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.
Touch deep unto deep,
And scour my spirit
Of all derision.
Cleanse me of all
Circular thoughts
Of piercing despair.
Awaken my soul
To trust beyond reason.
To rest between the lines.
Settle me in the crux
Of Your mystery,
Grace and truth.
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 world? Maybe you have, and just didn’t notice. Did you see what I did there?
I think God-math comes into play as far as being the ‘most’ in any endeavor. You know, it is in dying we live. It is in denying we receive. Like walking backwards to settle into the starting blocks… I think.
The Broken Way by Ann Voskamp started all this mental wondering. She got all up in my stuff by reminding me of Jesus’ words…”Unless a grain of wheat dies, it abides alone.”
That is all.
I say my prayers fast
before my mind
pulls apart these folded hands.
God, You are.
I lift my arms
as a child reaching.
an alchemy of receiving and giving.
Father, You are.
I run into the world
with a tension, attention
to the beauty and brokenness.
Jesus, You are.
I breathe without thought
exchanging bad air for good,
grace folding me.
Spirit, You are.
Slip off your shoes,
before the dew
distills the
spirit of this day.
Stroll the field
for evidence
between your toes,
wet blades sewing.
Cup your ears,
to hear the sun
paint the top
of the sycamore.
Praise with the white
of your teeth,
head bowed
to the forest floor.
Find breath in your bones,
marrow reaching,
flowing to the sea,
to the sea.
Clouds touch down
through the gravity.
The field, self assured,
lies as a carpet
under the cream mist.
Bare feet on tufts
impress the humus.
Humility bends
like kneeling fog.
It was riding the trail of early morning glow.
Hanging ‘round, low and quiet-like
with just enough belly light east.
A crescent pulling on a sunrise
as if it was one of the earthly tides.
It’s a nighttime circuit rider
preaching to the dark side of our circle.
It will pull on the thought waves
and push them onto the shore
like grains of stardust.
It reminded me that humility
is a slow steady moon walk.
“Walk on.”
Gerald the Writer 