Windmills Of My Mind - Category: Poetry    
31 Aug 2001 @ 14:52


In droves they look out into the night sky
inspecting the patterns of the heavens;
aware deep within of feelings of longing,
not though knowing their origin.
Just occasionally a fleeting moment of illumination,
too soon gone,
not even really impressed upon the consciousness.
Seemingly hollow existence precipitates the silent scream
transmuting itself into the
heartfelt sob that craves comfort.
The cloak of conformity hides those who do not belong
becoming at one and the same time
a camouflage and burden as inner discomfort grows.
Concrete questions are not yet formulated
so not answered.
The horror grows, with it comes a loss of faith
and an anger that cannot find words or expression.
 Why Me? Why Me? is the cry.
 Then as the loneliness and pain threaten to destroy
a glimmer of light is spied and tenaciously held onto,
the very essence of life is at stake.
Anger finds its words,
God is challenged and answers are demanded.
No longer meek and dutiful the servant
kicks and shouts for explanations.
Awakening in full flow, there is no turning back now.
Stripped of human dignity the old form is torn asunder
and the journey home is begun.
Work here is nearly complete.
It was the mother who called, and for her touch you longed.
She is the star in your night sky,
she will guide you home as you were guided here,
with a love that is expansive but not cloying,
guiding rather than directing, asking not demanding.
The choice was yours, it was pain and limitation
but home is once again in sight.
Follow your star,
for your own kind you came,
for mankind you stayed,
for yourself you will return.
Christine Fitzgerald

 The Dark Night of the Soul
31 Aug 2001 @ 14:51

The Dark Night Of The Soul

Hope evaporates like a small lonely drop of water
under the searing heat of the midday sun.
Its elusive quality spied for the occasional moment
and then the gloom once again descends like a heavy wet cloak.
Living and dying become one, residing together at the same time
within the tense and fraught physical frame.
Outward appearances remain,
only the darkness of the night can hear
the silent scream that comes from the deepest recesses of the being.
Quietly, slowly, almost unobtrusively the shattering takes place.
The scream has fragmented and can no longer be heard,
even by the miserable wretch who sounded the primeval cry.
Death becomes a living, enticing entity,
its outstretched arms seem to signal a welcome,
a release, a new beginning.
It beckons with false promises, panic sets in,
so subtle it is not even discerned;
but the silent scream returns and takes on a different tone.
The voice of life now shouts and the
Soul starts to lift the darkness of its night.
Only slowly and fleetingly is the light seen at first,
patience is the longest lesson.
Gently are the disparate parts pulled together
and hope shines bright on the horizon.
Rebuilt and renewed a changed person emerges into the world,
strengthened by adversity, made wiser by experience,
and more compassionate through suffering.
The whimpering wretch who was once as a child
has become full grown, sees through different eyes
and slowly changes in accordance with the wisdom gained.
Those who have drunk deep of life's false nectar
can be the servers of the future if only they would look
inside themselves and see the jewels that already shine
and take note of the ones that await their loving attention.
Christine Fitzgerald