Serial storm, these wayward winds

This is my first poem in a while. I’ve been concentrating on writing other things. However, once a poet always a poet. It was time.

storm is brewing







Robert Alan Rife, August 21, 2013


Serial storm, these wayward winds,

perilous dives to depths unknown.

Beggar’d skies betokening calm

but not till shore is abandoned.


Cauldron of unforgiving deep,

belches up a moaning sky, deaf

to cries of drowning sinners, dark,

unstarr’d the evening’s damp despair.


Burrow down with hands, grace-giving;

pluck this heartless heart, unflinching.

Sear with love my love, unloving.

Change with yours, my life, unliving.


Settled, now, this pilgrim, wand’ring,

still before an endless highway.

Footsteps fall beside, behind me,

always leading, never pushing.


In this open field of journey,

we must, naked, find our freedom.

Drawn are we like thirsty beggars

to this cup, the drink of heaven.


Sometimes late we find our purpose,

see ever dimly God’s design.

But for mercy we might never

know the breadth of this, our comfort.




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