The problem with being an atheist
The problem with being an atheistis the lackof imagination.no one to talk withwhen we were first begunto share the painof dyingthe joy of livingto delight in our first wordsour singing notesour pictures on the walls.
The problem with being an atheistis the lack of gratitudehaving no one to thank for being herenothing to join hands withand dance the dance of life.
The problem of being an atheistis the lackof creationthe determinationthat we shall bethat we art thatthat we are formedwith intention,with a smilea deliberationthat you are youand no one else.
The problem with being an atheistis the lack of possibilitiesa world to come into beinga kingdom to be worked forblood and sweated forany hope of future travelscurtailed with science.
The problem with being an atheistis the lack of mysterywhy the Boudhi tree and not a palace garden,why the woman at the welland not a real estate agent in Vauclusewhy the air becomes the Holy Spiritand causes us to shake a littleto grin a littleto write in the dustand find songlines in the earth.
the problem with atheismis the lack ...
Jorie Ryan
Passing through
(a response to Peter Goldworthy´s 'Eye of the Needle')
iTo go from this earth to the nextyou can remain yourselfbut your self musttravel very light.
iiNo coffers full of old customs,no cases full of old attachments.The have-nots, the poor in spiritwill be the only oneswho'll carry little enough.
iii At the end of your worldly tunnelno one will be coming towards youto support you and your heavy head.
ivYour heavy heart is a different matter —it will be blessed with weighing less.That, at least, remains ofthe promise of the Light.
Frank Joussen
The new year's stars
And so, we ventured away from the lights of the house,Away from compliments and cups of kindness sungInto the tipsy night,Peering into a darkness fragrant with the breathOf lemon, eucalypt, mint and thyme.Two paddocks away, an astrologer's dogWas barking at the heavens,Having caught the scent of celestial bears.And so, as we looked up,The cooling earth seemed to reel in the lee of Mount Sturgeon;And, in their majesty, the stars passed in their transcendence,Mapping our poles and times and expectations,As randomly, it seemed, as if wild CaravaggioHad flung his silvered dice without relent,Exhausted only by the prospect of mundane dawn.But, as one, spent