the bread broken and the wine poured
up to the table i walk once again
still it feels as the first time
the wonder and the love that somehow
this feast before me is rightfully mine
but why when my feet are dirty and my eyes dry?
the wrong assumption of course
it is not my eyes that looked with love as they spat upon him
it is not my feet that were pierced through with heavy iron
so i do not claim anything of mine own as merit sufficient
if i did that would not be a rightful claim
only pride
instead i clutch a ticket stub that has stamped upon it
paid in full
by that divine one Jesus Christ
with whom one day I shall dine as we break bread
and he looks me in the eye
and we toast each other and each take a sip of wine
someday soon i pray but for now
i cling to his feet and sing once more
the song that is forever mine
he loves me yes i know
Tag: creative
A Mock Severity Demonstrated
See how the storms howl outside? Yes of course I’ll be safe, but let me open the door for a second, just a second I promise! And let me stick my head out to feel the spray of the rain on my face and feel the raw wind in all its glory. Too often the safety and security of our modern life aids in our forgetting the fragility of our frames. We are used to being master of all we survey. Stand for a moment as the thunder rolls and you will not feel as if you are much of a master at all. Perhaps it is good to feel small now and then. I close the door once more. Only a little wet, see? Now I don’t need to take a shower for the water falling from the heavens was sufficient to wash me clean. No I won’t shake myself on the mat. Throw me a towel and I’ll dry off and then let’s turn the oven on as we prepare for dinner. I like the natural beauty of the outdoors but I also crave simple comforts like dry clothes and hot food. Electricity is pretty nice too.
Dreams
I wish I could dream in color like I hear all the cool kids do. Unfortunately I can’t even claim to remember my dreams apart from the odd occasion when I have the luxury of drifting back to sleep after waking earlier than my alarm clock, a very rare happenstance indeed since usually I am up and showered all before five am. So my dreams? They vanish into the fog of last night’s sleep as dreams are prone to do. And though I’m sure it would be amusing to know what my subconscious is working through and ponder what I have to look forward to, instead I force my eyes forward and dream for the moments later on when I may have time to write in black and white. These are the moments of bliss whereupon the thoughts in my brain are distilled onto the page or laptop screen and somehow present a snapshot of a moment as I in amusement let my eyes rest upon the words that prance free, born in a moment simply to be frozen forever in that museum gallery for a solitary pilgrim to enjoy as he may. I do wish at times my vocabulary was a bit broader and could better express the thoughts that burn within. Instead it seems as if the same old standbys get used again and again and I feel so shamed that I can’t write as some of the ancients used to. Even now I read a page from time to time that stirs my heart and I wonder what it is to wield such skill. Perhaps someday I shall write a line that is true. For now I simply write what is and let the words fall upon the page perhaps in disarray but you know what – there is a truth even there. I shall in humility fall to my knees knowing that I am not enough. Yet I look to the mirror and though it is broken and cracked, I still see a face that betrays hints of majesty for the one that has eyes to see. There are moments when I breath a quick prayer of thanksgiving that I even now live in communion with the God that knows my name. I still wish I dreamt in color. Yet this world though spinning wearily is not so bad when one considers the long road it’s trod. I do long for the wedding day. I do long for the day when all will be made new. I do so long for the day when the world in technicolor will sing for joy unbridled and for that day when I shall in glory look upon the face of the groom.
Waterfalls
I don’t know what I want. I long expected to hear those words from her lips but even so, the moment stuns me a bit in its rawness. I feel a crackle through the air and I feel the sudden urge to sneeze, the same urge that springs upon me in those pivot points of life. So too here, as the air fairly shimmers with possibility. She turns to me in faintly disguised anguish, eyes wet. I know I’ve kept you waiting, I know the ball’s been in my court for oh far too long. But what was I supposed to say? You wanted to hear me say I love you? I couldn’t and I can’t still. But there is something here, I know it and so do you. And I fear if I shut it down and let it go, there will be regret someday. Does that make me selfish? Don’t answer that, I’ve already punished myself enough for not being able to make a choice. Decision paralysis. That’s me and not even the excuse of immaturity. Also don’t answer that. I reach my hand across the table, a mute reminder of my initial question. Although it seems perhaps now is not the time. I draw back. She bites her lip as we both stay silent and I hastily take a sip of tea. She takes a deep breath and puts her hands to her face as if to delay the moment a little longer. I hear the rain patter on the cobblestones outside and think that I will always remember this August afternoon.
