The straightest point between
Two lines a short distance.
The scenic route is
Lined with roses.
All roads lead to
Roaming.
The unimpeded stream
Is speechless.
A waist is a terrible
Thing to mind.
Many proofs are
At the end of the day.
Love conquers all,
But often woos.
If I beg for mercy,
Grace is thrown in.
Thankfulness is one
Root of goodness.
A gift received,
A gift given…that’s life.
The fear of the Lord
Is the beginning of wisdom.
And the rain falls one drop at a time,
All at once.
Its voice collected from the spaces between
The pear shaped missiles.
Variations of tone, from guttural to whispers
Of moisture wending.
Thank You for speaking this way
When Ecclesiastes became my umbrella
Under the sun.
“It may be that when we no longer know what to do,
we have come to our real work
and when we no longer know which way to go,
we have begun our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.”
― Wendell Berry
Stream of Consciousness
Maybe I’ve been sitting by the wrong stream.
Its quiet depth and broad shoulders
have me nodding off.
I sought peace away from the paradoxes,
away from the tinkering creek
of arias and punk rap rhythms
and water rolling over bands of rocks.
It’s time the sound of the shallows
penetrate the deep space of the soul.
I’m heading upstream, above the tributaries,
where water flows over pebbles,
and jigs off the impediments
like a singing tap dancer.
“To everything there is a season.” Ecclesiastes
I misplaced my rose colored glasses.
The world is in a hand basket on its way somewhere.
The world is all that it is cracked up to be.
Cracks, cracks, cracks, and the humans are racing
to tape and mud and sand and prime.
He’s got the whole world in his hands
and I wonder if it is getting a little too heavy.
God so loved that an only Son came
to carry the weight on his shoulders.
It broke both of their backs along with their hearts.
At times all I can see is from Solomon’s perspective.
Oh, I am not wise. I am not even that smart.
If you will please open your Bible to the book of Ecclesiastes (Insert preacher voice)
you will see it is not a song of Solomon.
It almost sounds like a solemn dirge though.
I think maybe Solomon, for a moment misplaced his glasses too.
All that talk about vanity and vexation.
“To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under heaven.”
It is under heaven alright, because the list gets heavy.
Death isn’t rosy.
Pluck is a take away.
Thou shall not kill.
We all have our breakdowns.
Even Jesus wept.
Mourn.
Casting stones.
No hugs.
Loss.
Throwing away.
Tearing, rending.
Shhhh.
Hate? Really?
War. What is it good for?
Okay, okay, those are only the dark seasons.
Did you forget that my Elton John rose colored specks is missing?
Maybe I should have my U.V. shades on anyway under all this sun;
The kind people wear to funerals dressed like men in black.
If all I see is reactive attachment why would I want a clear view, really.
If all I observe is moral breakdown and despair, reserve me a padded room.
If all I blankly stare at is dis-ease and patients while I put a compress on compassion, please forgive me.
If all I look upon are sacred hearts broken beneath a cross, go hug your mother while you can.
It’s all under the sun and it is vexing.
Faith, hope, and love are naked without sunscreen.
Without Son glasses I squint and see men walking about like trees.
Gerald the Writer 