The light fell,
Tumbled onto this day.
I wasn’t quite
Finished with the night.
My unadjusted eyes.
Tears, those glassy
Cataracts of ache,
Suspend the river-roll
Of a rumbling soul.
The morning opens still,
And shines on.
Another new mercy,
Just like yesterday.
*
“I am the light of the world.” Jesus, the Christ of God.
In over the dark,
Light settled on the
Bone limbs of branches.
A covering sigh
Of winter’s last whisper.
An overcast came down
To surround our small
House in the wood.
Afternoon winds on the way
To dust off the etchings
Of grace, of the silence.
Yet, for now, I can
Rest my eyes on the
Cold insulation of a
Forest waiting for full
Spring, white to green.
Loosen my grip,
Oh Lord,
Make my hands
And heart
Humble receptors
Of Your love.
Have mercy once
More.
Grace me to
Wrest free from
Which I cling,
And what is clinging,
and give rest.
I rest in Thee.
Psalm 131 Matthew 11:28,29 John 14:27
Day broke me open,
Birds telegraph each other.
I hear.
The three day headache gone.
The prevention was a vile
Of virus.
A second poke became
a prod of vulnerability.
A fever.
My swelling arm an evidence
Of the world getting under
My skin.
I kneel with open face
And a thrumming heart
Of thanks.
“Praise the Lord! Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good! His faithful love endures forever.” Psalm 106:1
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.)
Virtual reality,
real virtue see.
Shorten your stride,
cut off your pride.
See the other
beyond the clutter.
This I pray:
God help me stay…
right here,
right hear.
The walk and the wake of it,
The talk and the take of it,
This life is mine,
And filled with mines,
Yet Yours it is,
In the breathe and the breath of it,
In the deep and the death of it.
The grace and the grease of it,
The trace and the truth of it.
I lie down in it,
To rise and raise in it,
To prize the praise of it.
In the meek and the milk of it,
In the speak and the spilt of it,
On my knees in it,
To pray and plead in it,
To stay and lead in it.
The thank You and the Your of it,
On the dew and the shore of it.
Oh the gift of it.
Under mind,
bump stocked
and fire branded.
A cool glass of water,
clear as a monk’s
prayer before sunrise
is sipped and spilt.
Be anxious for nothing
is an easy task…
It’s when we’re anxious
about something,
everything,
that our equanimity
is bent by a category
five, and we kneel
when we should stand,
and stand when we
should kneel.
The clouds aren’t usually this quiet.
They’re trying to sneak by unnoticed.
No definition. Looking a little pale,
they scrape the tree-line like a hangover.
The cool night chained them to the low places
and now they slip away into the light of day.
With their dissipation I am thinned,
the heaviness of dark lifted,
shadows spilling as a remembrance.
Forgiveness as the dew,
mercy as the burning thereof,
and grace its antecedent.
Let’s just skip the stones
and get dirty.
Mud pies in the face.
Bear disgrace.
Fall into place.
Wallow and weep
into each other’s eyes.
The river’s a half-peck
away from your cheek.
We’re weak,
let’s cinder sneak.
We know who we are
from where we were,
and now is now.
The Oh, Honestly
parts of us wait
in the rain,
the ripples
kissing each other
with grace.
Gerald the Writer 