Prophecy
raindrops on roses and
you know the rest she laughs aloud
i do but i like hearing you sing it
your harmony sounding out
it brings a richness that contrasts greatly
with the mundanity that so often abounds
she rolls her eyes of course
but then i see them sparkle
and once again her sweet voice sounds
as we sit on the old back porch
and let our fingers touch again
Barabbas
sometimes i wish i had another calling
far too often these days of late as the sun slides closer to horizon’s embrace
my heart has sprung up with a yearning my mind does not know how to answer
do you hear the music too?
or is it all just in my head
keeping time with the footsteps that continually sound from above
i see you sighing and in a moment perhaps i’ll slide down to your end of the couch
for now i let my fingers wrap around this mug and i breathe deep and wonder
for the thousandth time why me
this prisoner exchange that i ponder, that he might die so that i might go free
it’s too much really for such a poor one as i
and as i tilt my head and think on it i can’t help but begin to cry
you notice but pretend not to politely or so it seems to me
your head burrowed a little deeper into your kindle
my head bowed over this cup of strong black tea
Alley Cat
Hello friends! A little Sunday afternoon writing extravaganza – or perhaps more of a small digression on the ordinary – and I’m really not sure why I’m writing other than the fact that I do happen to have a bit of time and I felt it would be silly to waste it. Hence laptop open and all that. I really don’t have much to write about but from time to time it’s important to leap headfirst into the chasm without the benefit of any sort of extraction plan. It’s a bit freeing and even beneficial, I would argue, for strengthening the creative muscles that too often can lay dormant as one lazes about here and there. But now, in actuality, I am writing far too many words on nothing as a vacant look begins to grow in my eyes. I allow my imagination to wander afield but now I think I’ve lost her and wherever she is now, I suppose there isn’t any signal. It is a shame, really, when I think of all the wasted moments when I’m driving on the highway and my muse sparks to life. I construct a cathedral of perfect images and the moments that cause one’s heart to stutter in awe and disbelief. But that super structure is ethereal of necessity and given enough time – say, the ten minutes more it takes for me to complete my drive and pull into a parking space – the distractions of what some call real life creep stealthily in and before I know it, I see a puff of smoke upon the wind and pronounce in subdued tones the burial rites for that which may possibly be the greatest creation ever to grace the alleyways of my mind. Now though? I write about all and sundry in part just to drive away the growing dread that I have nothing of worth to say. At least I’m writing I tell myself. At least the words are pouring forth and if no one judges them to rank high in profundity at least no one accuses them of being bland. At least no one says this to my face. Behind my back, who knows. All the comments may be bandied back and forth and perhaps some harsh words on my output may trickle forth from time to time. Yet worse than that of course? The sheer apathy of most and the highest of likelihoods that in actuality no one says much of anything about my work at all. This is of course true and I write these words acknowledging the fact to steel my soul and grimly laugh and acknowledge that even what I love to write here and now does not really have a lasting place beyond the here and now. If I in self-deprecating humor poke at myself and acknowledge my lack of worth or art, does that mean I cry a little less inside? Perhaps. Is it worth it? Perhaps. Still my soul aches to know that I’ve written something beautiful, even if it just once or twice. I doubt I will live to see that day. But let not my bitterness cloud the moment, let not my weeping smear the panes. Instead, I’ll flick on the windshield wipers and allow myself to keep driving forward and I’ll focus on the taillights in front of me as I do my best to escape this pouring rain. Even in the mixed metaphors which clutter my writing it seems I can’t escape my own mediocrity. But to reference my above, is it still not better that I’ve written something? Look up above and see the sunlight breaking through. Do you happen to have a pen and spare piece of paper about you? I’d love to write a quick poem if you do.
