Damage

These creaking bones,

Whose support go

Unappreciated

All these years.

 

These spots fleck

My skin like dandelions.

My face requited

Their affections.

 

This knob on my foot

Offends me;

By days end,

Expresses its disdain.

 

Those unseen organs

Play their stanzas.

Lungs like bagpipes.

Heart, a kettle drum.

 

Ah, for the age of grace-

The grace of age.

Life’s stage,

Curtains.

 

Damn age.

 

(It’s not that bad, really.)

 

 

Ahead…Ache

The throb huddled

in the back corner.

Eyes spliced open,

no alarm,

except dull pain.

 

Thoughts, analyzation.

“Not enough water?”

“Caffeine deprivation?”

“Dead pillow, flat?”

Imagine that.

 

Did I try to hoard worries

instead of thinking

them through?

Did I stuff them,

choking off synapses?

 

By thoughts alone

can the ache dissipate?

By thinking only,

do the knots loosen?

“Have you prayed?”

 

I’ve thought about it.

“Why don’t you simply

think your thoughts

toward Me? I know

every one of them.”

 

Then I cast my thoughts

toward God.

The bundle in back

of my head softened,

dispersed.

 

 

“Don’t fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God’s wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It’s wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life.” Philippians 4:6,7 The Message

 

 

 

Demure to the Rocks

This is my means of survival.

Highlighted bookends.

Adjusted paperweights.

Arranged refrigerator magnets.

 

If I can simply keep things

from moving, I’ll know.

Fixed positions, steady on

this blue blurry ball.

 

Give me some space,

a bit of time,

and this continuum

will seem like

 

an unimpeded stream.

No noise or crescendo

lifting their praises.

Not a peep…

 

Then the rocks cry out.

December Crawl

Fog stumbled in,

shuffling on shrubs,

tripping on curbs.

 

How it mocked

the low-beams,

and licked what

 

was left of the

last snowfall.

December crawl.

 

Visibility: one quarter

mile ‘til Christmas.

Quarter smile.

 

Psalm of the Practicing Agnostic

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.”

Of Theorems and Theology

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.