A Poem Is Never Finished!

I have a bio of Auden.
I've read it several times.
Pen in hand, always underlining.

Read it enough, and the whole book'll soon be underlined.
His life means something to me.
"A poem is never finished," he said.

I like that.
Stuff is never finished.
Neither is life.

Sure, someone dies.
And that's that.
But life is never finished.

I'll die, too.
And so will you.
And so will our children.

And grandchildren, too.
Death is that finalizer.
It smiles with its power.

But the earth goes on.
And will likely go on for some time to come.
And so will the universe.

Expanding limits.
Stars exploding.
Protons and buffoons.

Life is never finished.
Life is movement.
Reaching.

For those who believe in eternal life.
Well, that's the on-going stuff, isn't it?
The stuff that's never finished.

I've thought, If there is an eternity.
It's movement ... like the Book of Revelation.
A bustling city, noisy; the lights never turned off.

In Christ, for sure.
Who says, "Follow me!"
To places yet unknown.

The inexhaustible heart of God.
If God had a beginning, it was the moment when
God realized there could be love.

Anyway, I like Auden.
His hold on faith.
Or faith's hold on him.

His struggles with his own flesh.
His being, identity, his love.
His dreams and desires.

No wonder a poem is never finished.

Purposeful Unhappiness

Different kinds of unhappiness:

Some of it arises from a deep and powerful connection to the universe, and to its pain.

Was Jesus unhappy?
Of course, he was, a good many times.
But his unhappiness wasn't destructive.
It was creative, compassionate and healing.
Strong enough to be deconstructed on a cross.
But the very nature of his unhappiness gave rise to life.
In the end/beginning, it couldn't be killed.

There's another kind of unhappiness that comes from disconnects:
From regret and jealousy.
From hate and bitterness.
Abuse and neglect.
Feelings of inadequacy, helplessness, frustration.

Religion often generates this kind of unhappiness.
A sad "righteousness."
That gloats in the sorrow of others.
That dreams of punishment and death for the many.
And salvation for the righteous few.
It's never peaceful.
It snarls and growls a lot.

Religious or not.
It lashes out and despises the world.

It finds purpose in destructiveness.
Deconstructive, taking something apart.
Smashing it to pieces.

In the end, disaster.
For those caught in its grip.
And at the very source.
In the soul of the unhappy.
Death.

Yet, for those unhappy because of connection.
Unhappy in their compassion.
Unhappy in their vision for a new day.
Something good and beautiful for the world.

Those who refuse to build walls.
Who refuse the language of race and exclusion.
Those who speak truth to power.
And challenge the lies that power needs to be power.

For them, life.
Life on the hard side, for sure.
Life drained away in labor and love.
And life replenished in the doing of good.

Life returned to the giver by the universe.
Life at the source.
In the soul.
The center.
Spreading out.

It's okay to be unhappy in the goodness of compassion.
Compassion requires it.
And makes it whole and constructive.
A powerful unhappiness that dreams and strives.

And the universe says: "Well done, good and faithful servant."