My mind churns with apocalyptic
And dark images
Of war and geo-physical trauma,
Terror bomb attacks,
And political chaos,
As I incessantly tap, tap, tap.
On lap-top key,
Is it symbol for Adam’s forbidden fig turned bitter?
News and more news,
Fake news abounding,
Information and more information,
A modern Tree of Knowledge.
Yet when my eyes deign
To leave that deadly screen,
And my ears gain freedom
From perpetual noise-filled headphones,
I hear peaceful sounds of birds a-twitter
And crickets playing,
In sunlight delighting,
In the midst of my Hidden Valley.
On the Apple Isle of St Joseph,
I am far from the horrors,
Of Syrian nightmare migration,
And the Northern Hemisphere showdown,
Will it be Putin and Obama in high-noon gunfight,
Or brothers in military arms?
Why do I bring these terrors,
Into my sweet, green and lush glen,
Populated more with sheep and cows than my fellow man?
Why? I am human, I share my brothers’ sorrows.
I turn to my watchtower of prayer,
And Eucharistic gateway,
Channeling the Light of our Hidden Messiah,
Into my beautiful Valley,
Out into the darkness,
Turning all the churning,
To light and creamy butter,
Soothing and healing butter-
Our Mother’s sweet milk of Mercy divine,
In this Advent Season of the Refiner’s fire.