The Pilgrimage, Book II / Phillip Neal Tippin
These walks should have made for better thoughts—
Long in the lanes’ lithe quietude.
I’m on the Spectrum
Of the New Line’s Arc’ing Light.
At the judgement of the world.
So much clock work
For one day’s escapement
The dead set and the single eye—
How deep is that light!
As the older brother
It is my responsibility
To grow older.
Until I write it
I can’t think past it.
I’ll wake and bathe in the air of the lake—
The lilies fuming in its break
Days filtered through age.
Grow a wizened trove,
More substance, less reference.
Down the Life,
Curtailing into skin,
Drawing up its heat into Him!
He entered into
His Own upholding
On His sustenance.
He heard the naught between the notes,
The Silence that makes the sound,
Then was made to turn again,
To hear the song— sung.
(1 Kings 19)
Vet your voice—
The votive passage
Should not be made
In your vestments only.
I will not speak this language long,
Yet speak clingingly
To what it holds anon.
Maybe I iterated through your good taste,
And passing it by, in haste,
Have lost my only way.
When you bury Hope with a shovel
It feels you must be burying death.
A touch of the heat through the leaves,
But with this breeze, still, take your ease.
My thoughts, unwinnowed in wisdom,
Would rather resist a chaffing wind
Muster all our looks
Just to look for You.
While your rockin’
Your metaphysical pedestal—
I’m crosshatching a plan
Where every line gets an annulment
Just look at our minds
Walking about in faces and hands
There remains no balance
Left to lose.
One little piece of thunder left
over for breakfast.