I’ve tried gritting my teeth,
But ended up grinding them.
I’ve tried getting a grip,
But ended up grappling.
The bootstraps were pulled,
But snapped like suspenders.
I haven’t been anxious for nothing,
But worry about everything.
Agnosticism doesn’t play well,
While an impersonal God takes it personally.
“Relax your jaw,
Loosen your grip,
Lace up your cross trainers.
Let’s go. Follow Me.
My yoke is easy,
And the burden? Light.”
Is Jesus the theory of everything?
Can we walk together in a unified field,
so wherever I go, there He is?
Is Jesus a string through it all,
wending, weaving like a thread?
Does He carry us along its cord?
Did Jesus split history like an atom?
Is He a super conductor,
able to collide like an iconoclast?
Come, be my theory of everything.
Come, tie Your string around my finger.
Come, collide, and split me open.
A poem
To mop
The stillness
That spilt
When the
Alarm spat.
I don’t brake for squirrels.
I don’t swerve either.
I pray for them.
I plead with them.
I yell at them.
They seem suicidal,
Daring even.
They’re just doing
As told.
“Go play in the street.”
“Cross the road, or halfway.”
I stay centered
In the lane,
White knuckled,
Eyes forward.
They, one eye
At a time,
This and that.
“Make up your mind!”
“Move!”
“Squirrel, squirrel,
Squirrel!”
“Oh, for crying…”
“Please, no!”
No thump.
Nothing in the rearview.
No yellow pasted
Like the centerlines
They dance around.
I sigh and mumble.
They float down,
Those Individual wisps.
Periods which end
No sentence.
Quotations,
Bereft of content.
I press my ear
Do the dormant grass
To hear the sound
Of their touchdown.
“Shhhh,” they said.
And it snows.
Blows.
White wax
On the fields.
April fools
Around and
Around.
Making sound.
Flirting flurries
Ride on lake-effect.
Rules my affect.
Reels my reflex.
Back to bed,
Snore covered
And sleepy…
I must be dreaming.
Heart issues are sometimes tricky. I’ve been thinking about how to keep my heart alive lately. Making eye contact with Christ is a way. Not “I” contact necessarily, but seeing Him more clearly. It must have intention behind it, no?
I know,
is the back seat really a place for love?
In one respect, I think not…
But hold on a minute,
I’m talking about love.
I dreamt I was a taxi driver,
in and out of traffic and jams.
My light was on, waiting for a whistle or a hand.
She got in and sat in the middle back.
The rear view cropped her face.
Her brown eyes caught mine in the mirror.
“Just drive a bit,” she said calmly.
I nodded and pulled back out into it.
She smiled her eyes and
I think I smiled mine back.
“So, any destination in mind?”
“Life.”
“Ah, sure, is that near West 42nd Street?”
“You never know.”
“Well, I will never know if you don’t tell me.”
She winked and fully opened her eyes,
briefly exposing the whites like teeth.
Somewhere, I heard the eyes are the window to…
View original post 295 more words
The mystic moon,
Like a wafer,
Hung on the
Pre-dawn deep.
All quiet.
A muted dirge.
Death beats
On my wrist
And wrests
My soul
From sleep
To sky.
And I cry
For death
To die.
“It is finished.” Jesus
Behold the beauty
Of the quiet places,
Stilled and distilled
Down to the pauses
Between heartbeats.
Take courage
When silence
Nearly breaks you,
And tempts you
To break it.
Fold your hands,
Bend your soul,
And free your
Spirit into His
Trust.
Listen how the
Winds strokes
And threads
The evergreens.
I heard the whispers
Of God.
Such a beautiful broken silence.
This I pray: That we would hear the still small voice as we quiet our hearts in Jesus Name, Amen
Our church had a prayer meeting last Sunday night. The morning service included writing brief prayer concerns on rocks and placing them in baskets. That night, as people came to pray, at some point we were encouraged to pick of a stone and pray for the persons concern on the stone. I picked up one that simply said “Dad”. It moved me to tears. I’ve been thinking about the “Father” concept ever since then. My heavenly Father, my earthly father, and myself as a father. Then I thought of the first line of this blog entry.
My dad was like a father to me.
He took me with him to fix my Godmother Ginny’s air conditioner at the Ceramic Shop. He showed me his humble quarters at the Burdick Hotel. I followed him around while he repaired fridges and jammed locks. I recall watching Dad play horse shoes by the tracks at the fire station. He wore blue pants most of the time.
I remember the sound of the tires on a gravel road as we delivered his Free Press route before sun up. That’s when I asked him what his biggest regret was. “I wish I hadn’t got so angry at your mother.” Me too Dad.
When the benign tumor stole one eye, half of his smile, fifty percent of his hearing, and added an unsteady swagger when he walked I was nine. I had no clue how scared he was when he went to…
View original post 323 more words
