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: writing
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.
Westering
she knows it won’t be long before again
the sun shall slip below
the horizon
but before that moment
a gasp of beauty
a slash of light
once more sings my heart this night
the glory of the stars most visible
when it is darkest after all
even as we peer up from the bottom of the well
do your eyes fill up as mine do?
someday we shall ascend the ladder 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.
What Is Necessary
she crosses the front room and comes to where i sit
kneeling at the table she takes my hand and
lifts it to her lips
and then i tremble silently
letting the book fall into my lap
she says not a word but lets her eyes do
the talking
and that is all and that is enough
and i drop down beside her
and together we bow our heads
Three Steps to Summer
A late afternoon has crept upon me and I find myself somehow surprised that it already has ticked near on 5pm. It is a simply gorgeous spring day here even if a bit warmer than I would desire. The sun still shines overhead and the breeze ruffles my shirt and reminds me that summer is not yet here. I almost let this afternoon slip away, drowsing away the weariness at home. Yet…upon looking outside and seeing the day blazing brilliant blue, how could I stay indoors? And so on go the shoes, with book and laptop tossed in backpack and away I went. It’s been a while since I’ve done the afternoon EQ walk. And though it isn’t quite EQ anymore – not sure I will ever be used to calling it Caffvino – it is lovely to sit here on the porch once more and enjoy the steady hum of the conversations round about. The music layers on and then also the traffic sounds are omnipresent as one may guess. I do find myself amused at the music playlist choices. While at one time it was punk and rock and emo angst, now…well, sounds more like hipster-folk-core or some such. Sounds like music one might listen to as they drive the mountain roads, camping gear slung on top. Definitely not the music of EQ of old.
Now what shall my fingers dance on to talk about? I suppose I might further share the loveliness of the day and chronicle my morning. I woke up later than typical but it was still early enough to enjoy a walk before the sun had fully risen above the horizon. A quick cup of coffee was brewed into my little to-go cup and onward I walked – MKT trail as is proper of a morning. Oh how beautiful sang the day! It was just cool enough that I relished the warm sips of coffee I would take from time to time and yet just warm enough to make me think of springtime. And speaking of springtime…as I walked down the trail, I caught a whiff of loveliness and stopped of a sudden. Could it be? And yes it was. The first scent of jasmine of spring. Always a delight and it will never not be one of my favourite moments of the year. I looked to my right and saw the very first delicate blooms of jasmine on the hedge that ran along the trail. How could my heart not sing? Ah how I love the jasmine flower and the memories that come with! With renewed joy I walked further down the trail down to the bridge, the spot from which many times I have stopped and thought and mused and prayed and this day I let my eyes dance as they gazed upon the bayou stretching towards downtown and the far-off buildings that seemed as dwarfs under the eastern sky. The sun now said hello in full and shimmered in a friendly manner and reminded me that a lovely day was at hand. I walked back and let my eyes rest upon the construction work that some may call a blight yet I find a treasure. The old buildings with the faded “COMPANY REFINERY” upon the side are now being renewed once more, the faded bricks glorified as the new windows are fitted and the surrounding ground turned over in preparation for what is to come – unknown to me yet I hope perhaps for something more than a retail park or office spaces. We shall see. Yet it gives me joy to see buildings not torn down and tossed asunder but renewed and made to rise again in splendour. I walked past the construction site and soon enough found myself almost home. I stopped to stretch and laughed to myself at how good my legs felt in the process. Does this mean my legs are not quite as young as they used to be that I find such pleasure in the perfect feeling of completion that comes after a proper stretch? Perhaps, perhaps. I have been accused of not looking as young as I used to, after all. Later on in the day, I would receive a comment from someone who had not seen me in a while remarking upon my salt and pepper hair. Well, I will not deny that my years have crept up upon me. And I will in that acknowledgement look up to heaven and say a prayer and praise my God for all that He has granted me. This has been a good day. It has been a day that I have been reminded that even as I turn towards sunset there is a far country that calls my name.
She Sits Atop the Wooden Table
A bare few words here this cold Friday morning. I was hoping I’d have time to write something profound and sweeping and glorious and in actuality I did have the time. Alas, I am at times my own worst enemy and instead of writing I found my thoughts bobbing here and there and my focus slipping as I darted to and fro on the interwebs instead of attempting to write a few words here. Now attempting to salvage, though I fear it will simply be a life raft floating on the dying waves. Anyway! Does one have to write of a morning to make it a worthwhile one? I say not, most certainly invested in the answer – as most mornings I of course do not! So I shall rest in this day and look forward to seeing what God has in store for me his child. It is a good day, that I declare in full confidence and humble expectation. Perhaps I shall write a few words later today or maybe even this weekend. We shall see. But whether I write or not, still know that my face is still turned up in gratitude to heaven and that my heart beats in time with the song of angels. Peace, my friends. Peace and love.
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.
A Day Arises She Sings Once Again
I really must write more. It is early Monday morning here in the flat and I have been perusing old entries and it has perhaps put me in a nostalgic mood. Also I have noted how my writing style has changed and morphed over the years in both content and form. For better or for worse? I shall leave others to say. But it is certain that in the past my entries used to be a bit more proper journal style and now, well…it seems that only my poetical or grasping creative fancies are what I decide to pour out on this screen. Oh, and book reviews of course. Never forget the book reviews! I wonder what it is, this slight drawing back, this pulling the curtain over my face ever so slightly. It perhaps reflects my growing, maturation dare I say? Maybe it is an acknowledgement that the internet is not quite as young and innocent as it was back in the day. Of course it never was, but I was more naive back then. Now, if I share on here, it feels riddles is the order of the day. Wade through enough metaphorical language and you may glimpse my heart. I know not all the reasons yet still it is fascinating to wonder.
And now my mind drifts as my fingers wander and I think perhaps it’s alright that I don’t write of my days in detail as I once used to do. Though I’m grateful for the chronicling of the past and the memories that now float through my mind for it spurs thoughts of gratitude and joy. Gratitude to the God who has blessed me far more than this young man could ever have hoped to dream. Joy for the life this same God has given me – a life poured out as offering devoted to the One who holds my hand yet a life blazing forth full of light from that same God who fills me in ways I most likely won’t ever truly comprehend. I am a broken vessel, a clay pot. Who am I to show forth this brilliant glory? Who am I to write down this achingly beautiful song? I bow my head in praises to the One who made me, to the One who called my name.
Perhaps I shall write more of my life in the future. Perhaps not. But I’m grateful for the thoughts that flood my being and the emotions that well up within.
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.
Something Weird 