Soul Anchor

Time ebbs as a cosmic tide, my soul reaches for an anchor.
Is there a sanctuary somewhere? For all of us?
A place like the childhood neighbourly hoods,
Where we roamed on sunlit lawns, dancing to the sway of sprinklers and sun showers,
Carefree, drinking days of liquid life.

Too soon the rainless clouds of adulthood rolled in.
The bills dried us, wars broke us, funerals reminded us,
And we saw the children despairing the world they inherited.
They hum unable to sing, shake unable to dance,
Violence and corruption absorbed through kicks and screens.

Some found you in the stars,
You found me in dreams,
Others in fields, shipwrecks or summits under dark skies dusted with seemingly cold galaxies.
So many orbits ventured, conflict and pain, and hope regained.

There is a pathway
And on this journey I find rest
In the forest, by the sea, on the land you give the gentle.
In the mountains I mourn, by the river I rage, all with you by my side.
As jagged peaks breathe ice and snow, you thaw the mirage of endless winter
A warmth of words spoken softly to the child within.
You sweeten time with togetherness, presence around the table.
Time ebbs a cosmic tide, my soul reaches an anchor.

– Jonathan McCallum

24th December 2017


soul chateau

Along a windswept grassy hill you may find my soul chateau.
Warm days–windows welcoming sunlit air.
Winter grey–a fire crackling.

This haven is under construction:
The interior being refreshed,
But the outside less touched up.

If you stay lawnside, evaluating, you will see many broken things:
Rusty hinges, junk parts tossed aside, weeds growing here and there,
The sign neatly printed “religious man” sun-faded and askew.
Now one Name rests over eves and entrance.

“Joshua’s carpentry, chateau renewal.”
Some very regulated folk suggest changing companies,
Concerned about that radical, un-religious, palestinian jew.
A more established builder, you suggest? More neatly dressed?

I reply that I trust him, his work.
I’ve been impressed.
Come inside and see the arches of forgiveness,
That stairwell of joy,
An unmoving foundation of hope.
Yet what I love most is the woodworking of grace.

The unseen cost is the hours he hurt me
By chipping away at that old sandstone
And all the hard oak heart logs throughout the house.

The other day the inspection crew showed up again,
Quoting rigid rules, building requirements, regulations.
They halted as he simply said,
“The foundation and building are my own.
You missed that by reading rule after rule.”

I’m tired of painting outside walls.
I’m spending more time on the inside,
Making it a place of joy,
For family, new friends, a place to welcome
Creaky kitchen doors, sandstone dust,
Oak chips flying now and then

I long for the fire to roar in this chateau,
Inside beautiful, fresh, new.
Outer garden wall, rose-covered and welcoming the wild.
My life remodeled, refurbished with a new love,
A rusty, creaky windswept love.