wars of desires,
and it stirred me.
I am a soldier. We are at war! At war, are we.

I'm still wide awake, I still hear your gospel;
O Lord, I still hear, still clear, the bell.
I still believe we will prevail,
O Lord – but Lord, please hurry:
it's getting dark; I'm getting worried.
Or else, at least, send me a sign
to remind me: this will still all end well.
It's getting dark; I'm getting worried,
and Lord, I can't seem to find
my horse, my sword, or my way off the front line.
My vision's dim; my map is blurry.
O Lord, please help, O Lord, please hurry.

O Lord, the good guys are the bad guys,
and the bad guys just get worse.
I can feel their hate hot on my skin;
I can hear their curse
strangling my breath from within.
And Lord, with weaponry loveless and cold,
they have vandalized my soul.
When I feel now, I feel less a man,
and more like a worm writhing, trying
to crawl across a parched land.
Yes, I’m a soldier; all this, wages of warfare:
burdens every good soldier must bear.
You sent me to this war; I’ll die fighting –
but the truth is, I'm already dying;
the truth is, I'm not that strong.
O Lord, how long? How long? How long?

Somewhere on earth there's a line
between heaven and hell;
I used to know that line so well,
but I can't spot it anymore.
I still see demons in the strangest places;
I still watch my back out in open spaces –
but I am growing careless and unsure.
I can no longer separate foes from friendly faces;
they look the same in certain lights.
I forget, sometimes, we are at war.
Some days I even lose sight
of why we’re here, and what it is we fight for.
And I still have open sores;
they are worse, much worse than before,
and they bleed every night.
Still, I'm alright; I'll just say, I'm alright.

I am a poor man: a soldier unsettled:
wearied by struggles too cruel, too several.
I'm still wide awake, I still hear your gospel,
O Lord – but my soul's depleted.
I see single frightful frames repeated,
but I've lost the big picture, and nearly my mind.
I see the grapes being cruelly crushed down fine,
but I can't see, much less taste, the wine.
You see the landscape timeless, full, divine;
you see the thousand hills, green, and all the cattle –
but I see only valleys, red, full of bloody battles.
Where you see the whole, the grand design –
like a rose grown full, in beauty settled –
I see only fields of flowers felled, 
with blood on the stems: blood on the petals.

You've seen I'll come through, proved and improved,
with virtue perfected and true tested mettle;
you've seen my pilgrim's progress: sure, though meted.
I see a man in mud, struggling; unable to move:
a pilgrim in regress who's only retreated.

Where you see the masterpiece completed,
I see brutal brush strokes, in jagged lines.
Unlike me, you see across space and time and lies
with vision pure and good and wise.
I see my bruises blackened; it alarms me –
you see my enemies can hurt, but never harm me.
I see the beginning, only farther, but darkly.
You see the beginnings in the end, in harmony, 
all withal toward bright glory refined
as in eternity they shimmer and shine.
I try to see how you see, but my eyes only decline.
O Lord, please hurry; my heart's breaking.
I am your soldier, but your soldier is shaking.

I don’t know what else to ask for;
a million requests clamor at my heart’s door.
There's this, I guess: I could use some friends now:
a few kindred souls that I could talk to.
This is how friends begin – they begin, how? 
Oh, right, with one kind word, five virtues,
four loves, and two worlds with the same view.
In fact, O Lord, if friends are deferred –
(they're short in supply, or so I have heard)
then one kind word would do;
one kind word would get me through.

Peter Redux

And I hear the rooster crowing times three:
these three clanging crows, though brief,
will persecute me across land and sea,
and batter my heart without lee.
I am the betrayer; the criminal; the thief.
I sat once in high places; I fell, like a leaf
all at once, but slowly, if you please.
It was a steep fall, but gradual, by degrees.

My fall was sudden, like an unexpected death:
so sudden, it took away my breath.
My fall was tragic, like Macbeth,
and left me, with me, appalled:
I felt unworthy of myself,
and from my self strange parted.
But still, in all, 'twas a lazy languid fall
like the way a snowflakes descends.
I can't remember when it started;
I can't remember when it ends.

