Beeping, tapping, leaning
On the gray, nebulous box
Spits out paper, curled and fancy,
Looks like fun, or so I thought.
Spinning, shaking, sweating,
On the tall, angry structure,
Her soul looks brighter here
With friends, no fear, no rupture.
Hallowed voices, countless chores
The context argues, scary or peaceful?
She comes in and she’s nervous again,
Cut off, closed in by all God’s people.
Counting white lines and yellow lights,
The green signs glow in the seas of night
I don’t trust the flame that burns the white,
Yet she guides us home with faith, not sight.
The walls could use more color,
The room could use more toys,
But she’s at her best here,
Far beyond stress, events, the noise.
Societal standards, set for success
We set our stories properly, but
Is there life in artifical happiness?
If life is turning chaos to tranquility,
What, as a whole, have we perfected?
Was it anything more than the astounding ability
To be miserable and get paid for it?
When we conform our dreams to man’s image,
Do we miss out on God’s perfect story?
Are they always at war or a playful scrimmage?
To know, do we have to wait til we’re forty?
I’m not a monk, nor a psychic or Shaman,
I don’t know if truth or personal destiny
Has a road or an open forum,
All I can suppose is that no one who knows
Follows formulas from those left before them.
A snow-covered hill,
Fat mugs of hot, sweet tea,
Warm faces, full hearts,
Nothing between you and me…
Cold feet and freezing fingers,
Slow walking or a mindless trot,
A journey, so didactic,
We’ll never reach the top.
The conversation lingers between
quick wits and bold haze
Admittedly, we’re dilettantes
of the machine, and all its ways.
Time seems more like space
When you are by my side,
I don’t notice its passing,
I don’t recall life’s diatribe.
We were cut from the same stained cloth,
It’s all the same, we’re the esoteric,
The original never-looked-for,
but the I’m-never-lost.
Living in opposite corners of the same brain, freed
We frolic in snow past the tall, white trees,
Remaining through trials and seasons,
The very best dichotomies.
On this particular day, I was late to church for prayer or maybe I was early. I walked in and sat in a chair that faced the wall opposite from the one I entered. I noted the familiar faces. There were probably 5-10 other people already deep in prayer and meditation. I faced the wall, put my feet on top of the floor heater and slouched into a ball. I began talking to God about my day, trying really hard to emulate the way I would talk to a friend. I hadn’t really done this before. My prayers are, for the most part, very structured, reverent and formal. I had finally summed up my day and really wanted to tell God how nature had affected me that day. I wanted Him to know my gratitude, to express an awe for the majesty of creation in a manner that expressed familiarity and comfort versus separation and reverence. I kind of just started shaking my head slowly back and forth, ignorant to what was about to come out… and I spoke:
“I really love what You’ve done with the place.”
I couldn’t control the giggling until I noticed my madness affecting all the other silent conversations with God.
This, I feel, marked a very special transition in how I began to identify with the creator of the universe.
Posted in Prose
Tagged art, life, love, writing
It gives me time to think
Forces me to stop
The horses look up from their stables
To watch me dead in my tracks
Dying from the inside,
Wandering on the outside
Skirts of God’s mind
Did I put these cuffs on my wrists?
Did you ever take them off of me?
Did I put them back on again?
Play it back, rewind it like a movie.
I don’t want to be the only star
I don’t want to be alone on the cast
I choose you as my director,
On the only gig that lasts
Pay me for my selfishness,
Pay me for my pride,
Give me blessings in place of honor,
Give me peace in what resides.
I’ve made a mess of things,
But you came to save, not judge,
I’ve never known a man
with such capacity in love.
I blame it on inertia
When I try to trust and fail
I know you wrote me lots of letters,
So every day, I wait for mail
Will you still love me above the highest ceilings?
And will you love me on my floor?
You said you’d never leave me
And I can’t take the separation anymore.
Posted in poetry
Tagged art, poems, Poetry
And the winds pick up
And the rain comes down
And my branches are thrown all around
But I will not be moved away.
My God is my home,
And in Him, I will stay.
You’re a tree,
But you don’t admire your stability,
All this life is vain,
Transcendence is futility.
Broken, his face As it careened slowly Through the room, Arriving, perfectly In front of my eyes. Incomprehensible, To me, was his grief. Failing to complement his tux, under the soft lights Of matrimony. My face, struck dumb and frozen … Continue reading