Hearts on Paper

October 27, 2010
She's got mine!

Serenity sat with me this morning,
reached for my clipboard of notes and blank paper.
Awkwardly holding the mechanical pencil
     in her left hand,
made stabs and swipes at the college rule:
     the scribbles are getting bolder.
Fingering the letters of my name
printed and taped to the metal clip,
I explain she is of a select few
who call me Grandpa.

Gazing at the work of her hand
she wraps her arms around the stiff board
and hugs the page to her tiny chest.

Pool of Serenity

October 20, 2010
You can look at this 3 ways.

I have an old water fountain
now filled with pebbles and rocks
that Serenity likes to play in.
She'll take the stones,
one or two in each hand,
and walk about turning them,
then tossing them,
then returning for more.
You can see the holes where she's been.

Dancing On the Grave

October 6, 2010
My dear sister, Annette, asked me to pen a poem to be read at her funeral. It's not that she's dying--far from it as far as I know--she just wants to be prepared. This is actually two poems in one--she's special.


Dancing On the Grave
(A Song of Rejoicing
for the Funeral of my Sister, Annette Smith
written well before she moved on)

So you think this is a victory
because my vocal chords are silenced
and laughter no longer bounces off
my tongue through the gap in my teeth
that will fall to the floor of this box.

You think this is loss
because my hands are folded flat
and not clapping to the heartbeat
no longer beating
the song beat of a different heart.

Do you believe this is the end
because my lifeless limbs
don't sway in the Wind in the dust;
and the dust will devour my flesh,
and the Wind will blow it where it will?

This is just the beginning.
My arms now move
to a whole new groove.
I am one with the Wind
and the dust don't keep me down.

This is gain.
My hands are lifted high applauding
the one beat,
the only beat,
the eternal beat.

Ha! This is a victory.
Hear my song.


Annette's Song

The Lord has brought me through.
My God has made a way.
Jesus carried me.

Your Word lead me.
Your Spirit moved me.
Your Presence guided me.

And I lived my life in You.
And You lived Your life through me.
And we lived our life as one.

Before Your throne I kneel.
Before Your power I bow.
Before Your majesty I lay myself down.

In the company of all the saints, I lift my voice to You.
In the sight of all the angels, I sing Your praise.
In Your presence, I worship.

I worship Your name.
I adore Your name.
I love Your name.

And I have a new name.
And though I have always known Your name,
it is new.

YES!
YES!
YES!

Bless You Lord.
Bless You God.
Bless You Jesus.

Jesus.
Jesus.
Jesus.

The Living Word

September 23, 2010

Lord, I live
by your word.
My life is in the spoken sentences
and paragraphs from Your mouth,
not the black and red ink on
rice paper that can be burned to ashes,
added to the pile;
but by Your voice that etches
the tablets of my heart,
by Your breath that permanently
marks my mind,
the breeze that brands my soul
as Yours
I live.

The Heart of God

September 20, 2010

There is not a soul alive
that has glimpsed the complete beauty
within a conch shell.
Broken by the crush of waves
and washed smooth by sand
gives a partial and wholly different vision.
The only way to truly comprehend
the smooth darkness of its bright curves:
          crawl inside.

Can a man know the tenderness
of a mother nursing?
Neither can remember
the comfort of the infant
suckling mama's breast.
It must be lived in the moment of innocence.

To my knowledge,
no one alive has survived
the internal winds and pressure of a tornado
whipping about seemingly out of control;
dust and debris flung about on the outside,
while molecules of nothingness fill the eye.
But wouldn't that be an experience.

Reading the Bible by Moonlight

September 15, 2010
I actually attempted to read by moonlight. It was early morning, the moon was full and bright, but not bright enough.

Reading the Bible by moonlight
words are blurred and smeared
on a not so white surface
only thing clear the white space
the margins that surround ink
jot tittle blend indistinguishable
from alpha and omega

Dawn, increasing clarity;
words are ordered in steps.
O's are opened, I's made straight;
more white space is evident
in the pores of the P's and the Q's:
each letter clearly delineated.
Even the punctuation is comprehensible.

