Why Should You Care?

I’ve written feeble crutches to support my lame thoughts,
malformed and injured, attempting to heal
But there are still some things I can’t rehabilitate
To broadly stride into the world.
They sit broken or locked away in institutions in my state of mind.

And even though they can’t quite make it out
Or they do just long enough to say hello and perish,
They are still there. They still dwell in the lingering fringe
Of my consciousness.

They say “I’m sorry.”
“I miss you.”
“I wish things had turned out differently.”
“I still care about you.”

But they can’t join the mainstream of consciousness.
They cling to the shadows.
They subsist under bridges.
They are not productive to society
and have no future
So who cares?
Why should you care?

This is precisely why I have compassion for those thoughts and still look for a solution, even when people tell me it’s a waste of time.

The Faithful Resurrection

It only takes a moment to stop your heart
when the veins clench
and your breath trips over that singularly horrifying knowledge,
cleaving reason from thought.

Preserved like leaden amber
becoming numb and immobilized
for an eternity
I see the world with a fixed gaze
dilated pupils darkened indefinitely.

My Love sees my every detail
flaw, defect, sin
And detects my confounded posture.

He wraps me in the warm coils of His arms
Melting my jaded state with such intensity
That I am liquified with tears and a surge of fiery truth filling my lungs;
liberated from the resin of my past.

Blank

Negative space grows between us
As nothing
I type and erase feedback
I don’t press send
Or “Add as friend.”
My tendrils of fresh thoughts to you I suspend
And instead become two-dimensional.
Static.
A blogging persona
A ministering angel shall I be
To you as you move on in life
Because a little bit of me has fallen
Into the stream of consciousness that
Is simply a part of the human experience.

It carries me away
These lines of electronic ink
On digital parchment
The paper piles grow
The shredded verses snow
All the discarded drafts

You’ll never know.

At 4 A.M. I write sometimes.

My Soul, a Steeped Tea

I want to write across your face the beauty that I see
I want to sigh and paint an aria so sweet and tremulously

I want to kiss you with the scent of a thousand summer blooms
I want to wrap my arms around you with the warmth of familiar rooms

I want to blink and in that moment still you suddenly in time
I want to utter but simple words with the zest of a Florida key lime

I want to stretch my arms and begin to mold a dance
I want to tie an apron around my waist and bake a thick romance

I want to go to sleep presently just to wake within my dreams
And between the linen pages I want to stuff and sew my seams.

Poetry, anyone?

Just some recent stuff…

Trees

I sit solitary
Watching the freezing rain
Blow and billow branches
From trees slick and dark from moisture.

I stretch my limbs upon the coffee table
And wonder if those trees ever rest
From defying gravity and the elements
Raising their votive arms
To the sky
The giver of sun and storm
Of raindrop hope and lightning death.

They do not question
Why it is cold
Or why they must go naked
For bone-cracking winter ice.
They simply reach heavenward
And never look back
Until their faces rot
They are struck down
The trunk of their body splits
And flesh decays

Yet even then they humbly bow
On cracked dusty roots
In homage to the force
That creates and devastates.

My Grandmother’s Cottage

I wish I could show you
But all I have are these
old fuzzy photographs

The car parked in front of the garage
where Grandpa’s extensive workbench was
and the extra fridge and freezer
frugally saved homemade meats and goods
for winter, or for Saturday morning coffee guests

No, that picture doesn’t do it justice.
You just see the corner of the house
and the stone path I played hopscotch on
up and down the small front yard.
It’s like I’m seeing it from the corner of my eye
instead of properly focusing on it.

That one’s from the kitchen window.
See the bird feeder?
Grandma used to send me outside to refill those
I think it was after her second hip replacement…
but this had to have been from before because
her clothes are out there on the line
and she still kept houseplants when she was there.
Pity you can’t see how neat and tidy her pantry was
Just a few feet left from this view.
I recall the simple cupboards, and I think I can
almost see the pattern on that floor
and her tiny worn loafers
in pairs beside the refrigerator
beside the doorframe to the living room.
I can almost hear her
contented humming from the other room
as she went about her day.

Oh, that dark brown carpet. I was in my Easter dress there
right in front of the table where she always had a jigsaw puzzle
to work on whenever she had a minute or two for entertainment.
I’m not sure, maybe I was 4 or so?
My sister Amy must have been around there somewhere.
Grandma was so good at labeling pictures
with that gorgeous script
but one of my 7 aunts must have taken this.

It’s really too bad you never got to see this place
It’s gone- they literally moved the cottage
off its foundation
and across town.

They built a larger ugly cottage where it used to stand.

Some mildly poetic thoughts…

Estranged

I once knew you
I once knew you
back before the colors grew
the forest surrounding the clearing of you

Too fast too close won’t last
You trashed
And spoke too soon
Flyaway red balloon

All the shades and stark dark
Charcoal smudges pencil mark
Can’t hide from me the canvas
Plain canvas
Cream and thin
Torn and mended
Bent and bended
morals. Ideals. dreams.

You smile as your eyes scream.

I once knew you
I once knew you.
But underneath thick pigment
I know you aren’t a figment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Still needs a title)

I’m not very good at finding a way
To avoid all that’s cheesy and cliche,
But when our eyes meet again
Two pairs of bright kindred friends
It doesn’t even matter that much
When everything is glorious
taking walks, doing laundry, and such.

I feel like life gives you fuzzy snapshots to imitate
But until you get there it seems like a problem to create
Beauty out of imperfection like diamonds from dust
Or a sunrise from the darkness or restoration from rust.
But you, my love, were made from Saturdays
Easy going grins, coffee cakes with glaze

Love takes some time to collect
Like drops of rain turn to flow
Or the sun multiplies freckles
And yeast grows dough.

