April 30, 2009
Catherine, should you ever read this blog, I want you to know that this poem is as much for you as it is for the baby. Love you, Sweetie. Dad
Angel
(for my Little Angel and her Mom)
Fear not,
my little angel.
Don't be afraid.
There is peace,
my little angel.
Bring peace.
Fear not,
my little angel.
Do not be scared.
Be strong,
my little angel.
Have strength.
And though you are unexpected
(as all angels are)
God has found a place for you,
my little angel,
here within my heart.
So, fear not,
my little angel.
Don't be afraid.
You are loved.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
O, de Clouds
April 28, 2009
This just in! Seriously. I just sent this freshly composed piece of poetry to the printer for the first time just moments ago.
I like clouds. I enjoy photographing them. They're huge. Majestic. Mysterious. Full of potential. They provide shade. Rain. All pointing to an artistic and ingenious and mighty Creator.
Besides, Jesus did say he would be coming back in the clouds. I'm just looking up and waiting!
O, de Clouds
O, de clouds make me happy.
O, de clouds make me smile.
O, de clouds make me giggle,
jus' like a chil'.
O, de clouds dey be puffy.
O, de clouds dey be white.
O, de clouds a' time be gray,
dat be all right.
O, de clouds make de rain fall.
O, de clouds hide de sun.
O, de clouds go de wind blow,
like a chil' run.
O, de clouds up on de mountain.
O, de clouds down by de sea.
O, de clouds dey in de valley,
ever'where I see
O, de clouds.
This just in! Seriously. I just sent this freshly composed piece of poetry to the printer for the first time just moments ago.
I like clouds. I enjoy photographing them. They're huge. Majestic. Mysterious. Full of potential. They provide shade. Rain. All pointing to an artistic and ingenious and mighty Creator.
Besides, Jesus did say he would be coming back in the clouds. I'm just looking up and waiting!
O, de Clouds
O, de clouds make me happy.
O, de clouds make me smile.
O, de clouds make me giggle,
jus' like a chil'.
O, de clouds dey be puffy.
O, de clouds dey be white.
O, de clouds a' time be gray,
dat be all right.
O, de clouds make de rain fall.
O, de clouds hide de sun.
O, de clouds go de wind blow,
like a chil' run.
O, de clouds up on de mountain.
O, de clouds down by de sea.
O, de clouds dey in de valley,
ever'where I see
O, de clouds.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Take This Cup
April 22, 2009
This is another in the "Dirty Jesus" series. The opening scene of The Passion of the Christ helped visually. We need to remember that Jesus the man did not want to go to the cross. This was his struggle in the garden. No man wants to endure that kind of torture. It was "God in Christ reconciling the world to himself." (II Corinthians 5:19) "God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son." (John 3:16) Our Father in heaven loves us and our sin required a sacrifice. The Christ, the Lamb of God, provided that sacrifice not because "Jesus loves us", but because he was obedient to the Father. "For as by one man's disobedience many were made sinners, so by the obedience of one shall many be made righteous." (Romans 5:19)
Take This Cup
…and then you went a little way
into the garden to pray.
I'm sure your students tried
to pray. It's hard work;
they just had a big supper.
But you have big plans on your mind.
God's plan. Not your plan.
Not your will. His.
You are the Father.
You can make another way.
("I am
the way.”)
There has to be
another way.
Where's the ram in the bush?
Your will be done…
in earth…
No!
Let it pass from me.
Please…
make another way.
Falling on your face,
the stench of damp
soil in your nostrils.
Clenching the dirt with white knuckled fists;
force of your fists pounding the pebbles.
Forcing air out of your lungs
toward the darkened heavens.
Sweat pours from dusty pores.
Stinging sweat mingles
with blinding tears;
together flowing
through the dust of the day
forming paths of mud on your cheeks.
Soaked and tangled hair lashes at your brow.
Skin taut against tightened flesh.
Breath. Breathing. Breathe.
Heart beating so fast it
seems to stop
pumping so hard. Too hard.
Blood oozes from sweaty pores.
Great droplets
drip
drop to the dirt.
The angel appears.
Not my will.
Thy will be done.
Take the cup.
This is another in the "Dirty Jesus" series. The opening scene of The Passion of the Christ helped visually. We need to remember that Jesus the man did not want to go to the cross. This was his struggle in the garden. No man wants to endure that kind of torture. It was "God in Christ reconciling the world to himself." (II Corinthians 5:19) "God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son." (John 3:16) Our Father in heaven loves us and our sin required a sacrifice. The Christ, the Lamb of God, provided that sacrifice not because "Jesus loves us", but because he was obedient to the Father. "For as by one man's disobedience many were made sinners, so by the obedience of one shall many be made righteous." (Romans 5:19)
Take This Cup
…and then you went a little way
into the garden to pray.