Stained Glass

August 3, 2010

Foiling
visuals of my mind,
moving pictures of my heart,
the virtual reality of my spirit;
solidifying divine revelation
with rust and sand and lead;
expounding liquid dreams
by fusing concrete realities,
hardened adjectives
for pools of light

unable to penetrate,
because the Windex isn't working
on the stained glass
darkened glass
glassy eyed
window of your soul.

Which Came First?

July 5, 2010
Just saying...


Why debate eggs?
Sperm is the real issue.

A Psalm of the Morning

July 6, 2010


You, Lord, make the earth turn
     to see the sun again;
You guide the moon in its orbit
     to give light in the darkness.
You, Lord, aged the stars and the galaxies
     to shine at the appropriate time;
You alone, Lord, know the edges
     of the universe in every direction.
It was You, Lord, that exposed Your thought
     and in a micro-nano-millisecond
     set in motion the world to come.
How great are You, Lord.
How far more intelligent
     than the greatest minds of men combined.

Taste and See

June 14, 2010
Straight from the printer to the blog.


Serenity lay in my arm,
left hand supporting
the bottle of formula,
ever moving fingers of her right
wrapped around my pinky;
working the nipple,
she relaxed as I rocked.

Reading the Psalms of David,
trying to hold onto Serenity—
the uncoordinated ballet
of her tiny digits
fingering the pages
as she gnaws the cover.

Looking Through a Glass Eye

May 31, 2010


          Glass eyes are cold.
          Glass eyes are hard.
Stored in velvet lined boxes.
Regular sanitary attention required.

Rainbow beams of prismed light
stop short at the painted pupil.
Corrective lenses only
focus on reflection.

Reflection
is dependant upon the angle
of the head.
Depth perception
comes up short.
Peripheral is one-sided.

For all of its anatomical accuracy
          of size and shape
and artistic quality
          of color and depth
it is still
not attached
to the optic nerve.

The Color of Piss

May 8, 2010
OK. This officially brings me up-to-date.
This poem, believe it or not, is based on a teaching of Christ. It's not what goes in a person's mouth that defiles them, but what comes out. Matthew 15:1-20 and Mark 7:1-16.


I believe
you can tell a lot
about a man
by the color
of his piss.
It's not orthodox.
It's fundamental truth:
a man's piss
don't lie.

Knew a man once
while in the Navy,
been up all night
drinking Bud in a can;
had to piss in a cup
next morning to prove
other substances were
not in
the system.
The cup held a nice
amber shade
with a half inch head.

This other fellow
been around the block--
a few times--
said everytime
he whizzed
burned like hell.
Had ulcers, too,
or something--
gut felt like barbwire
flossing his insides.
Not sure
of the final prognosis,
but his whizz
had a faint
reddish-orange tint.

There was a guy
worked hard,
did his best;
double shifts
got the best.
B complex
seemed to help
(Red Bull wasn't around yet,
but has a similar outcome).
Came out of the men's room
proclaiming
“My God!
My pee
is neon yellow.”

I am
lately drinking
more water.
Clean water.
Spring water.
Filtered and unflavored.
My urine
is getting clearer
and clearer.

Dr. Preacha Man

February 22, 2010


He done rip
dat bandaid right off
an' he done wash dat spot
wi' de water
an' he scrub an' he scrub
'til I want
dat he scrub no more
'cause de tears
dey come pour out
'til I feel
I 'bout drown.
Den he put de sav
all up on where he scrub
an' de sav
it feel so cool
an' it make dat place
dat he scrub feel right.

An' de tears
dey still be comin' down.

The Cleansing Power of Fire

November 2, 2009


I wept until I could weep no more.
          The rainbow did not
          appear in the sky.
          The ground was still rock hard.

I cried out so loud my vocal cords were raw.
          The wind did not
          blow or breeze.
          The trees did not yield their fruit.

