she tiptoes down the stairs
trying hard to think only
of the warmth of
steaming coffee
not of the cold that lingers
in her bones
she sings a few bars
of the verses that even now
haunt her dreams
sweet ones to be sure
as that which sits on the downstairs table
a chocolate frosted doughnut
not quite fresh yet still not stale
sugar rush to the spirit
as one thinks of truths
beyond the veil
Tag: poem
That Which We Confess
Would that I were not currently sitting in front of an empty desk centered in an empty room bathed by the sweetly luxurious outpourings of the fluorescent lights mounted in the recesses far above. I could wish for another fate this late winter day I suppose, but perhaps it is not a bad thing to be in the stillness and in the quiet when so easily might I be in a shrieking cesspit of calamity and chaos. Is this harshly sanitized environment in which I sit not a respite from the nightmares that howl in the greater world outside? Perhaps it would be desirable to sit in this cheery sanitorium if only I believed that the world outside was truly as uncontrollably monstrous as some cannot help but preach. Instead I think that perhaps I do wish my feet were falling in rhythm upon an old stone path as I ponder the fresh air that piles in from the sea and brings the breezes that so often soothe my weary soul. I cast my mind away from this vacant island of pretense and script that vision of reality that so often sweetly haunts my dreams.
In this staging I walk in an old and hallowed courtyard, one lined by brick buildings laced with ivy and a few nodding northern elms who stand proudly in their nakedness. I have an important appointment to keep with a dear friend and though I don’t particularly want to keep her waiting, I do stop for a moment to admire the way the early morning sun filters through the grey clouds above to grace me with a small slice of beauty. I would love to spend a bit of time sitting against one of the trees and writing in my little notebook, yet I cannot spare the time today. Perhaps tomorrow. I put my feet back on the stone path and urge them back into some semblance of pace as I resume my walk. I feel almost as if I could be alone even as I know there are many souls in the buildings that surround me. Yet in the windows that I peer up at I see no signs of life. Only old oaken furniture and a few fluttering curtains in windows that have been left open. Perhaps my friend was leaning out of one of these same windows earlier to watch the sunrise. I know that she likes to do such, even if the sunrise does not promise to be momentous. Ah but there she is now. At the far end of the green I see her sitting on one of the wrought-iron benches that line the path. She waits for me yet makes the most of the time. I see her scribbling away in a notebook of her own. A poem or treatise on theology? Sometimes they are one and the same. Is not a true poem a very reflection on the reality of God? I like to think so. And that’s why people find poets so pretentious at times, for the fact that we seek to impart the deepest of meanings to the most mundane of words. But what are our words but grasping after the most profound realities that our souls ache to know in full? We know how feeble our words are. Yet still we write, in futility and dreams. Now my steps slow as I crunch through the frosty grass. She looks up and smiles.
Let’s talk about all the things and reflect on what our God has revealed to us this day. Let our hearts sing in harmony with the song of heaven. Let’s fill our minds with thoughts of beauty, for vanity unfilled will tends toward chaos and I’d rather not have that. Instead of vacant half-acceptance of the tossing waves of this raging world, let’s set our course by the star we know and firmly with resolve look towards the horizon where the far country grows. We see it now yet dimly. Yet in faith we see it true.
Testimony
in shape of warped and unchecked hunger
grows a shadow of terror
that i claim as mine
in fact i serve such
a proud proclamation
dare i boast
perhaps better i die
and in the realization of the situation
in which i now reside
i look to that which i long scorned
scarred for so many years
by those pricks and rapacious thorns
yet now i welcome the blood which drips
and consider that which flowed
from deeper scars
precious now this fountain divine
how long shall i suffer for my pride?
i can do no other
i look to Jesus Christ
Nickel Tour
i walk across the flagstones
briskly wind teases my scarf
between these hollowed columns
and in this stark grey morning
i grip my coffee tighter
to feel the warmth filter through
and to satisfy the growls
i take a hearty mouthful
of my hot breakfast sandwich
piled high with sausage, eggs
and cheese
Why do we Labor So?