A Different Kind of Music
She sits on the porch in the fading light of sunset, a mug of coffee cradled in her hand. She knows it may possibly be too late for coffee but she cares not. The scent of coffee sparks her soul. The darkness draws closer and she looks out over the fields to enjoy the golden softness of the heads of grain before the curtain falls. It is good to rest this night. Her muscles are slowly untensing after the long day walking to and fro and hither and yon. A hot shower will be most welcome shortly, but not yet. Firstly the sunset must be enjoyed for the moment is not to be missed on a night such as this. The yellow light slowly turns to orange and threatens red as the sun slips ever further down the curve of the prairie sky. The clouds hug the horizon promising her very favourite type of sunset, the type where the garments of the heavens drape loosely about its frame. All the better to showcase the breathtaking beauty that is ever present but only rarely shyly seen. But enough of the sunset chatter, she thinks to herself as she breathes deep. She brings her other hand up to the coffee mug and she drinks. The wind blows across the treeless pastures and causes her to shiver. The sun winks and is gone. She lets herself sit a moment or two longer, slowly rocking back and forth in her chair. She plays a finger through her hair about her ear and considers. The thick book on the table next to her calls her name. But first, hot shower and cozy pajamas and then back on the porch to curl up with aforesaid book and a tall glass of something cold and dark. And she may even light a candle. It’s that type of night, a night for the prolonging of the beautiful and a lingering in the light. But first she must move her tired muscles. She slowly rises and turns to the house. Her hand on the doorknob, she looks back one more time to take a mental photograph of the way the porch railing silhouettes against the twilight. The night is not yet over, she promises herself. But now, shower time.
Counsel
What say you to the charge that is laid before you this cold winter night? Dare you take up your own defense, dare you take up your pen in furious denunciation of the rumors that now stalk the land? Your hand shakes in barely concealed rage. You cannot quite the believe the furor that has been unleased. In this modern age the news travels lightning swift, does it not? Even lightning is slower than the venom that has been unleashed in service of your doom. Will you actually try to fight back this night? You put your head into your hands and slowly slump down in your chair before the fireside. Your phone is on the table next to you, it is no use. Anything you see now will be naught but further acid upon the wounds that now etch themselves down your face. Your tears no longer flow. But perhaps there is one who may take up the case. Perhaps he would. Just maybe. You have no strength left in you and no vigor left in your mind. You have been smartly disarmed and in totality unmasked. There is no other option. You raise your head and breathe deep. You look to the window and see the snow swirl gleefully down. Your hand trembles. It is all arrayed against you, is it not? You are not spotless after all. But who may rise in your defense? Who may clear their throat and speak out against the lies that bind? Who may take your cause for their own? It would be perilous, possibly life threatening. Yet there is one who may just step into the breach. You raise your hand in silent supplication. A knock sounds at the door.
MKT
He walks down the sidewalk in time to a tune only he can hear. It’s been in his head, in his thoughts, in his dreams and even now if he tries he can hum it to drown out all the other melodies that strive for supremacy. He sweeps out his boot across the grass that springs up before him and he halfway skips across the street. The half-broken neon sign beckons him onward for a tasty sugary treat. But not today, old friend, not today. Instead he hums those bars he heard a few hours ago at the opera and thinks of the life that he calls his own. There are little prickly bits here and there of course and it’s easy to snort and roll one’s eyes at the perky hellos he’s given on any given day. Yet rather wouldn’t it be better to dwell on those things that are miraculous in and of themselves? The moonlight glancing upon the surface of the bayou, the cold air giving cause for wearing turtlenecks, even yes those bare branches that testify to the possibility of coming spring. Isn’t his life rather swell? He raises his eyes to the heavens and sighs at the impossibly perfect clouds that float afore his gaze. He walks on down the sidewalk and lifts up his thoughts in prayer. A fellow traveler walks from the other way and meets his eyes and so he offers up a bright hello! A genuine smile replies.
Something Weird 