Call to Create
This restless, ever-cresting urge,
that pounds, incessant, in my breast,
much like the ocean's pulsing surge
that never seems to pause for rest,
will have its way.
I must obey.
So I go, in meek surrender,
find a quiet place to hide,
and placing pen to paper, render
poems from the swelling tide.
Though sweet release,
a transient peace.
The work complete, I pause, but find
no sooner is the pen replaced,
than flooding words wash through my mind,
my playful castles are erased,
and I, once more,
am as before.
If I, a child of God, would be
so strongly moved to write, create,
I wonder, is His poetry
the art my heart would imitate?
(His words, I hear,
made worlds appear!)
I realize earth may never know
these fleeting works my soul has given.
Still, from mystic depths they flow
and rise like morning mist, to heaven,
where His ear
at least, may hear.
Copyright ©
Ron VanHooser
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