remember what it feels like to be at the bottom of that well
dug so long ago by Isaac and his kin in times of chaos
and you will tell me that i can’t imagine it because surely
in my safe and easy life when ever have i wept
and i’ll tell you that it’s when i knew i was loved not hated
so what so what you ask
have you not labored to earn the love of God
yes but in folly did i so strive for in folly was my heart bound
until at last i saw the ladder descend and looked upward
and knew at last the truth which my mother had so often told
that i was loved not for what i had said or done
loved before i was outside the womb
what have i done what have i done
then i worked and strived
for forgetting my name and prizing my pride
i put forth my own hand to the staff again and again
with strength grasped that for which i bowed to self
and yet at end of day when windows dim
and i succumb to that which my father before me did
i remember the truth of the word which was spoken
i was loved in sovereign love
and to my nostrils sweet came the smell of mercy
yet i remember how i worked
even for the crooked paths i walked
that i made so much harder than they had to be
and i remember that i labored so
seven years for Leah
she whose love i learned to treasure
seven years for your mother
she in whose love i never wavered
and seven more years for good measure
and all these years vanished as dust
along with these frail bones which i lay bare now
in fear and trembling remembering when my frame
was strong and able and i clung to him who loved me
and in fear i cried out but he simply said my name
i am loved in sovereign love
how or why i cannot quite know yet someday
all shall know in a new covenant struck by divine blood
in gladness of great joy i sing
of a great mystery that is now mostly hidden
of the song that someday i shall sing with all my children
why should i be loved and my brother hated
i weep now for divine and sovereign love
given for nothing good that i have done
watching for the one to bend and drink from that brook
running sure and swift with living water
no more shall i dig and labor
no more shall i cling to this staff and strive
instead let me simply bow and sing again
my eyes watering to know my maker
Someday
A couple unrelated (but are they?) scribblings.
evergreen even in february
winter dreams
half forgot
and hopes of spring
bloom
along
with strawberry skies
look!
a chrysalis
when will it open
the clock ticks
ashes to
fluttering wings
and Jerusalem calls
the river for feasting
the leaves for healing
how long?
Crafty
the upright antique mirror dazzles
and gilded golden framework razzles
and i look into it and smile
look at that image it is beautiful
it is mine and i bow before
all it asks i shall do
and all its being i adore
for as i craft my vision statement i can only confess
that i shall do all that my image demands of me
for it is mine
see how beautiful this garden
grows underneath my feet
in the beneficence of my majesty
i laugh aloud with this image that laughs with me
for the foundation of my joy is that gilded mirror
which imprisons my very soul
in pride refusing to remember
that image bearer signifies
i am verily not my own
there is another
Anchor
the branches bare wave in the breeze
early morning’s kiss in fog descends
and as i walk through the sleepy courtyard
all i can do is think of what came before
a momentary song, a crumpled piece of paper
a notebook half written in my pocket
what more can i do now than lift my voice
and pray
and seek in thought for that peace
sweet as honey on the bread that i had for breakfast
oh no matter that the air is damp with seaside humor
and that the tune from last week’s show
keeps dancing in my head
for i look to a higher hope than which i can rest my
hand upon
and in these pages now i write of all i’ve thought and said
aware that these represent but a leaf upon the wind
a sharp intake of breath as i consider eternity
and nothing more is mine now than that which was given me
so under this sun i sit in this waking courtyard
meditating as i think on the absence of that veil
and the lingering joy of that one epoch defining tree
In Spirit
There is a verdant reckoning with the asphalted symphony
or so it seems as she reaches down to experience
in silent wonder
the new song that has unexpected sprung from
chaos –
and in a leap she echoes the refrain
trembling awfully
in symmetry balancing on
metal ties binding metal rails
now her hand strains for faint heard melody
stars upon stars in milky kaleidoscope
incomprehensible candles lit
a bridge to whisper underneath
her breath
a gasp a prayer as she underneath her window sits
tagging home at last in humble harmony
this grand yet simple reckoning with holy writ
Forever
in the chill of night rests a longing
and my soul cries out to one
who is
and then though the path is narrow
and the briars and thorns threaten
to tear my clothes and rip my skin
i fear not
and look ahead to those green pastures
and quiet waters by the fruited trees
the forever presence of my Lord
even now shimmers the same as i kneel
and consider what it is
to be wholly at rest in him
Something Weird 