Monday Morning

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

One Resolution

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

 

 

The Death of a Poet and Other Clichés

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.

The Most Interesting Man in the World

This one made me smile.

Gerald the Writer

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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Any Other Way

Come Lord Jesus.

Gerald the Writer

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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Back Seat Love: Come on, it’s not what you think.

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?

Gerald the Writer

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…

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Heart Breaking

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