Only Love is Credible

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Love alone is credible

Only love is credible,
all else is imitation;
But love is only for that part of self
That’s given to another
Who is by the giving now a part of self
And so is lovable.

All else is imitation.

God is love, it’s said,
But it is only true if love is God.
The verb to be, you see,
Takes no object.

The little French mechanic
Who thought because he thought, he was,
No doubt could make a Citroen run
But failed objectively with tense and time.
The verb to be, you see,
Has neither cause nor consequence.

We love the God-who-with-us-goes, Emmanuelle,
Rejoicing only in and as the mirror
Of Her joy,
As the given gift delights the giving self
Who in the receiver mirrored, also gets.

The giver and the getter both
In otherseen delight both give and get again,
Bounding and rebounding
In a rhythm that makes old time
Not only run but dance.

That is why we love.

 

Volcanic Hills, Volcanic plain

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Barrabool Hills

The swelling silks of yellow grasses
And gold-white fields of wheat
Sweep down the ever steepening curves
To the flat belly of the land.

Gullies of grey-green bush
Split rounded limbs of worn out ridges,
Veined with blue hints of roads,
Windbreaks, and dark triangles of pines.

The great Dragon’s trail of basalt blisters
Stipples the song line of her rising,
Swimming beneath the crust,
And diving again
Into the magma deep
And in her weathered wake of loam
Satisfied farmers crumble the soil in their hands.

Someone Always Hears

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Someone Always Hears

If you have no water to give to those who thirst
Take them by the hand and find water together.

If your own wounds
Stop you from binding the wounds of others
To carry them to the inn,
Lie down beside them by the roadside.

If you cannot go to a prison,
To bring friendship and help to those inside,
Because you are in a prison of your own,
call out  from afar.

There is in each of us enough strength
To see the stars.
Enough warmth
To strike a spark that may grow into a fire.

Even in the wilderness,
A voice, crying,
is always heard by someone.

Sandstone Childhood

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Sandstone Childhood

My childhood ways
ran along the great stone tops
until they fell,
in tumbling blocks and slabs,
down ragged sandstone steps,
to the water’s edge.

Grass trees swirl,
momentary eddies,
in steep rivers of scrub.
And thin pockets of eucalyptus mulch
are taloned to the rock
by hard-skinned, small-flowered bonsai plants.

My heart is in the sandstone country
the land of the Eora people:
the place of their clans,
the Gadigal, Wanegal, Cammeraygal,
and all the other sandstone clans,
and we late comers,
who also, now, belong
to the sandstone land.