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.

Random Thought...

I think it helps to remember that you were a baby once. There was a day when you could do nothing on your own and the only way to support yourself was to cry for help from others. You were completely vulnerable and susceptible to all of the dangers around you. You had no way to protect yourself and virtually no way to impose your will. Every single part of your life relied on the grace of another. Every part of your consciousness was devoted to those who devoted themselves to you. And in those first few years, everything was true. The good times were good, the happy times were happy, the sad times were sad and the confusing times were confusing.

No matter how far you've come, how much pride you have, how confident you are in your own abilities, how independent you think you are now, always remember that you, too, were a baby once.

In many ways, we all still are.

Dolby Diety

I cry out in the hanging silence.

Hearing nothing but my own sobs, I grow tired.

The doubt that clouds my mind brings only fear.

But out of this fear emerges comfort, joy, peace.

The music is all around.

"Can you hear it?

Are you listening?"

The cinematic is everywhere.

"Have you seen it?

Are you watching?"

Every noise around me is an instrument in a beautiful symphony of sound.

"Why do you long for a soundtrack when the score is being composed right in front of you?"

I have missed out on this profound production all my life,

Simply because I forgot to listen, forgot to watch.

And now, revealed to me again, I cannot look away.

I hear nothing outside of this orchestra.

My own attempts to bring shape to silence shatter.

My soul begins an ovation while You are still recording.

Jolly Old Saint Valentine

Who's the one who gets to say

that all our love gets just one day.

We box it up, won't let it stray

confine it in whatever way

We can find on Saint Valentine's Day.

We play along with this tradition,

employ it for our inhibition.

Then we hire a statistician

to tell us how love faded away.

We can't even find it on Saint Valentine's Day.

Is this what the worthy Saint intended?

To hide our hearts, not get them mended?

To give love just one day to be tended?

This love has so much more to say

than we can find on Saint Valentine's Day.

So this year let love break freely out.

Discover what its all about;

Daily, open emotion's spout;

Experience day-to-day

the feelings we save for Saint Valentine's Day.

Seeded

This tree has been replanted.

Pulled out by the roots and brought in to Eden.

Yes, it is rooted firmly in Paradise,

but its canopy still stretches over its old home.

The nutrients come from perfection

and the winds blow into the darkness.

In one world, but of another,

this tree blooms constantly and never drops a leaf.

Stretched over the divide.

Its fruit inebriates the soul.

Enamorado Preocupado

For an assignment in my Spanish 203 class, we had to write a Spanish love poem. I was immediately excited for this and here is a copy of what I wrote (It is supposed to be funny):

Enamorado Preocupado

Para ti mi corazón se quema.

Entonces, voy a escribir una poema.

Este poema es sobre el amor.

Escribiendo estas lineas me hace a sudor.

Nada puede separarnos,

Excepto, quizás, unos libros.

Me he sentido así por un año.

Ahora, necesito ir al baño.

Dentro de mi esta un fuego grande.

Pero, tiene que esperar hasta mas tarde.

**If you cannot read Spanish, copy/paste this into Google Translate

(Un)Deserving

Choking, strangling, drowning without You.

The world is the trap that I am drawn to.

It can give me nothing, fulfills no need.

I want a different air than what I've breathed.

I am reinvented in Your prescence,

raised from a dead or dying essesnce.

Now I can feel my lungs become the sails,

that only Your breath of life can propel.

From this cliffside Eden of hope and love

I glance down at the sea and leap from above.

Save me in Your endless mercy and grace;

catch, carry me back to this perfect place.

I've earned nothing and You deserve it all.

But still You save me from my self-inflicted fall.

I can never repay this wonderful grace,

so I will live my life to sing Your praise.

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.