After the fall, I surveyed my soul
to count the cost of my demise.
I found, to my surprise:
now that I was worse, I was much better;
now so young, I suddenly felt old.
now so sick, I suddenly felt whole.
When I was well is when I fell;
when I fell, I knew I was not well.

The grace that kills is the grace that feels
is the grace that stills, and wills, and seals.
The grace that nears is the grace that sears
is the grace that teaches hearts to fear.
The grace so dear, is the grace so clear,
is the grace that has the ears to hear.

'Twas grace taught my heart my heart was dark;
'Twas grace rending to heal: grace great; grace stark.

The grace that heals is the grace that tears the world apart.

I suppose it all comes down to this:
our faith in our strength was a wish.
In the courtroom we tried to dismiss
all the charges that mortal men cope.
Then grace severe fell sweet like a kiss
as our crimes were read from a bottomless list,
and we abandoned at last our last hope.
Grace prosecuted; grace cried for justice;
grace was the judge; grace was the rope
fashioned to save us the moment it hanged us.
I believe in grace, but no longer in me.
Grace held me captive so grace might set me free.

'Twas grace taught my heart my heart was dark;
'Twas grace rending to heal: grace great; grace stark.

The grace that heals is the grace that tears the world apart.

A Theology of Art

by CWK 

I. What is Art?

Art is: the passion to communicate (out of your guts and to another: God, Man, beloved, yourself?[1], etc) a form (expression; visual, lyrical, or musical beauty) which is an incarnation of a content (ideas, truth, reality) with brilliance (intellectually stimulating, emotive, memorable, and striking) and skill. The purpose of art is to ‘instruct (in goodness) and/or delight (Sydney: In Defense of Poesie).’

Simply put art is: “the passion to communicate a form which is an incarnation of a content with brilliance and skill for the purpose of instructing and/or delighting.”

Note: art usually IS for the public and especially for the common person; see C.S. Lewis’ Introduction to Paradise Lost.

II. Basic Theological Foundations

1) Lordship of Jesus over everything in heaven and on earth (all things were created through him, for him, and by him all things hold together: Col. 1:15ff).

2) There is NO secular (secular= a thing bearing no relation to religious truth) (1 Cor. 10:31: everything is to be done for the glory of God; 1 Pt. 2:19, 21: even slaves are to live in the sight of God, mindful of God in all they do; 1 Cor. 15:12ff.: the BODY will be resurrected- i.e. the physical is not evil as Plato taught). All of life can be the subject of art; and christian art should be about all of life since there is no secular.

3) God is the creator (Gen. 1:1); humans by nature are made in HIS image (Gen. 1:26-26) and so naturally (out of their nature) desire to create: note, this is why we see non-Christians making beautiful works of art; they also are made in God’s image

4) There is such a thing as unchanging truth (ie. truth that is not conditioned by time, culture or perspective), and it is personal (John 14:6)

5) Beauty is valuable because God created a beautiful and glorious world (Ps. 18) and enjoys beauty employed in HIS temple (2 Chr. 3:6, 4:5; see also 1 Kings 7:29).

III. What Are the Criteria for GOOD ART?

"...the first qualification for judging any piece of workmanship from a corkscrew to a cathedral is to know what it is-- what it was intended to do and how it is meant to be used (C.S. Lewis: Preface to Paradise Lost)"

1. Technical Excellence.

Technical excellence is demonstrated by skill and diligence (much modern art has thrown this out the window; illus. broken glass on floor at St. Louis art museum: anybody could do it); even the most immoral person can have outstanding technical excellence; frequently technical excellence is a gift from God at birth (cf. Mozart and his more ‘moral’ rival Salieri).

Pushkin’s portrayal of Salieri has been echoed by many a Christian who envied some unbeliever’s talent and felt God unjust:

“Where is the justice, when the holy gift,

Immortal genius, comes not as reward

For any burning love or self-denial,

Labor, diligence or prayer, but lights

It radiance instead in heads of folly

And frivolity? Oh, Mozart, Mozart!” 

