Tag Archives: God

Empty Philosophy, Useless Rhetoric

We were birthed from Strife, and Love followed us into a cycle of never-end; the coming together, the pulling apart, these are the seasons of infinity.

For if the very nature of Strife and Love, existing in every part of the Cosmos, is infinite, then is not everything created within the infinite cycle forever bound within its seasons and without the ability to be separate or destroyed?

Therefore if I stand like a volcano who gives off smoke as a signal of natural strife, am I not still subject to the season of rest, the love that must follow? For each season passes and gives balance to the precedent set before it.



Poem: Selfish Vantage Points

Child blowing


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.

Poetry: A Mountain with its Eyes Closed

Awaken, sleeping traveler.
Cast aside inertia, enjoy the ricochet
Breathe the world through your eyes,
Admire the way it gives, and God takes away.

What scares you only gets uglier in death.
Which death, you ask, to silent rests,
The spindle’s clouding the seed of reason;
Fears cascading the windows of your soul,

The voice grips you to the overwhelm,
Sound waves slowly inching you off the bed
But you are lying still as a mountain with its eyes closed,
No one sees the blood on the floor or the knives in your head.

The present is the future presupposed
Erasing the grace and retain of old-time religion,
It reminds you of journey and purpose,
All things need to be maintained.

Banish fear, move inside inspired emotion
Scream out loud or just announce your devotion
Be obscene and lack the advised discretion,
Spill out your shame, expose your obsession.

Just move.

Prose: The Age of False Advertising

Often when I see the sky, a really piercingly beautiful sky, I think to myself that such a scene belongs in a painting. I find this very telling about the human nature, or perhaps only my nature. When I see something too beautiful to describe, my mind can only process it as being fake or synthetic. A copy, even. Surely not the prototype. Reality is ugly, so anything I perceive to be beautiful is often mistaken to be a charade. It’s the cause for much of the failings of my faith. To think of a G-d so beautiful, so loving, so merciful and giving, to behold him in the framework of my mind even for a second brings me to the logical conclusion that He is not real, and loveliness on such a grand scale is not possible.

But the G-d who created the stars and the skies, every sunset and every natural landscape is a G-d whose beauty surpasses all of these things. I believe that.

Poetry: How Long, My Lord?

How long did David cry before his tears became words and words became joy?
How long did Jesus pray before His fear became love and love became sacrifice?
How long was Jonah alone before hatredbecame obedience and obedience saved many?
How long did Moses hide before his guilt became acceptance and acceptance became blessing?
How long did God miss man before He sacrificed the best part of Himself for the worst part of us?

How long will I go wrong before God sets me right, again?

Poetry: Stone in My Soul

Empty and cold,
A stone in my soul,
The bricks of decay,
Leave me open and alone.

Sorrow is a word, and that’s all I’ll venture to know about it.
I can’t write anymore than I can cry,
Given towards tendencies for pain, life is a bitch.
My spirit boils over and my flesh begins to die.

Spoils of resentment lead me to the noose,
And, behold, it’s already tied,
My one last favor,
On my favorite ride.

There’s a ledge beyond yonder,
So let’s get in the car and go,
I haven’t the patience to wonder anymore
If we’re really going to reap all we sow.

Poetry: You Are A Tree.

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.