Go down, step off
into the deep waters
they say…at least
they used to say.
Now we skip our
minds along the surface
hoping never to sink
into the unknown.
But is in the depths
where stillness sits
under the pressure of
context and history.
God holds my breath,
from beginning to end.
Every fear of drowning
exhaled to His lungs.
How I long to go down
Again and again–
each dive extended
in His presence.
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.
Come unto Me,
Sit, be still, and breathe.
All the distractions
Will wait for you.
If you stay here
For a while I will
Show you how to be
Present.
*
Come and see,
I haven’t changed.
The swirling world
Doesn’t dishevel
Who I Am.
The world can wait
While I wait with you.
Love.
*
Come and go,
You’ll be alright.
For I will go with.
I Am always.
Keep mulling over
Psalm 131,
It’ll come to you.
Peace.
Three dots aligned
and gave us pause.
A midday Selah
strung our wonder
along a celestial seam.
Intelligent design
bill-boarded,
nearly blinded us,
our naked eyes
clothed.
Once again
the heavens
declared the Glory
of God.
Psalm 19
Into the stillness I spoke,
pushing words through the deck rails
and out into the field
to comb the tall grass.
Psalms twined with poems
were cast like seed
for the wrens and swallows.
I wonder what God thought
when His words were sent
like a dove to the formless void.
How did the Voice travel
this far, through the deck rails
to me?
Psalm 19
We live close to the 42nd parallel.
Hitch-hiking isn’t necessary.
My son and I could walk
to the answer of the universe.
This orb wrapped and warped
in time zones in which
we are set in the illusion
of stop motion frames.
Nothing ever stops.
The rain pelts and the planets
carousel the egotistical sun.
We are under it half as much.
Is Greenland’s melted ice
coming down and overflowing
our pond’s aperture?
Such a small lens it is.
He perched and his baton beak
led the orchestral nature of things.
Back and forth it swung.
A minute ago his wings hummed
at 80fps (80 flaps per second)
to keep a pudgy belly afloat and filled.
Then I heard chirp chattering
between two of them.
Over the hum a bickering banter.
I prayed for a translation.
“Translation is for the birds.
Foreign language sings just fine,
don’t you think?”
I hummed, nodded,
and listened to the duet.
They pluck flies on the fly
their wings curved like a parenthesis.
One, maybe two barn swallows
comb the field’s rising breath.
A flight pattern established
for an evening out.
Dining on the freshest food,
swallowing mosquitoes
that could sip on me like a cocktail.
Sometimes the swallows swoop
and other times they swagger.
They know what they are after.
Yesterday the barn sat with its mouth open
and swallowed one which swallowed a fly.
I don’t know why.
The barn choked and coughed it up.
Notes were taken:
We possess a barn.
The swallows possess a name.
They existed for each other for a moment.
Seeds in the cracks
and the finches make a point, their point
is to poke and pick with sudden thrusts.
The sun leapt over the eastern rim
and the chatter of birds is abbreviating
like the shadows along the row of blue spruce.
Light lifts its head and warms the dew.
Diamonds on the grass cut into me
and melt between my toes.
Like a bird, I bend close and hop
on the morning sea of green
and pick at the cracks.
I pray for seeds
and then for wings.
Raised eye brows
white on pale blue
without a wink.
We, underneath
pray silent
and under stands
of trees welcome
shade as well
as the light.
Hold the swallow
wings in the curve
of today
and sing praise
of the endless sky
to the Thou of I.
“Hallelujah! Praise God in his holy house of worship, praise him under the open skies…” Psalm 150 The Message
Gerald the Writer 