However, we must say that talent is a gift of God, and like all his gifts he gives them to the righteous and unrighteous (Matthew 5:45).

2. Integrity.

This is the relationship between what the artist believes and what the artist does; the Psalmist doesn’t fake it, and neither does Job. The Christian artist can err in two ways: 1) A Christian doing/painting/singing something immoral/wrong/against conscience, 2) A Christian pretending like reality is much simpler than they know and feel it to be.

“I've always done what I've done musically with a sense of obedience, and a sense of being led. I've really counted on that to help me through the decision making process to test the water. If my heart goes "Yeah, this is ok," then I'd do it. Sometimes I think like it's going to be ok, then as I start to do it, I feel an unrest inside that says "No, this is not right." I don't want to violate that, ever. That's part of my decision making process, to start feeling my way through it. (Tom Conlon: Musician and Christian).”

3. Harmony.

That is, form matches or displays content (illustration: The Wasteland, Eliot); a sad lyric ought to have a sad accompaniment, etc.

"Every poem can be considered in two ways — as what the poet has to say, and as a thing which he makes. From the one point of view it is an expression of opinions and emotions; from the other, it is an organization of words which exists to produce a particular kind of patterned experience in the readers (C.S. Lewis, Preface to Paradise Lost)."

NOTE: Form always communicates a content! The question is whether it harmonizes with the explicit/implicit content.

4. Truthfulness.

 Does the work of art conform with real reality: the way the world really is? Does it tell the truth about the universe, God, and Man.

IV. Christian Art?

This usually means poor theology[2] (see basic theological foundations above) working itself out through sloppy technical expression (I am a Christian; it doesn’t matter if I just copy the big name bands, or paint poorly). Bad Christian music frequently does not talk about real issues (Contrast this with the Psalms: How many popular Christian songs have you heard about despair? see Psalm 88, 42, 43; Job; Lamentations). Thus, an unbiblical view of the Christian life is passed on to the observer: salvation is viewed as only involving the ‘soul’ and ‘Jesus,’ and the words used to describe this salvation are worn out clichés. This is NOT Christian art!  The true Christian artist is: one who seeks to work with technical excellence (doing even the small thing to the glory of God) while portraying/displaying all of reality with integrity (thus Christian art should and can be about any topic) with a harmony that demonstrates the true truth . 

Truth is often un ‘pop’ ular, but this shouldn’t divert us:

“What you have to realize is that what you're perceiving is a very calculated marketplace, a very particular kind of machinery that you're interfacing with whenever you think about the music industry and the artists you hear on the radio or see on MTV or VH1. That is a very particular kind of thing, and it's only natural to try and relate what you do to that. I try to fight that because the effect of that on art is that it forces artists to prepackage themselves for consumption. There's an idea of the market driving this industry, which is (to say) the demand of the people drives what is produced. In the music business, there's part of it where the industry drives the market. As an artist, whenever I think about the industry, I try to be very careful, because I know that if I'm not careful, as artists, we try to prepackage ourselves to become more sellable and more palatable to those who are the gatekeepers in the industry--the record labels, the distribution to the radio, television. So, I'd want to still do what I do in a way that's very accessible in a way so people can relate to it, but I want to be careful that I don't allow the industry to drive me. (Tom Conlon).”

A Student of Christian Art Historian Hans Rookmaaker once said:

"I now recognize the wisdom in Rookmaaker's approach. In a situation where he felt Christians had not engaged in the arts it was clear we were some way behind and that it would take time, if not generations, to catch up. Solution: get as many Christians engaged as possible. Out of that, by God's grace, something worth while might emerge (Peter Smith)."

---

[1] "Music is just expression of self; we just explain it, then we get our checks in the mail," a famous rapper once said. This idea is from the romantic school of thought, where art becomes simply the expression of emotion, and where self-expression is the highest goal. This should not be our goal, because as Jerram Barrs once put it, “I don’t think that highly of myself.” We must have loftier goal. So, this is not what I mean by communicating to ‘yourself.’ However, art can be communication with self in a healthy way in that it clarifies and illuminates our hearts deepest longings and griefs; it ‘gets a weight off our chest,’ and helps us understand ourselves and our thoughts. In fact, understanding is often not totally achieved until we transfer something into art.