I beat my fists bloody against the wall.
          The stars did not
          hold the answers.
          The earth continued to move.

Where else can I go?
Who else can I turn to?
          Let it burn.

Do Not Deal Harshly With My Tender Lambs

(Psalm 18:4-24)
October 14, 2009


What happened to your heart
          when your baby (insert name here)
got sick and cried all night,
unable to tell you what was wrong?

How did you feel
          when your child (__________)
bruised their knee or
scraped their elbow,
and came running to you crying?

Where did your mind go
when that bully,
where-are-his-parents, brat pushed
          your boy (__________)
on the playground?

Why did you think
what you thought
when that no good,
holding-my-tongue, boy broke
          your daughter’s (__________) heart.

Stir up and recall the feelings you get
when you see the faces on the posters
at WalMart, when you hear an Amber alert.
          They all have names.

Arouse and remember the emotions that arise
while watching crime drama or the news on TV
about child abductions and pedophiles and
oh, what you would do if you had five minutes alone with them.

Whose face
do you see
at the mention of
infant mortality,
diseased babies,
beaten and abused children,
child porn,
children used as drug mules,
“adoption” slavery,
my God, how could this be,
this is the twenty-first century?
          God knows their names.

You (__________)
are His children.

Cobweb in the Church Rafters

August 11, 2009
The inspiration actually came from a cobweb in church. I kept seeing this cobweb from week to week in the steel beams and ductwork and conduit, all painted black, of our church sanctuary. Our worship service is fairly modern with stage lighting and songs/graphics on two large screens, and the lights would make this cobweb glow. And for several weeks it was as if the Lord kept pointing it out. It made me laugh.


A single thread
of dust clothed cobweb
cluttering a corner of the ceiling
     of the sanctuary;
stretched
from one indeterminate spot to another;
glowing in the spotlight
amidst the twinkling dust motes;
swaying in the breeze
     of air conditioning

in                                   the light             and out of
bending, curving                                   moving in the darkness
like an optic fiber                                 hidden, invisible
carrying the light                                  in the dark

this fine filament
eluding the scientific mind
     from being
     recreated;
its tensile strength and elasticity
unmatched in the material:
yet, the flick of a finger,
the wave of a hand
can cast it down.

Someone needs to dust.

Listen

July 18, 2009


sometimes a tune
     hummed
sometimes a word
     spoken
cool of the day
still of the night
connection

In the Dark

July 13, 2009
Seems like everyone who came to Jesus in the New Testament did so out in the open, in the streets for all to see.

Every head bowed,
     every eye closed;
confession is made
     to the All-Knowing Lord
who speaks everything
even to himself.

Now if the light is hid
on the hill
and no one's around,
does anyone hear
knees hitting the ground,
or the sound of the silent
prayer? Who cares
if you meant it or mean it,
as long as you come clean;
     it's really a personal thing.

But we're told
to drink of the cup
that's held
and passed around the company
of friends, of strangers, of
God knows who.

Why does anyone else need to know
my business, my religion?
We don't speak of these
at the table.

So I will
bow my head
and close my eyes
because when I do
you can't see me.

Purpose Driven Poetry

July 1, 2009


I want to write poetry that
               praises my God;
               rejoices in right,
               illuminates wrong;
               awakens the soul,
               revives the spirit,
               stirs emotions,
               challenges the mind,
               makes sense;
               breaks fallow ground,
               waters the barren soil,
               and grows;
               feeds the hungry,
               gives drink to the thirsty,
               uplifts the arms that hang;
               makes old men remember,
               young men desire,
               women weep;
               doesn't make sense;
               causes leaders of white-washed tomes
                              want to take me out and stone me,
               pisses off professors
                              of logic, and reason, and apologetics;
               pleases my God.
I want to write
poetry.

My Calling: God Spoke in the Shower

July 1, 2009


God spoke to me today
while I was in the shower
washing my hair.

Tell of my love.

I covered my head and my face
with my arms
and I wept.

David was a prophet.