I'm sure your students tried
to pray. It's hard work;
they just had a big supper.
But you have big plans on your mind.
God's plan. Not your plan.
Not your will. His.
You are the Father.
You can make another way.
("I am
the way.”)
There has to be
another way.
Where's the ram in the bush?
Your will be done…
in earth…
No!
Let it pass from me.
Please…
make another way.
Falling on your face,
the stench of damp
soil in your nostrils.
Clenching the dirt with white knuckled fists;
force of your fists pounding the pebbles.
Forcing air out of your lungs
toward the darkened heavens.
Sweat pours from dusty pores.
Stinging sweat mingles
with blinding tears;
together flowing
through the dust of the day
forming paths of mud on your cheeks.
Soaked and tangled hair lashes at your brow.
Skin taut against tightened flesh.
Breath. Breathing. Breathe.
Heart beating so fast it
seems to stop
pumping so hard. Too hard.
Blood oozes from sweaty pores.
Great droplets
drip
drop to the dirt.
The angel appears.
Not my will.
Thy will be done.
Take the cup.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
A Short Dash
April 15, 2009
Contemplating headstones.
Information minimal.
FULL NAME.
Date born.
Date dead.
In between—a dash.
The race starts with a bang;
cheers of joy and pain
pushing you through the gate.
The crowded pack vies for position;
spikes threaten your calves, elbows your nose.
Ultimately, you race self…alone.
Settling in to a rhythm, muscles warming;
preparing for the stretch ahead,
setting a pace for the miles before.
The course varies, testing entire being:
strength, will, stamina, mental fortitude
stretched, pushed, moving ahead, lagging behind.
Uphill sprints, downhill control;
sand and grass, pine bark and pavement
pounding up through sinew and pore.
Weather, with you, against you,
rain on face, wind at back;
wool socks cover hands in cold.
Home stretch stretching out, every breath
breathed through snot. Face set
finish line, heart racing to the end.
It's a short dash—
defining the name
on the headstone.
Contemplating headstones.
Information minimal.
FULL NAME.
Date born.
Date dead.
In between—a dash.
The race starts with a bang;
cheers of joy and pain
pushing you through the gate.
The crowded pack vies for position;
spikes threaten your calves, elbows your nose.
Ultimately, you race self…alone.
Settling in to a rhythm, muscles warming;
preparing for the stretch ahead,
setting a pace for the miles before.
The course varies, testing entire being:
strength, will, stamina, mental fortitude
stretched, pushed, moving ahead, lagging behind.
Uphill sprints, downhill control;
sand and grass, pine bark and pavement
pounding up through sinew and pore.
Weather, with you, against you,
rain on face, wind at back;
wool socks cover hands in cold.
Home stretch stretching out, every breath
breathed through snot. Face set
finish line, heart racing to the end.
It's a short dash—
defining the name
on the headstone.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Of Priests and Prostitutes
April 2, 2009
My wife Lynn gave out several exclamations as she read this for the first time. I suppose it does border on the "R" rating. But how often do we sanitize the scriptures to fit our Sunday school view. God became flesh and dwelt among us. US. It's not always very pretty "among us". Stuff happens in the "flesh". But Jesus endured. He resisted temptation. And he was victorious. Jesus can sympathize with us. "For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin." (Hebrews 4:15, ESV)
I have combined two separate incidents from the life of Jesus; two different women with similar issues. If you have a problem reading this type of material, please do not read the Song of Solomon. I read this book of the Bible for the first time as a single man in the U.S. Navy. It made me blush.
Of Priests and Prostitutes
Thrown down into the dust,
her tunic torn exposing silky thighs
that beg to be touched,
revealing full breasts glistening with sweat,
a glimpse of a nipple.
(Come on. You know you want to look.)
Reviewed by the local Sanhedrin,
(Are those names being written in the sand?)
they require judgement.
The scent of her lovers still clings to her loins
and rocks are poised
to pounce,
to pummel,
to purge her
sin, their guilt.
Looking past the passion,
the verdict is pronounced.
All are guilty,
one is forgiven.
As evening wraps its arms around the city;
as the sun caresses and deeply kisses the horizon,
she comes to you.
She has nothing to offer you, save herself.
So she kneels before you.
Hot tears spill from her eyes,
moisten your feet.
She lets down her hair,
stroking
your feet
with her thick tresses,
washing away the dust of the day.
Sobbing.
Bending.
Cleavage bared.
Heaving before you.
Were it anyone else…
And we know you were a man.
You were circumcised—
all the parts were evident
or someone would have said something.
They need not indignantly ask.
You both know
who you are touching.