[2] Poor theology is untrue to God and the world, and thus destructive for the heart, mind, and soul of the undiscerning listener/viewer/reader. 

When Votaries Turn Into Pyres

Did you put down the cup of pleasing pain

in a moment of mild digress
only to find you'd traded the good for the best,

and picked up the cup of cold gain?

And when you drank it all in, did you find

that nothing can unhinge a mind,

like one moment, just one moment, insane?

Did we capture the phantoms we sought?

Or did they dissolve in the dark of the glass,

and melt in the darkness just past,        

leaving us, in the end, with nothing we'd sought:
and only the torturous regret of our oughts?

In the morning did we still fill[1] desire

when our votaries turned into pyres,

and the bitter dregs poisoned our thoughts?

Amidst the safe and the sound we had dwelt

for so long we'd forgot how it felt

to live lost in a world of pleasure-less gain,

and hold fast to hand that could not refrain.
It could never, we said, fall to us
to pray for dry clothes in the rain,
or seek joy in the paces of pain.
But our bright burning boasts waned to rust;
when we suffered at last our own dust,
and sung all the songs we'd disdained.

---

[1] This is not a typo. The natural word here is ‘feel,’ but I have something else in mind: the tendency to try and ‘fill up’ unquenched desires even when they should not and will not be filled. 

The Last Winter Solstice

There are poems to write;

there are wrongs to right;

there are battles to fight,

brutally, whilst duty is done,

and a dragon's curse undone,

and a lady’s hand finally won.

The summer sun shyly slinks;

the harvest moon wrily winks,

and hence winter, winter at last --

and not a moment too late!

Now I raise my cup and wait

with a broken, empty glass.

This is winter, unhindered

the coldest day of the year;

but, Ah! summer so near –

for the Spring is growing wings

and the cold is growing old,

in the last winter solstice.

Remember How It Ends

He said, I'm tired, and what good
is life on top of life. Life should
be lived, not endured, he said,
I'm tired.

And he said, it's over, it's the worst
thing I can say to you, 
and you don't understand how my
heart broke, and something died
in me, and I'm not alive anyway,
he said, I'm tired.

Do you remember the stories Steve used to tell?
-- when, around a campfire, 
fury faced ferocious children
stood stained in soot and sweat,
and clasped hands bloody, brothers 
until the ruddy, bitter end,
and fought world wars of ten on ten,
and lived wild like Comanche Indians,
content to live in ragged tents,
out on the lonesome prairies,
feasting only on black berries,
and river water, dirty, washed by fairies.

Do you remember when
we painted dreams in mud and tears
in the canvass of coming years
in strokes violent and clear,
then crossed the haunted bridge
because -- not in spite of -- fear;
and sometimes we didn't sleep for days on end,
but boasted that, instead,
we'd wait to sleep when we were dead?

You are tired, as am I, but I dare
say we all have moments when
life seems a merciless despair;
we all feel, now and then,
as if even a bullet were a kindly fare
into a world of lesser care;
you are not alone, unless alone among all others.
We all feel tired; we all feel we cannot bear
the burdens that buckle our knees 
and leave us screaming, cold, in pain.
These thoughts come to the best,
and the best stay barely sane.
So it was, it is, remains,
and I sympathize, a laden man myself.
But I still I must protest:
who are we to seek for rest?
I say now, as then we said,
we will sleep when we are dead.

Remember the stories Steve used to spin?
-- when, a brave and brothered band 
raised their small but angry hands,
and pledged to never give retreat
against a band of devils hiding deep
in the dreadful darkness past the creek?
We were younger, so much younger;
we didn't know our youthful strife
was the first battle of a long war
that would grow fierce with age and life.
We were younger, so much younger,
we did not know this war would weave
with rapacious rage, like a hunger,
across our ages, with no reprieve.
We sought fiends, but we were too naive
to find them; we fought evils which, we were,
too good to ever full conceive.
We saw demon visions, by youth blurred,
but visions we had sure received.
Miss Alexis said our devil foes
were nothing more than childish fear.
Well, we are grown, and I believe,
the devils who were there, are here;
across the creek, and ever near;
they have at last appeared.
They've come closer and grown bolder
with the passing of the years.