It is pristinely ordinary in that extra way
The depth of the ocean in blue jean cotton fade
I love you like breakfast brightens my smile
I’ll love you every morning, not just for awhile.

Some things change- you and I will too
But we’ll grow and talk and pull through.
If I wanted things easy, I’d live life in a fog.
I’d live for myself, and I might just buy a dog.

But I wear you like a grin
From my heart dawning outward nose to chin
You are my summertime, young and new evermore
Familiar as my fingertips, yet changing as the shore.

“For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. ” 2 Cor. 4:17

My semester begins and ends the same
And I am left with a sense of longing for
Heaven. My home.

I travel the world
I go to class
I learn and experience more
But how can I be looking for anything
Other than what I’ve found before?

This world is aimless and beautiful
Like a lazy summer day.
The mosquitoes might buzz
You might sweat
Or get a sunburn
But it doesn’t ruin the day.
I drink in the bittersweet lemonade
I think about mosquito bites and scraped knees
Chlorine-damaged hair and sand in my shoes
And know that I’d never trade any of it.
You can’t spoil my Day 🙂

Choose to Live

If someone rips off your wing
Spiral down
But don’t fall too fast.
Just rest on a ledge
Inhale the scenery-
grow some feathers I suppose.

Look at what you have
Realize there’s only a
Few plumes missing
And they’re not gone forever.

Catch your breath
feel your footing
S M I L E
and leap from the ledge
Trusting the Wind to
lift outside and within.

The currents carry
far away from where
you once dreamed…
but it was not for
failure.
It was to bring you
Into the sunrise
Sweet embrace
a taste of
liquid gold nectar.

We call it hope.

” Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.” ~Psalm 139:7-10

“But I will sing of your strength, in the morning I will sing of your love; for you are my fortress, my refuge in times of trouble. O my Strength, I sing praise to you; you, O God, are my fortress, my loving God.” Psalm 59:16-17

“Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will not be shaken. My salvation and my honor depend on God; he is my mighty rock, my refuge. Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge. Selah” Psalm 62:5-8

“The righteous cry out, and the LORD hears them; he delivers them from all their troubles. The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:17-18

“If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things?” ~Romans 8:31b-32

“Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, “The LORD is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.” The LORD is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him; it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the LORD.” Lamentations 3:22-26

Choose to live for Him. It changes everything 🙂

One with the dust

God formed Adam from the dust.
I think He did it to remind humanity to maintain humility- ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
We fade in our temporal glory to rejoin the collective of life.
Dirt both grows life and decomposes that which was alive.

Adam worked the land after the fall
And although God made it difficult, He was still there; bringing rain and sun to nourish and sustain.
It is this dependence that again should strike humility in people from the soil.
Maybe that is why farmers are often described with “humble.”
I think they live so close to the soil, they cannot help but remember that they cannot control everything.

Farming used to be a common occupation; after all,
everyone needs the fruit of the dust.
I am even descended from a long line of farmers;
families who worked the land
tanned
cracked
calloused
weathered
skin.

I did not grow up on a farm.
My family was far from the dust
my father is allergic to…
Yet my mother would always take us to visit where she grew up.
I don’t think she did it to remind us of the land-
but I know it is what she loved
because it was home.

I must confess that
Somewhere in my young mind
The seed and smell of land fixed itself
And I was drawn to the common vein of my ancestors.

I work in the soil
Even though I dwell in a city.
My feet, shod with steel toes
Tread the dust that settles in me
like a plant taking root,
assessing all the creases in my skin
under my nails
on the sweat of my brow.
My hands destroy the life shell- now shroud-
of maize.
I look at my hands
tanned
cracked
calloused
although not so weathered-
and I almost see my grandfather’s hands
from when I was very young
and shucking corn
mercilessly sliced my fresh skin.

I am older now, grown from the soil
I am older now, having worked the land.
I am grown into humility-
Knowing the power of the elements
the power of God
the difficulty of the task
and the delight of completion.

O my soul, sprouted from soil;
reach heavenward until harvest
when we will be taken home
or become one with the dust.

And yet more poetry…

One from that other day that I forgot about (even apart from the one that’s staying in my notebook).

Reflections
distorted in water
poured over the surface of the lake
A grand masterpiece that Picasso might make.
Yet what are they but shadows of complex realities?
It seems to me that distortions we create with such ease;
a smudge of a character, or a streak of personality
can be drawn into sharp relief with mental vitality.
If we were careful artists, seeing the depth of real things
We might not make such a mess judging what each person brings.
Oh, that we might be brilliant, painting people in good light!
Noting flaws, yet seeing immortals, striving to make our lines right.

From 10/22

Reaction to T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

Let me take you on a date-
All the while in a state
of utter desolation and decay.
Oh, lets find some way
to dwell on every unpleasant thought
Every terminal disease ever caught.
Isn’t this fun being frankly morose?
Can I enchant you even further by being verbose?
I hate the world, I have no loves
I’ve killed off all the mourning doves.
See their splattered guts just there?
It’s a metaphor for how much I care.
Let me be droll and use big words
I like my thoughts released in herds.
This poem has dragged on line by line
Meaningless repetition and poor design.
See my merit? See my skill?
Let me expand- no answer? I will.
And on and this torture goes.
Anyone who is intelligent already knows.

And just a random musing:

I’ve written lines of love and hate
Written arguments or just to debate.
But the merit of the written word
Is nothing like the things I’ve seen and heard.
It’s bottling brilliance or feelings or scenes
A worthy endeavor by any means.
The page is a picture, reflecting the age
Of time
Of people
of me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

These days I am busy, but I’m learning slowly how to hand it over to Him so I can walk.