| Poetry by E. Johannes Soltermann The miracles of the heart are not in the alchemist's manual from 1597, not in the skill of the surgeon's hand, not in Greffin's jewelry store. The miracles of the heart cannot be taught but only experienced, they cannot be bought but only given, cannot be planned but only surrendered to. The miracles of the heart test our ability to laugh, test our flexibility to cry, test our openness to love. The miracles of the heart lie not in vaults of the past nor can they be postponed for a second; they're only here, with you, right now. - - - "I am self." Isn't that the highest we can say? Bowing to the substance that made us, bowing to the essence that we breathe? "I am self." Ages, an eternity of compassion, wisdom beyond belief. And, at the end of a sleepless dream, of a stumbling thought, of a breathless rest, the only other statement I could ever render is "Thank you." - - - The sisters of mercy do really exist. They take you by the hand and lead you to the waters of life. But, not before you pass through the dark tunnel, spend three nights in the dungeon of forgottenness, and lose your self in the desert of oblivion. Only then will they come, the sisters of mercy, and lead you deeper into your own. - - - A tear looks out through the window of heaven and says, "What a sunshine! I'm taking a walk!" Whistling, it strolls down a fine, golden love-thread until it arrives in the corner of my eye. Young as it is, this impatient teardrop, it senses the sea, it can't stay for long. Without hesitation it slides down the mountain, exploring the contours of my cheek. All the while our God, with compassion and mercy, looks on through the window of my heart. Copyright © 2004 E. Johannes Soltermann, Minneapolis, Minn. |
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July 2004 |
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