Do you remember, do you remember
how, when we were younger,
we swore to either die, or stand?
Come hell, or waters high, wraith, or man,
or demon, or danger, or dragon,
we swore to either die, or stand --
even if the stars went dark,
even if we stood on broken bones
in bodies frail with barely beating hearts.
We swore to either die, or stand.
We jested not, and neither they:
devils have returned in dark arrays.
And they have come to call our hand,
and test if men, as when boys, we are brave:
to see if men will either die, or stand.

Remember the stories Steve used to tell?
Remember that one?
That one about the three sailors
playing a game of poker
in a dusty old saloon?
Yes, he said, I remember that one,
though I had forgotten;
I just can't remember, he said, how it ends.

Three sailors are sitting in 
a dusty old saloon, and it's early morning, 
and the place is empty
except for them and mutt named 'Mutt,'
and they can barely 
hold their heads up;
they've been playing all night,
and the only sound in the border town,
is Mutt barking at the moonlight.
Just then, this wild-eyed prophet runs in, 
and he said, Hey, the world's coming to an end
at sun rise! You boys better quit with sin,
and put your houses clean in order,
he said, that's how the story begins...

He said, So put your houses clean in order.
And the first sailor jumps up,
and pushes his hand forward,
and he said, Well, boys, I've lived good,
and done what good a good man could.
I've been waitin' on this day;
I've been waitin' to meet my maker.
I best go on to the mission now and pray.
I'll see you boys, if I see you, on the other shore.
And he headed toward the door.

And the second sailor fell right
off his chair, and stood up shaking,
and he said, Well, boys, times short,
and as I've never been a righteous sort,
and you can't buy heaven your last dime,
I'll spend better if I spend mine
on a case of whiskey and a dame.
He threw his cards down on the floor,
and hung his head in shame.
And he, too, headed toward the door.

And the third sailor sat real still,
and shuffled his cards until
a light clear and steady rose in his eyes. 
And you sir? said the prophet,
Are you a fool, or are you wise?
Then the sailor tipped his hat,
to the prophet, and stared down 
at his hand, and he said, I can't blame 
you all for leaving, but I made 
a promise to someone,
and I can't see how that's changed:
time's short, that's true,
but my word is still the same.
So, go on, if you have to,
but, as for me, I'll go out as I came,
he said, I shall finish the game.

That's how it ends. 
And he said, I do remember
when Steve used to tell that story, and the camp fire
that burned before us,
and the fire even more,
he said, that burned within us --
and I can feel it, as before,
like a gentle rage ignited now again.
I remember, he said, how it ends.

Write Naturally

Great advice from Truman Capote:

Since each story presents its own technical problems, obviously one can't generalize about them on a two-times-two-equals-four basis. Finding the right form for your story is simply to realize the most natural way of telling the story. The test of whether or not a writer has divined the natural shape of his story is just this: after reading it, can you imagine it differently, or does it silence your imagination and seem to you absolute and final? As an orange is final. As an orange is something nature has made just right.

And Buck Owens made a similar point, with a good deal more humor:

They're gonna put me in the movies

They're gonna make a big star out of me

We'll make a film about a man that's sad and lonely

And all I gotta do is act naturally

Well, I'll bet you I'm gonna be a big star

Might win an Oscar you can never tell

The movies gonna make me a big star

'Cause I can play the part so well

Well I hope you come and see me in the movies

Then I’ll know that you will plainly see

The biggest fool that ever hit the big time

And all I gotta do is act naturally

We'll make the scene about a man that's sad and lonely

And beggin down upon his bended knee

I'll play the part but I won't need rehearsin’

All I have to do is act naturally

The Birthday of Home

Away from home, my soul is weak and slivered,
and the world is big and cruel and bitter;
but, when I was home, the world was small, 
and I was so much bigger.

