Enter The Deepness:
where muted hues of worship flow
by way of sorrows tamped and set to crackling
towards explosion of the darkest dregs* —
(*bottoms of the whispered hollows
of the bones**)
(**connections fit with bellows made for
mellowed melodies from gold of)
— dregs. The Lord takes his pan, dips it: then He swirls
the filthy water, ever patient . . .
In these times, you’re all nerves / He’s all Word:
— wills a glint where there is none —
— now He gives a whooping holler —
The fuse — LIT! The flame is crawling forth — the darkness hesitates —
The sorrowed heart flings self to Deepness! Implodes on that holy impact!!
Inky dregs incinerate, so all of Hell flees howling!
The Lord, done with His pan, strides away, gold bar in hand,
whistling a tune.
‘There is calm in the depths of my strange love, Whitestone / you can rest in me.’
Love peaceable . . . a strange calm
down in The Deepness: where muted hues of worship
flow freely in the trenches of depths you’ll only understand
by leaping —
past the shattered cliffs, searching for the lowest place,
where the long grasses sway, and tremble at your touchdown,
and part to make a way, then settle round yourself —
Here you’ll sit, in the calm, sure refreshment of His strength,
tucked away beneath the churning, troubled waters overhead,
while fear is subjugated, regulated out of time for a moment.
Breathe : bathe.
Love, peaceable, The Deepness . . . where muted hues of worship flow . . .
Where all your griefs here congregate, then each is called by name
and sent to exile in its time . . .
Whitestone Ascendant: buoyed to the surface after swirling skies clear
water breaks — beaming up
golden tongue of praise
muted hues of worship blooming into brilliance . . .
Some hazy, curious sound through a cracked window:
orchestral swell — an inkling of some strange beauty. Some
cinematic feeling stirs; some bitter air snakes through the
room, nips the flesh beneath the blankets:
Some lazy, waking startlement: Chooo, chooo: the night horn,
sounding in some low, successive flow — notes, legato, bend
larghissimo — and at this distance; and in this coldness;
airdrops slower, darkness still; some ten-till-dawn, just tuning
in — and then —
heightened by some harping birds —
It blooms, brilliantly —
— beckons like some bit of magic —
. . .
This! in our tiresome world so undeserving of hope! — some
strange thrill light, slow unblanketed . . .
Rachel Michelle Collier is from Mississippi, and has also been published in Fathom Mag and Ekstasis Magazine. She wants you to know that you are loved. Twitter: @CollierRachelM
Photo: “Acrylic color dissolving in water.” Public Domain.