Lost in Love...

In the frontier of mercy and hope

I find Your grace abounds on each slope.

I cross the stream into Your peace.

You show Your joy in each sheep's fleece.

To this expanse, there is no end.

I pass the plains and feel a trend.

The place where the sky praises You,

Take me there.

The place where the wind praises You,

You take me there.

The place where the grass praises You,

You hold me there.

In this infinite wilderness

I lose myself in Your righteousness.

Each day a new journey in You.

Every find brings blessings anew.

But no end to Your love I find.

So I will search till the end of all time.

Bonus Post! (or 3 + 4 = 7)

So I was thinking about the crazy things that my mind has been thinking about lately and I remembered one thought about the teachings of our culture specifically when it comes to the transition from Sky to Earth and how we draw the line separating the two.

We are taught at a young age that the sky is everything down to the ground. In our crayon depictions of our worlds, we are told to extend the blue that we place above all the way down to the green that we place below.

But as we live our lives in these worlds, we don't think of the sky as being just anything above the grass. We say that tall trees and buildings "reach up into the sky". We say that a level-headed person is "down to Earth". This language (among others) establishes a definite space separating the sky, "above", from the Earth, "below".

The focus of my inquiry is on that third party in our world. What exactly is that white space that children leave on the page between the blue sky and green grass? It is in this white space that human life occurs. This is where we place our double-square-windowed homes and our stick-families. So, what is it in us that separates life from its surroundings?

To answer that question with a question: what do the sky and ground have in common? They are perceived as pure space, being outside of time. We view the sky and the ground as eternal constants. They always have been, always will be. But the stuff in the white space is temporary, ever-changing. Even as children, we realize this sense of fleeting life and so we separate our temporary selves from the eternal around us. But our teachers tell us to fill in the white space with Sky from above. And so we do. And so we should. Why? Because the connection between sky and earth is what makes life more beautiful.

Origin

Been working on this one for the past couple days, hope you like it.

The power of Creative thought

is often lost, less often sought.

we know not if it comes or goes;

we just feel original flows.

Is it the Lark, rising above?

Is it from house, or tree, or dove?

The answers can't be written down;

all we can "know" is all around.

So where are we left? High and dry.

"Knowing" nothing of eye or sky.

And as we try to learn of all,

imagination trips and falls.

We won't know the power again

of the moment before paper meets pen.

How He Loves

Couldn't find a way to write this better so here you go:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJyW55AXJAk

That is all.

Incomplete Thoughts

The song of my soul is a joyous one.

It sings words of hope, and mercy, and peace

because I have found the one missing piece

that a Father gives kindly to his sons.

No longer written by worry, self-doubt,

this song sings of a new banner for life.

From here, with this high, to times of great strife;

This new song now sings so graciously out.

Proverbial Blessings

Life is a beautiful interview.

Heaven is when you get the job.

Where the Wild Thing Was

*NOT POETRY*

I have been writing a place narrative (essay) over the past few days; ergo, less poem writing. It's just over 2 pages double spaced, but that is still way longer than any of my other posts on here. So, in the spirit of equal spacial-distribution rights, I will try to make this post about as long as the rest and just make the title a link to where you can read the entire essay elsewhere. I think I still have a couple of lines to fill up to be about even, so I suppose I should think of something to talk about so that I can fill up those lines with me talking about that thing. That should do.

Also, I will be AFK this weekend so I will still be writing, but not be able to post till Sunday/Monday.

Open Mic Day

I'm sitting in the CUB on Open Mic day.

I came to do homework or eat, not to play.

But, alas, today is Open Mic day.

So I have to listen to what everyone else has to say.

One's not a virgin; One's sister was gay.

I didn't need to learn these things today.

I needed to finish writing an essay.

But that's what happens when you come to the CUB on Open Mic day.

//There is a good story behind this one.

//If you really want to know, you can ask me.

Haiku

Writing a paper.

Have no time for poetry.

I'll post the paper.

With Friends Like These

We live our lives in revolving doors;

constantly turning our backs on what we know.

Just when we have something good to hold on to

the door comes 'round and we're forced to let go.

The best things in life are left outside, waiting,

while the worst ones manage to force their way in.

We lose ourselves in this whirlpool of destruction and death,

completely oblivious to the presence of sin.

Then, suddenly we awake.

We build a bond that this door can't break.

It pulls us out of the crowd

and invites us to life on a cloud.

Black

The weight of emotion bears down,

threatening to rip or tear.

It covers everything in a dark hue; black;

starkly contrasting the bright, barren canvas.

Nothing can be done to prevent this darkness;

there is no saving light.

Because the light is the void that the darkness fills

and this darkness enables sight.

eXhAle

A sea of faces in a crowd.

A dozen stories, a thousand experiences, a million decisions behind each one.

One is living by number,

inside the lines, a sing-along.

And one is sure of nothing,

living in the Jeopardy song.

Or one is sure of everything;

even sure he's surely wrong.

No matter what you think you know,

these faces won't stay long.

For the whole of one life is like a vapor,

Here today; tomorrow, gone.

Decisions...

I have always assumed

that it was my own choice

to follow with my heart

and listen to that voice.

That voice that tells me where to go,

or sometimes when or why or how.

I always thought it was my choice,

but I've proved myself wrong just now.

It seems nice to think that I had a say;

that I was the one who made things this way.

But the one who taught how to rhyme,

the one preceding space and time,

it was truly His decision

to make this trans-dimensional love collision.

Dream On

You've heard it before, but not like this.

It always sounded difficult and not for you.

But now you stand there staring it in the face.

You whisper, "Bring it." and suddenly it's simple.

Chasing dreams is just living life with a purpose.

There's no extra action needed, just more focus.

It's not some crazy-action-movie-stunt-fest, just life.

And all you have to do is keep on living and keep on dreaming.

iNk

The story of the heart is written without an eraser.

Every slip of pen and blotch of ink stays with you forever.

The tales you tell and webs you weave from the heart are here to stay;

Legend fades and webs wither, but the feelings never go away.

So guard your pen. Write softly, smoothly; never for an attack.

For once the feeling has been felt, you can never take it back.

1.1

In two-thousand and ten, paper meets pen.

I've chosen to write a poem every day.

In order to keep up with this new way,

at night or in morning, I'll write where I lay.

Whether days are good or the weather is grey;

if the thoughts in my head go or they stay;

no matter what others do; what they say;

even when I'm keeping bad thoughts at bay;

in times when kisses don't begin with Kay;

when I can't tell Sarah Palin from Tina Fey

if I'm close with God or drifting away;

I've chosen to write a poem every day.

Paper, meet pen; It's two-thousand-ten!