I was miserable in Missouri,

but I held on for too long:
there I stood; there I stayed.
I kept hoping tomorrow 
would be more like yesterday.
I kept trying to find a sign;
or, at least, the line
I was supposed to say.
Last night, 3:13, I sat up,
wide awake, in the middle of another night,
and suddenly I knew I wasn't 
going to be alright; I'd finally had enough:
I'd been counted out without a fight,
and my Missouri time was up.
So, I cashed in every last dime,
and packed my car just in time
to beat an ice storm moving west.

Southward lies home,

and the place of my birth.

And today is the birthday of coming home,

and the rebirth of green.

I dove down through Illinois

–  sorry to be leaving St. Louis,

but fickle, fidgeting, feeling newness.

Sorry for St. Louis, but glad; free

to be going home. Home is me.

Home is where I was when I was.
Away from home, I am some other
than the man I am when I am.

There lives my kin, my long lost brother.
There, I left my health, my self, 
my sisters, and my mother.

There lives my future past.

There lives me; away from home, I am some other

than the man I was when I was
baptized in the river.

In Tennessee, homeward bound,

and getting closer,

I repented winters present, passed
three hundred miles ago.

In Nashville, I slowed down,

and shivered; long winters held me, fast.

A long journey I've had till now;

the length I still feel.
I am broken yet: too broken yet to heal.

I grew weary at the wheel

at 2 a.m. in Johnson City,

and fell asleep in the parking lot

of a Gas and Run.

Next morn, I woke up with the Sun.

Like the prodigal, nervous, but hopeful,

I searched eastward anxiously

on a crumpled paper map.
I was searching, searching, searching:
for a short cut path back 
to my homeland; 

I was unaware -- how could I be? --

that home, long suffering, had 
long hence been searching for me.

I rolled down my broken window
and turned up the radio
just to stay awake;
Was it grace? or, was it fate?
I was too tired to debate.
And, besides, a George Strait song
was on. A George Strait 
song was on. And I was going
home, and a George Strait song
was on; so, I sung along.

An hour out of Franklin county,

I started to count change
for a cup of coffee, 
and ended up counting the cost

of friends gained, friends lost.
I didn't even have a dollar

for a single cup of java,
and my gas light blinked low;
I was running on fumes 
when I passed up the Chattanooga exit
at half past noon.

The friends lost remain,

and so does the pain.

For the first time, in a long time,
I took my foot off the pedal, and began to coast.

The friends lost I miss;

the friends gained, I miss most.
And what is home without the ones
you love most? My friends left home
when I did: even though they stayed
in all the same places; their faces fade
with every breath I take,
and every mile I travel:
no matter which direction I may go.
Such thoughts as these a tired mind harass;
even so, I put my foot
back firmly on the gas.
Perhaps I'll meet my old friends again
like new friends, as sparkling new men
with our sins forgiven, 
with a future, but no past.

I drove on weary eyed

(a smirk a heart broke disguised:
a sacrifice, I know, not in despise)

until, an hour out of Asheville,
I met a maze of misty mountains.

These mountains, they love to surprise;

they snuck up on all sides,

and then burst upon the canopy
of a surreptitious summer sky. 

Here they were; they had been, waiting 

for me for some time.

Here they were; here, at last, was I.
I laughed, and said, "Ah, friends!"

"Where have you been? Where did you go?"
said they, a little hurt it seemed. I sighed
and said, "I don't know. I really don't know."

And I remembered I was -- not quite,
but almost -- I was almost home.
And so I hit the road with  all my might
and drove the sun down that day,
and all through the night. 

