The Resurrection of Care

I see you a rainbow phoenix arise…

Alive the flash, a living flare smouldering, molten chains unmade,loosening around your laser wings and unfettered free you fly, now you learn unbarred the new-born beat of your lava heart as the would-be ruby-egg thieves flee, decadent scattered without their dagger wielding swagger, with paltry vengeful pride dim flickering deeply inside their ego imprisoned eyes, the go-getting graspers, the owned uncaring ones, the souls solo…

O you are the waxless candle wounding the deathful creeping dark!On flaming through frozen heavenly gates you go, go, ascending meteoric hope! Whirlpool portals of the future all flung open fearlessly, unto the way faraway unfolding, yea, from the ashes of Earth undone a sibling for the Sun, the Resurrection of Care…

Can you care for the solar whirlwind whipped young planet and its long lost wilderness liberties? For these once fondly skipping seas falling
into an abhorred abyss of radioactivity? Or for the candy floss clouds acidized?
Can you care for the knaves beneath hellish bullet hail in the lampless, luckless,
lawless urban midnight revelry, the never ebbing crime-wave everywhere…?

O care for the shyly waving Tree of Life we passed everyway and
shameless, waves returned not! Go on and watch it gleefully waving and know that it will be
waving still when sapiens rot, know it will be vigorous still when our children’s
children rot, whether they or theirs are wont to wave or not, be sure it will
shed a dancing shadow long upon their waiting graves, long over the graveless
dead and wave…

Care for the nobodies numinous, lost and luminous, alley
ghosts alive ghastly but grimly resolute, gladly reduced thereto, all uplifting
aloud unofficial apocalypses, mute trumpets blaring terror, angels with clipped
wings awry, cryptic silence crying, ‘The
end is nigh…’

O care for our world of parentless playgrounds, too oft
bereft of the daydream pitter-patter of tiny feet. Do you see the haunting,
haunted swings there creaking in the wail tortured wind? Anyway the aching return
to arms, the morbid replanting of minefield flowerbeds, the innocent play of
infant veterans in the nuclear haze…

Care for the undefended overthrown underneath these cruelest scientific tyrannies! Fortify soft-hearted courage to right the wrongs of rationalized
demonic agencies! At last be allied with human nature’s Laws of Love too long
derided and denied, standing up for natural truth on trial in mechanical show
courts of criminal authority…

O rainbow phoenix arise, Resurrection of Care…

O care! I hear the unmatchable harmony of human, humane laughter in
the liberal air! Musical fireworks of distantly exploding despair! Free youth’s amorous
festival yearnings across the streetward greens camped everywhere! I behold outreaching hands given out in pairs, upward and downward swooping with dove tender coos and meeting where real inalienable rights are
lastingly renewed, many brave merry-go-rounds among sown dragon bones dared…

The Resurrection of Care!

© Thomas James Foster 2015

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An Incitement to Liberty

Our fate is a chance. Freedom of the will is our destiny. We are determinedly undetermined. We are definitely indefinable. Yet ever strive for the highest human ideals, my brethren! Yea, humanely struggle. Newborn we are human but not humane. Liberty is the levity of endeavour, not a leaden victory…

Freedom depends upon independence. Sovereignty begins with the proud acceptance of personal responsibility. Be accountable to your best self, obeying the commands of conscience, seeking truth and doing the good never for reward here or hereafter, but instead because goodness is true and its own reward. Remember always: love is wisdom. When fools shout the facts with fury, they falsify them…

Self-restraint is not a cage, but a key. Self-liberation, not self-tyranny. Giving discipline is teaching a child to discipline themselves, and truly being disciplined is a check that derives from within, not from without. What the unreasoning brutes cannot do, temper passion and gentle themselves, proudly retracting the desperate claws of primal conflict, we can and must…

Every person is their own prince and their own priest ultimately. Yea, but they can be more than princely, more than priestly. They will truly rule, who can bestow their diadems upon their fellows; who can keep court equally with Presidents and paupers. They will faithfully administer religious rites, who expand the sacrosanct sciences and hallowed humanities; who minister unto their earthly brethren with endless patience and ethical purpose. We are kings in charity and slaves in greed. We are holy in virtuous enterprise and unholy in apathetic vice…