My wife Lynn gave out several exclamations as she read this for the first time. I suppose it does border on the "R" rating. But how often do we sanitize the scriptures to fit our Sunday school view. God became flesh and dwelt among us. US. It's not always very pretty "among us". Stuff happens in the "flesh". But Jesus endured. He resisted temptation. And he was victorious. Jesus can sympathize with us. "For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin." (Hebrews 4:15, ESV)
I have combined two separate incidents from the life of Jesus; two different women with similar issues. If you have a problem reading this type of material, please do not read the Song of Solomon. I read this book of the Bible for the first time as a single man in the U.S. Navy. It made me blush.
Of Priests and Prostitutes
Thrown down into the dust,
her tunic torn exposing silky thighs
that beg to be touched,
revealing full breasts glistening with sweat,
a glimpse of a nipple.
(Come on. You know you want to look.)
Reviewed by the local Sanhedrin,
(Are those names being written in the sand?)
they require judgement.
The scent of her lovers still clings to her loins
and rocks are poised
to pounce,
to pummel,
to purge her
sin, their guilt.
Looking past the passion,
the verdict is pronounced.
All are guilty,
one is forgiven.
As evening wraps its arms around the city;
as the sun caresses and deeply kisses the horizon,
she comes to you.
She has nothing to offer you, save herself.
So she kneels before you.
Hot tears spill from her eyes,
moisten your feet.
She lets down her hair,
stroking
your feet
with her thick tresses,
washing away the dust of the day.
Sobbing.
Bending.
Cleavage bared.
Heaving before you.
Were it anyone else…
And we know you were a man.
You were circumcised—
all the parts were evident
or someone would have said something.
They need not indignantly ask.
You both know
who you are touching.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Sheep Dung in the Upper Room
March 30, 2009
I suppose this could be categorized as an Easter poem. It takes place the day of the Last Supper. This is another piece that I want to include in my series concerning God getting dirty. The original inspiration came from one of our pastor's sermons (Cal Woods, Pointe North Community Church, Moncks Corner, SC) in which he related an experience in which he stepped in dog doo and tracked it into a church conference room.
Sheep Dung in the Upper Room
I jump out of the boat
and into the muddy water.
Dragging the boat to shore
silt and sand slide under my feet
and through my toes.
It has been a good day for fishing.
Hauling basket after basket
of flopping fish flinging
water and scales,
I think of the Passover meal
to be shared with the Master this night.
But the nets, dripping with kelp and fish crap,
need to be tended. Sand gnats
nip at my ankles as I hurriedly finish my tasks.
Running up the bank,
wet sand from my sandals
splat my calves. Rushing through
the pasture, tall field grasses slap my shins,
leaving their seed clinging to the sweat,
hiding in the hairs of my legs.
I push through the crowded market
of the multitudes making last minute
preparations for Passover.
The streets are covered
with discarded rotted figs and grapes
mingling with the dust of ages and
the urine of goats and dogs and sheep.
Heedless of where I place my steps,
I almost fall
when my foot finds the fresh leavings
of a sheep.
Vaguely aware of the odor
from my freshly soiled sandal,
I enter the upper room
and partake of the supper
with my brethren and the Master.
And though I try to ignore it,
the trail of dust and dung
I have imprinted upon the floor behind me
is evident to all.
Then,
at the end of the meal
after the bread has been broken
and the wine has been shared,
the Master girds himself with a towel
and washes our feet.
I suppose this could be categorized as an Easter poem. It takes place the day of the Last Supper. This is another piece that I want to include in my series concerning God getting dirty. The original inspiration came from one of our pastor's sermons (Cal Woods, Pointe North Community Church, Moncks Corner, SC) in which he related an experience in which he stepped in dog doo and tracked it into a church conference room.
Sheep Dung in the Upper Room
I jump out of the boat
and into the muddy water.
Dragging the boat to shore
silt and sand slide under my feet
and through my toes.
It has been a good day for fishing.
Hauling basket after basket
of flopping fish flinging
water and scales,
I think of the Passover meal
to be shared with the Master this night.
But the nets, dripping with kelp and fish crap,
need to be tended. Sand gnats
nip at my ankles as I hurriedly finish my tasks.
Running up the bank,
wet sand from my sandals
splat my calves. Rushing through
the pasture, tall field grasses slap my shins,
leaving their seed clinging to the sweat,
hiding in the hairs of my legs.
I push through the crowded market
of the multitudes making last minute
preparations for Passover.
The streets are covered
with discarded rotted figs and grapes
mingling with the dust of ages and
the urine of goats and dogs and sheep.
Heedless of where I place my steps,
I almost fall
when my foot finds the fresh leavings
of a sheep.
Vaguely aware of the odor
from my freshly soiled sandal,
I enter the upper room
and partake of the supper
with my brethren and the Master.
And though I try to ignore it,
the trail of dust and dung
I have imprinted upon the floor behind me
is evident to all.
Then,
at the end of the meal
after the bread has been broken
and the wine has been shared,
the Master girds himself with a towel
and washes our feet.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)