BIG BANG

BIG BANG

Rev. Pam Crane

One day which never existed, God
in solitary rage surprised Himself with a Thought
so unsustainable in the here-to-fore
He cracked the unflawed sheer shimmer of Monad in Equilibrium,
He broke Mind
mirrored in all directions,
He shivered Infinity
and the incorporeal mighty Hand that held it,
thus beginning seven days of Bad Luck as Time was born in the vortex.

Being God,
Resourceful, He stretched forth His other hand
upon the vortex, with an opposite charge -
And Said: LET THERE BE LIGHT, and There Was light
flashing from splinter to splinter, aeon to age;
suns of a shattered hand blinked fire into and out of a myriad million dizzy reflections
glinting Godhead back,
curled time-shards
reduplicating spin-drift, inkblot, starclot and coalsack -
by which light a God could see His scattered parts

And Being
God, He Said:
LET THEM FLY
Asunder upon the wind of
My unparalleled Imagination,
LET THEM SEED where a
plus-minus meets in the heart of light
a microcosmic god in the anti-mind, for this
is Matter of Moment; let there be Life, therefore,
so let there be Soul - let there be male, and female
warring and mating; let there be holes for light to penetrate,
dramatic poles, north and south in collision, upwards, down -
as in My excess I find
sorrow I cannot drown
in the necessity
for light to
mend Me by,
so will my Self,
enantiomorphic
twin of Me and
friend
be lover of that Light,
his flesh a bandage for My fractured dignity
for a seven-night.


Till then,
Let every action have its equal and opposite reaction.
Let there be
Polarity, pendulum, fractal, parabola
And parity.

Thus Spake God.........

.........One Day that suddenly existed, as
a myriad million fragments of Forever
took their first lesson in strife and alchemy;
towards which sex, war, succour, science and sainthood,
the long, vain struggle to tie the strings of symphonies
between grass and the galaxy, Caligula and Christ -
So many poles of puzzlement, poor man-thing! -
making itself slowly in God's other image,
feet on a star, head in the coalsack.

God forgot
to make men like snails. Here it is Sunday lunch
And still we have not mapped our route for the last afternoon
of our life; the future winks only briefly at us
out of the healing mirrors.
Some are struggling
To put their eyes out on stalks and see around corners
of the inconceivable before the last trump
is played, the last supper indigested and
the disbelievable unMichaelangelic Hand
reach forth to converge the silver trails
of the slow, vulnerable, visionary sun
housing the soul in helix.
Here they come,
a few at a time,
the unrejected cells;
a Miracle is made.
The Wound
closes.

Thy Hand, O God
may close the eyes of Time - but it is built of us!...
We who have put out the cat may be most unwilling to
put out the stars the cat and we have hunted our dreams by,
may be discontent;

may fidget with the smoothed fabric of Space,
finger the substance of the Maker's Dream,
flex the muscles of a new idea -

Spring a surprise.

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