Calling all re-imaginers, provocateurs, artists,
Prophets, revolutionaries, amateur theologians
and those bored with mothers milk and stodgy food.
Deep calls unto deep but is anyone listening?
The voice of sameness, timidity and unending dreariness,
Dull the beauty and wonder within and without.
Why black and white in such a techno -colored world?
Where are the metaphors?
The religious icons of our generation,
The Rublev’s who give us windows into heaven?
Where goes John of the Apocalypse?
Where to the writers who warm the hearts
And fire the imagination?
Where are the Tolkiens’ and the Lewis’s?
Where the great thoughts, the lofty thoughts, the noble thoughts?
Where to the subversive thoughts, and revolutionary speech?
Where to the subversive thoughts, and revolutionary speech?
Where to the laughter, the fun, the satirical?
Where to the debate, the rhetoric and the dialogue?
Where the sounds of merriment?
Of verses filled with wondering,
And chorus filled with truth?
Where the songs of our ancestors,
Whose tears formed the couplet?
Where goes Charles Wesley, and Fanny Crosby?
Where now the spirituals of our generation – that speak
Of things as yet to be?
Why now the sterility?
Why now the exhortation?
Why now the shallow and the superficial?
Why now the sanctimonious and systematic?
Where goes the poet, the artist, the theologian?
The minstrel, the sage and the writer?
Why – so much playing it safe?
Oh wall flower – oh pretty petal.
A cowards hand does not make the surgeon or the artist.
You do I and thou no favors nor reflect the divine within.
When you stop imagining, and dreaming the divine
And the apocalypse of everyday life.
Graeme Brock 2012
