The Potter's Hands

 In speaking with others, 

 Trapped in the day, 

 We cannot understand, 

 Coming back from tomorrow, 

 We cannot perceive, 

 Looking forward to the past,

 Within the lineage of moments, 

 Waiting all day for tomorrow, 

 Imagination lies trapped and stifled,

 Inside a fragment of possibility. 

 We are given free will to pray, 

 To God who is outside of time, 

 Not trapped within pages of the story, 

 Having to turn one by one, 

 God sees each spread before him, 

 Laid out upon the table, 

 Not limited in his focus, 

 Seeing decisions before they happen, 

 Knowing our joy before we feel it, 

 With patience God waits for us. 

 We ask in painful voices, 

 For things God already knows, 

  For needs God has already met, 

 We just have not seen the answer, 

 Trapped on the slow path in time, 

 Trying to catch up to the moment, 

 Where the answer finally comes clear, 

 Then we see the power of love, 

 Changing reality just like clay,

 Being shaped in the potter's hands. 

 And now comes the hidden truth, 

 For this love is a power God gave, 

 Even though we have weak hands,

 The heart never can fail,

 As we act in each others lives, 

 Making change that shakes the earth, 

 Spreading like fire between souls, 

 Which I see burning in your eyes, 

 Which is why nothing seems impossible, 

 When I see life through the heart. 

The Temporal Lie

Feet are never facing down,

While walking upon the Earth,

Gravity gives us that illusion,

To help deal with confusion,

But not with the physical,

Which seems physical all the time,

Yet touched upon in messages,

Upon the walls of time.

These corridors we travel,

Backpedaling forward,

As none can travel forward,

In a continuum of all directions,

Though trapped within the moment,

We stride within our race,

Constricted within illusion,

From the magnificence of space.

Our words are meaningless sounds,

In which meanings are agreed,

As we relate within confusion,

An ocean of distractions,

In the quest of life truths,

For only ideas can be pure,

As we sort with borrowed breath,

Dividing the clear from the obscure.

Observed walls of dimensions,

Are but a paper house,

Thinly veiling the incalculable,

Within the continuous unheard howling,

Beyond which the Absolute,

Existing from before the start,

Orchestrates music of infinity,

From love within the heart.

And so we see ourselves,

A brief flicker in the darkness,

Yet the truth is in the heart,

Our souls will ever shine,

Adding to eternal music,

Though we thought we could never,

For our every thought and deed,

Shapes life’s song forever.