Through the Looking Glass

Here I am.

Bloody and filthy and ragged

And smelly and sobbing and dejected

And bruised and battered and broken

And beautiful.

A Picture

How can I tell you?

Can I scream it like the leaves in the wind?

Can I ring it out from atop the clock tower?

Can I echo it softly through the wind-chime pipes?

How can I show you?

Can I soar majestically then land in your hands?

Can I paint it on a sky-canvas like the setting sun?

Can I roll it out over hills and fields like golden grain?

What could I possibly do to capture the complete, beautiful essence?

To make it more than the layman who would say

"I love you."

9.7.10

My soul knows its directive.

You have spoken life.

I long for action.

I have been steel, sharpened.

My breath longs for combat.

Lord I am ready to march

And You have given the order.

Bring Peace to my soul

So that it will be prepared

For War.

Capacity

I'm in a room.

The sign near the door says "capacity 150."

I am surrounded by at least 300 people walking in a mob of a circle.

They are all shouting at me.

Telling me how to live.

How to achieve happiness.

Their voices alone exceed the capacity limit.

I recognize some of them.

I see important historical figures and famous faces from several religions.

I see school teachers and classmates.

I see police and businessmen.

And I see regular people.

The walls of the room are plastered with different media devices, all contributing to the noise either vocally or visually.

The ground beneath me lifts me up and the crowd continues to circle and shout beneath me.

I elevate into another room that has a single incandescent light shining down from above me.

The capacity sign I made is hanging by the door.

1.

But the silence is no reprieve.

This room is as maddening as the first.

I wander about the room, building the world for myself.

Nothing is required, no sense must be made.

But progress is seldom and small.

I lay down under the tree I made.

Nothing was required, but I made a tree.

Then the room-world falls to pieces around me.

As the pieces fall, some gather on the sign and now it reads 2.

I close my eyes in fear and when I open them again I am lying in a new room.

There is no source to the light that fills the room.

There is no sign by the door.

There is no door.

There is but one voice and I am drawn to it.

It never sounds distant, but it has direction.

I walk through the pure white with silent footsteps.

I sit on the solid white ground and look out over the solid white pond.

A solid white bird flies silently and swiftly just inches over the solid white water.

It zooms towards me and then zooms back over the water.

As I watch the solid white poetry in flight, the solid white voice asks

"Who made the tree?"

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.