Call me rose,
And I will answer.
Stop and smell,
For I see to the senses.
Do not fear
For the thorns which stem from me.
I am only trying
To make the point, a remembrance
Of the sacred head,
Wounded, bled red, like petals
That fall.
Fall on me O Rose.
Cover me as a blanket
And I shall be warm.
Monday Morning
Coffee and creamed,
truth and grace,
or so it seemed.
That mixture of
strong and soft,
and how oft
I wanted to slip
into a week,
geeked and tweaked.
But it’s Monday.
A do over day,
to pray, play, slay.
Another new mercy say.
although nothing new,
but everything.
“I’ll never forget the trouble, the utter lostness,
the taste of ashes, the poison I’ve swallowed.
I remember it all—oh, how well I remember—
the feeling of hitting the bottom.
But there’s one other thing I remember,
And remembering, I keep a grip on hope:
God’s loyal love couldn’t have run out,
his merciful love couldn’t have dried up.
They’re created new every morning. (Even Monday morning)
How great your faithfulness!
I’m sticking with God (I say it over and over).
He’s all I’ve got left.
Lamentations 3
Why? What do I owe attention?
What service did attention ever give me?
I keep ignoring the bill.
Will it go into collections?
Will late payment fees be charged?
This will affect my credit rating.
Why am I giving attention
this much attention?
Paid in full.
Sometimes we don’t walk the line,
We walk line by line,
Single-spaced.
The words between us like linear
Gaps, unsettled, tucked in white,
Double-graced.
Breaks aren’t so bad as they seam,
Little quiets where our bodies
Single space.
It’s not that a year is new and all,
but looking back is a free fall
of hair, long, with strands of grey,
sprinkled, as if to say:
remember me, remember when?
I used to search for them, pluck them,
Now I comb through to see
the silver lined memories of you and me.
Like tinsel, they reflect, stand out.
Yesterday you said this is what it’s about.
Owning age, thankful, line after line,
Mapping our faces, tracking our time.
Under this sun there is nothing really new,
Except our hearts gleaning what is true.
I will run my fingers through.
Yes, I will run my fingers through.
For Barbara January 2019
I will write a poem
if it kills me.
Even if the line
breaks me.
Even if love
counts its ways.
Even when a
lesser path emerges.
Even if I lie
etherized on a table.
Even if roses are red,
with each petal a cliché.
Even if to be or not to be
isn’t the question.
Even if you tread
softly on my dreams.
Even if there’s water
everywhere but no drop.
Even if I wander,
lonely as a cloud.
Even if no word
rhymes or I
double over in
entendre,
this is a poem,
and I live on.
This one made me smile.
Yeah, you might have seen the commercials. I think they’re advertising a beer, anyway, I got to thinking… Would I really like to be the “most” in anything?
Even the most interesting man has to accomplish the most uninteresting of duties. Take a leak. Brush his teeth. Eat some eggs.
I caught myself thinking “I want to be the most humble man in the world.” I don’t know if that is a paradox or an oxymoron. Maybe it’s simply moronic.
Maybe I want to be the most “telling-it-slant-poet” in the world. I would lay down lines which echo for a hundred or so years.
Being the most… Most. Most. Most. What a funny word. The more I ponder it, the sillier it sounds. Say ‘most’ out loud enough times and well, what do you think?
Honestly, have you ever met anyone aspiring to be the most UNinteresting person in the…
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Come Lord Jesus.
Oh God, come any other way,
but not as a child.
Come in a space ship
so we can claim you as an alien,
as a figment of our imagination.
Wash up on earth’s shore
so we can claim you as a castaway
an unknown, scraggly and salt soaked.
Walk into town as a vagabond
so we can look and call authorities
to distance us.
Stand by the side of the road
so we can decide if your thumb up
is necessary for us to stop.
But please don’t come as a baby.
Don’t come and coo and cry
and take our breath away.
Don’t come as we did,
dependant and humble
and wrapped up tight.
Just don’t, don’t be so vulnerable
as a wonder from a womb
bathed in the liquid of humanity.
Don’t come as a child, please.
For then we would need to
hold you in our…
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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
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
