“The Watchpost: Habakkuk’s Mantle”, a poem

The Watchpost (Habakkuk’s Mantle)

The oracle speaks.

Layers of whispers sound

like sand poured through fingers,

prayer leaves a grit in my mouth.

There is an urge from somewhere:

if I could only separate the grains,

line them up on a piece of dark paper,

a clearer picture would emerge

             a solution to the problem

                           violence, hatred,

                           destruction, strife.

How long will I cry out

and you will not answer?

I will stand at my watchpost.

Yet wisdom says that the rampart is not high

but deep within, that in the cave of my heart

the cliff rises where I can stand and see

the work that eases the struggle,

               the work of my own soul,

                            an awareness of the presence

                            and my own resistance.

Someone, somewhere let loose a lie

that life would naturally improve,

that somehow goodness would gather speed

like water flowing downhill.

But wholeness is a buried gem

excavated from a heart of stone;

each blow of the hammer on rock

inspires hope to sing from below,

                 a desire to be free.

The entrance to the cave 

is locked to all but me,

and the One who imagines me is already within,

                  the key to open myself.

For there is still a vision.

Stuart

9/30/2022