Poem #8: Cry of Drums

Dedicated to Terry Rogers.

Popped out of reality,

Dipped into summer sunset.

Oars dripping into river water,

Swishing by with windy force.

Wood battling water;

old foes facing off in perfect harmony.

A low hum rising.

A murmur like a thousand wasps

gliding as one through the thick air,

pushing and pulling like kneaded bread.

A slow, echoing drum beat,

deep and bellowing

like the cry of hippos.

A painted mask on a strong face,

set smooth and powerful.

Sharp almond eyes glaring out,

holding the shine of the sun

and the flicker of the leaves.

I see all this

I feel all this

down, down in my chest

and behind my eyes

as He draws across my reality,

pencilling in His own story.

A history for only the ears

and for only His mouth to tell.

This is how I remember Him.

By His words and by His voice.

Even when His face

is picked away by the breeze

and the passage of time

sees it wither and fade,

I will still hear His voice,

clear and ringing true,

when I close my eyes at night.

Then I will see another man

has joined those rocking

on the misty river.

He is beating on the calf-skin drums

with sturdy, heart aching tones,

and shots of brilliant feathers

arc up from His brow.

Then I will know

down, down in my chest

that finally He can be free,

to be with His people

that have always shadowed His words.

Finally, I know that

He is home.