Next morning, at 10 past 7, 
I pulled onto old Highway 11
as the Sun danced upward toward the heavens
in a manner warm and spritely.
In the new light, my old world surprised me:
something was different;
this world looked more lively
than I had ever seen her.
I was startled by the sight 
of green, and green, and greener.
All creation wore a garment
of a million shades of green to meet me.
"Did you fix up just for me?
Did you dress up just to greet me?"
I said. And, in reply, creation waved kind
salutations, but demanded explanations:
"Where have you been, my dear?"
she said. "Away," I answered, then
added, "but my heart was always here."
"Oh my," she said, and nearly wept,
"Look at you! Just look at you! You look a fright; 
your face is aged; your hair, frayed. 
Are you... are you quite alright?"
"I have," I said, "of late not been myself 
-- but nearer you, I am better."
She said, "You should have stayed." 
"True," I said, "but look at you! Just look at you! 
You have been remade!"

At a quarter past nine,
I crossed the state line into Caroline.
I was -- not quite -- but almost -- almost home:
a matter of minutes away.
And so I sat up, and put the petal
to the metal, and drove like a madman.
I swear, I could hear the birthday
song of home in the ripple of the rivers;
I could feel in my blood the good
wishes of the red hills.
I shouted, "Happy birthday! Here am I, at last!"

A sweet breeze of blessing kissed me,

and said, "O, how you have missed me!"

A mile out of Six Mile,
for the first time in a country mile, I smiled.
I was close-- not quite -- but almost-- almost
home. And a sense of joy filled my soul
from my fingers to my feet;
And a sense of solemn filled my heart
as I turned down my old street.
I drove on quickly, still too slow:
afraid, afraid even to speak;
afraid, afraid even, to turn on the radio.

"Where have you been?" I whispered,
mostly to myself. But, even as I spoke, 
I knew, there was no telling and no knowing.
"Where I've been is where I was;
home is where I''m going."

Away from home, my soul was weak and slivered,
and the world was big and cruel and bitter;
but, when I am home, the world is small, 
and I am so much bigger.

Southward lies home,

and the place of my birth.

And today is the birthday of coming home,

and the rebirth of green.

When Children Raved

When children raved in warrior’s paint

and danced like David sans restraint
 – when poets sailed from distant shores
 – when lambs lay down to lions’ roars
 – when old wounds healed and were no more
 – when sinners turned at once to saints,
and hearts grew strong by growing faint  –

In some miracle hour when the moon was mad,
hence insane men were growing sane,
I saw a sight sublime, a dream had:
A fairy queen danced forth ‘cross a stormy plain
upon a single drop of summer rain,
and stood before me with a curtsy and a smile.
Her form was beauty flawless: beauty, without guile.

She stood there like a gift, defying explanation.
Her skin was lily like, and dyed with pink carnations.
Her eyes were colored oceans 

with depths for miles, and miles:
eyes soft kissed by gentle winds:
misty, and mysteriously mild.

With delight I gazed on she, like some astonished child.
With curiosity she answered, at first and for awhile:
as if I were a creature, new, and strange, and wild;
as if I were a riddle, sent forth to beguile.
At last, her face flushed red with recognition:
'midst curious conjecture, she made her decision 
and tossed her hair in a manner kind and coy:
“If I am a girl,” she said with startled joy,
and held me like a vision,
“then you must be a boy.”

Of men, I saw her first, at last, and glad;

by being seen her beauty only gained.

And gladly to be seen she was, she is, remains.

I recall she sang for joy in green and blue refrains

a song of love like love like chains.

She sang old words while new worlds waned;

her song her secret kept, unkept; I keep it still.

Her song is mine is hers is ours to sing until 

until; for forever; unto ever, upon the everlasting hills.

I saw her then in an hour fast.

I saw her n’er again, and n’er will. Alas!

But that one hour sinks forever

like sands in an eternal hour glass.
The time shall come at last
when even time shall be no more --
but never shall that hour pass.

It was an hour only, yes –

not an hour too little, too late,

but much too much, too soon
-- of all hours best.

It was an hour of minutes great;
an hour thirsty that ever sates:

not an hour empty, but full to fill.

It was like – it was like –

like angel’s moonshine thrice distilled:

aye, a draft not made for mortal men

(lesser men it might have killed).

I drank it then in fear, and now and then,

I remember the place where dreams begin,

and fairies dance wild at will...

and I drink. Unto this day, I drink it still.