Shift

Glaring upon the faceless visage of time

I find my gaze more penetrating than before.

Within its eyes Perspective dances nimbly a frolicking step full of insight.

The dancer's gift no longer eludes me.

In the once-empty space between the steps

I now find The Old Man breathing softly in his lounge chair

He tells me tales of times gone by

And sharpens my Spade for times to come.

And on the step, a Seed is planted

Each one casting a shadow of Truth

Guiding me to its roots with its growth.

Strength wanes and as I fall out of step

The shadow becomes one with the Darkness

And my eyes turn to more familiar places.

Runaway

I turn away every chance I get.

I signal right, veer left and drive the wedge in deep.

I'm blowing past the stop signs we used to make

And pretending that all the lights are green.

I see your lights flashing in my mirror

But it's starting to pick up speed.

A crash,

A bump,

And a moment alone.

And now it is more than a seed.

And in that moment I see what I've done

As I approach the look at the end of my leap.

But there ain't no rest for the wicked

And I'm worried because I can't sleep.

Mowing

It is more than a song

It requires more attention

It cannot be forced upon

Yet it cannot escape detection

It seeks you where you are

Yes, even now

It's presence transcends all

No matter when or where

Nor who, nor how, nor time

Nor what you think you are doing there

What matters is surrender

Victory through defeat

A defeat that changes everything

Surrender, but not retreat

The white flag waves and all is joy

You disappear into that song

And lose your way in its sweet harmony

Just to find where you belong.

7.27.10

The song is the beating of my heart.

It is the rhythm of my soul.

It is my every waking moment.

It will sing through my final lull.

The voice is ever gleaming.

It shines among the stars.

Its light invades my being.

It beams of the love that You are.

The melody tastes of Your power.

Its flavor is like none before.

It dances with every taste bud

and leaves them wanting more.

Drowning

Lord, hear my voice!

I cry out from the darkness, oh God!

I feel the tempest creeping up behind me.

Even its tip-toe steps cause the ground to tremble.

Cover me in Your love and grace, oh Lord,

so that tomorrow's ending matters not.

For, either way, I'm drowning.

SICM Psalm

Your grace is not enough oh God.

It is not enough to bring me to your glory place.

No, it is not enough to tear this veil,

nor enough to bring us face to face.

Lord, your abounding grace knows naught of "enough".

Your infinite mercy does not honor my cry for an end.

Your grace, oh God, is more than "enough" can hold.

It is more than my sin can rend.

This grace consumes humanity and still hungers.

Lord, Your grace is not enough.

O-B-E-Y

A praise song rises up in my soul

Not with familiar words or music

but a deeper tone of glorious praise.

Endless nights of desperate search

and finally an answer is found:

"See where you are? That's where I want you!"

And so I take a look around.

For now I have found my role.

Though my time here may be quick

here I remain, until He sends me other ways.

Love Like a Hurricane (or "Funeral Flowers Bring Bridal Showers")

The shiftless body is placed in the ground.

The displaced earth is gently returned to its original resting place.

Ceremoniously, one scoop at a time, the dirt falls until the burial is complete.

A kind and weary hand pats the mound,

One last time.

And with that, the rain begins to fall, soaking in to unsettled soil.

Weeks and months go by and still the rain falls.

Finally realizing its call, life creeps slowly from the grave.

The rain fades slightly, in awe of the miracle it has seen.

Slowly, gradually, firmly, strongly, over months and years, life flourishes.

Every time the rain returns, it is astounded by the growth it sees.

But the growth of one is not enough, and others sprout up near it singing the same praises.

Monday.

Spring has sprung but my heart is still in Winter.

The grass grows green and flowers bloom

but I'm still stuck in my heart of despair.

I need arms to fall in to;

a dry pair of shoulders to cry on.

Because my arms are weary from breaking falls

and my shoulders are still damp from winter.

What I don't have, I cannot make.

Promise me, Summer. Swear to me, Break.

3.31.10

What could I ever do

to show my love for you?

Searching, I try to find a way

to express something that words can't say.

The depth of the thing is greatly tall.

From its top flows a waterfall.

The mist of it travels wide,

watering all the countryside.

The lilies grow, their flowers bloom.

Life grows over the empty tomb.

Caterpillars feed on the lily leaves,

then curl up to rest inside their sleeves.

Trees blossom and bear their fruit.

The robin enters, its voice a flute.*

It nimbly hops around the tree,

then plucks a juicy fruit-meal free.

Back at the nest, eggs begin to hatch,

a treasure emerging from a chest with no latch.

Down below the fox pups play.

Their coats glow brown in the light of day.

Pouncing, rolling all around,

soft paws make a padded ground.

Up above, a noise is heard.

A bee buzzes by, its wings are blurred.

It zips and zooms back to the lily field

and gathers up its golden yield.

A cool breeze brushes gently by.

From the sleeve emerges a butterfly.

Flowers, birds, fruits, and bees,

waterfall, foxes, swaying trees.

All this beauty in just one view

of the crazy love I have for you.

*Admittedly, the flute is not the most bird-sounding instrument, but I couldn't think of a fruit that rhymed with piccolo.