Honour the noble pen, wise and witty, bold and bondless, free and fair! Splendid golden sceptre of the infinite kingdom of intellect! Revere the qwerty keyboard, queen of unwritten letters, empress of the word processor! Type as though you were a monk illuminating a gospel manuscript. All books could be our sacred scripture, and every library a church!  Marvels of the arts, splendours of the sciences, charities of spirit: these are those famous treasures of heaven alluded to by Christ, and Mohammed’s gardens beneath which rivers flow…

Never rage against the machine until you are prepared to long-sufferingly repair it. Be primed to ache and toil for justice: the arduous harmony of blood, sweat and tears, hopes and fears, must be orchestrated each generation for the old cause of liberty. Tyrants, false accusers and the unjust judges trying you, however haughtily, are themselves on trial in the eternal court of justice. Convicted innocent you convict them, so fear them not…

Our fate is a chance. Freedom of the will is our destiny. We are determinedly undetermined. We are definitely indefinable. Yet ever strive for the highest human ideals, my brethren! Yea, humanely struggle. Newborn we are human but not humane. Liberty is the levity of endeavour, not a leaden victory…

© Thomas James Foster 2015

Heaven

Heaven is a place without time or space where perception is made of affection…

Yea earthly oceans of orphan tears divide a parent from a child. Earthly deserts of disease part a wanting husband from his faithful wife. Here friends are lost in forests of affliction and family in cruel workhouses of want. Missed trains and aeroplanes, flat tyres and run over bikes conspire to ruin happy reunions…

In heaven, a mutual thought of love unites them instantaneously. Nor shall they part but upon a whim of their own. Whether beside a seaside or a sand-dune surrounded oasis, singing camped in serene wood clearings or gathered around the ancestral hearth, no matter then, no desired meeting of the like-minded can be delayed or disbanded. Love is the aviation there, imagination the high-speed rail and the chosen location a picture-perfect representation of their choice relationship…

Heaven is a place without hunger or thirst where the food is the good and the water truth…

Yea earthly crops are condemned before the oncoming locust cloud. Earthly orchard first-fruits are often pilfered before freshly picked. Here vigorous rivers are poisoned with pointless pollution and lustrous lakes made dim with discarded uselessness. Dogs scorn the mouldy bread and the drunks puke bitter wine into thirsty drains…

In heaven, the wheat fields ripen in the fullness of joy. The wider the smiles the sweeter the grain and the more belly laughter, the more bountiful the harvest feast. As long as there are generous souls, apple, orange and pear trees grow, in such abundance there is a want of hand to relieve them of their pleasant burdens. As long as there is wisdom, gardens are there, and untended flowerbeds of amaranthine blooms flourish always. Among them rush the brimming rivers of knowledge crystalline…

How magnificent, the music afterlife! Every mere utterance is as much. Spoken language and poetry there are linked inextricably. We have everyone seen depictions of happy angels plucking harps in loving praise of the liberal divine, but afterlife their very tongues resound with vivid notes upon every syllable. The very footsteps of the cherubim sing, my brethren….

Have you ever truly asked yourself alone, ‘What is my personal dream of paradise?’ Ask yourself now. Is it an unlimited perception of sensual pleasure? Innumerable virgins, petty man, to willingly realize your every sexual whim? Really at last, nothing to learn and nothing to teach? An endless holiday with nothing worthwhile remaining toward which you might eagerly and earnestly toil? Or is your heaven learning and teaching forever? Paradise labour eternal; the sheer unlimited joy of being of mutual use together? For the future state is not the end of human endeavour, but rather its blissful infinitude. Perfection is not a permanent state of being, so as to believe, ‘I am perfect.’ Perfection is a permanent state of becoming, so as never to doubt, ‘I am perfecting myself.’ Angels do not have the answer, my brethren. Angels never tire of the question…

To build a house upon the Earth, you need a plot, bricks and mortar, planning permission. To build a house in heaven you need a happy dream of home and nothing more. Have you chosen the good? That is your plot. Do you charitable deeds? Behold your bricks.  Can you speak the truth? Such is your mortar. All enough to construct a paradise palace of unlimited proportions, my brethren…

Heaven is a place without time or space where perception is made of affection. I would rather not write of hell…

© Thomas James Foster 2015