It waited . . . shelved in silence, neatly boxed,
Its pages black and bitter, safely locked
Away from head and heart . . . It waited still . . .
Pulsing in the dark against his will.
Were there tears upon the preface poem?
A mother’s sorrow, hope and joy all groaning
To be heard above the rock and roll?
A mother’s prayer to turn her prodigal?
It waited while the fool refused to hear
Its golden symphonies that grace with tears
Of joy and love far greater fools than he.
It waited with the promised melody.
It waited while the atheist would wield
His paper sword upon a battlefield
That smelled of flaming passion, hate and pride . . .
Waiting still . . . its truths denied.
The seasons spent themselves in echoed rhyme
And reason as the blind man wasted time
Pursuing proof that he could hear and see
Within his little world of fantasy.
It was late one winter when his sleep
Was broken by the wind. He couldn’t keep
From hearing songs he’d never known before:
A mother’s gift of love would wait no more.
The pages slowly turning in his hand,
Their voices singing of a distant land
That fools will neither love nor see
Until a miracle has set them free.
The atheist and fool surrendered all
He had to Him whose smiling face enthralls
The heart and sets at liberty the man
Who holds a world of darkness in his hand.
1/15/1984 – for my mother