I Am…
Two simple
Words.
So much…
With so little…
Calling to existance
Resistance of
The invisible
The indefensible
I AM
Alive,
Breathing,
More than,
not static
emphatically
dramatically
Realistically
Here…
Now…
I AM.
Sometimes (it all comes down)
Sometimes like an avalanche
Sometimes gentle like a
warm summer breeze
Sometimes heavy like
A mourning cry
It all comes down
Like pouring rain…
It all comes down again
Sometimes harder than
It should be
Sometimes easy as
Pie
I don’t know why
But lately I’ve been asking it
Lately I’ve been praying it
I’m not faking it
But it all comes down
Like pouring rain…
It all comes down again.
Sometimes hearts are heavy
Sometimes broken into pieces
Sometimes hearts are full of caring
Sometimes empty as a season
Of regret
I’ve been asking it
I’ve been praying it
I sure ain’t faking it
But it all comes down
It all comes down
Comes pouring down
Again.
On Grace and Good Friday…
On Grace:
Sometimes laughter is
the medicine best consumed
Removing any bitter pill
catching our fill of joy
hopefully by the bucket full
While we scratch and scrape to obliterate
The evidence of the empty
Other times there exists
this wish, this droaning desire
the brush fire of urgency
to unwind the vivid recall
that catches our fall
into this levity
we attempt,
we yearn to protect
this fragile sanity
casting shadows on the walls
of our iniquities
all the while struggling
refraining from peering
at that tree on Calvary
Could this be our undoing?
The unraveling of life’s
Guilt and selfishness
We have been pursuing this…
We the murder guilty
Hands crimson and stained..
Our eyes struggling to ignore it
Pulling our attention away
Yet discovering the end of our wit
Our wisdom, our inadequate understanding
Yet this heart,…
This shackled slave to self
is crash landing
bailing out…expanding panic
I think I’ll be sick
As I find myself wading
Through my own filth
Which eclipses feeble strength
Within these tired hands
This vacant soul…
Hallowed and emptied out
I have lost control
Shattered, bits and pieces
Sharp and jagged
Course as no longer whole
And glancing once more
Rugged cross in view
Life’s blood is spilt
Redemption, salvation, new life
Comes Crashing through…yet I will not
Comprehend it… just yet
No, not yet…
For hell has to relinquish
Diminish in the world…in me…
Then three days
Three gut wrenching, tear bursting
Sleep fleeting days…
To grave side
Torn pride, without guide
I will make my way
To mourn, to break again
But only then…only then
Will I meet nail shattered hands
Light from the cave of death
I will catch my breath,
I will catch His grace
And from His lips I will
Hear I love you, this…
This…was all for you.
At the Ski Lodge
In the Ski lodge
Fried food lingers
to pores, plaster
and particle board walls
it’s a teenage wasteland
of sorts
acne and cells phones
tightly wrapped
in Northface coats
down knockoffs
mittens and scarves
and blistered feet
are engulfed in boots
too tight
strapped, locked in
and ready for
another downward
plunge.
Idle chatter coats
The tables and chairs
Like syrups of soda
Spilled, layered and sticking
To everything it touches.
Youth lined in coats of safety
Safely glance, withdrawing
And glancing again
Lacking confidence
Coughing nervously
Courageously trying, failing…
Picking themselves up off
Of the powered snow
Brushing off illusions
Of rejection, injecting
Infected bruised pride
With another shot of
Laughter, red faced
Not just frost bite
Teasing the cheeks and nose
This is living
ski lifts, hot cups of cocoa
Steaming , engulfing souls in this
Wasteland,
retrieving mitten hands
Gathering up scarves and hats
Destined for that big jump
That may or may not come
Accompanied with chances
Of bruised pride, ribs and
Collar bones… those that
Are free, full of fried food
Ferry up the slope again
Fighting off such feelings
Of failure,
It’s all downhill
from there.
Soldiers on respite
We comb back our hair
Frayed and tattered by the wind
Greased pulled back stumped fingers
sometimes biting at the bit
checking faces in mirrors
is this really me?
Is my tie on straight?…
It all culminates
Begins
And while battered
And bruised
Blistered and subjected
To cruel worlds of selfishness
We straightened our ties
Exhale,
breathe deeply
Stand up tall
And go back out into it
While in the background
The piano strikes up
A somber tune
Out of tune
Ringing down the corridor
Echoing off of the
“welcome, come again” mat
Springing through ringlets
Primed by fingers with nails
Chewed too low
And we hum along
To the song
Onward we those
Christian soldiers…
Now where did I leave
That war?
Before the birth of dawn
Late last night
Under covers – down,
joined by the purring
At my feet
Acting out something
I cannot remember now
From fluttering eyelids and
Speech that sounds like snoring…
I swear I don’t snore 😉 .
Perhaps as the blood red
Alarm clock glowed,
And as ticks, sighs,
groans of our
Restless house
Wound itself into
The arms of early
morning. The clouds
In the birthing
Room of another
Brood of sunrise
Yet just before
The final ‘push’,
The last cry of
Nightfall’s curtain
Descends…thousands
Of miles away bursting
Through the Rockies
Days before its
Winter’s lips
Kissed frosted earth
Bending spruce and ferns
Into a deep embrace
Only to pick up again
Skirting the Black hills
And Lincoln’s chin
Rushing on down
towards the mighty
Mississippi, as ice bergs
Smaller than those that
took down the titanic
Weave their way into
The heart’s arteries of
America.
As it touches down once
again, the mighty river
ebbs to the beckoning call…
back in our home
still sorting out visions
with eyes clasp shut
It rushes down onto our
our creaking home…
Its winter’s clutch
testing storm windows
pushing at the screen door
somewhere deep inside
Dorothy Gale tries to click her
heels, as Toto barks on…
it happens quickly,
yet Oz doesn’t come into
view,
the birthing room announces
another fire branded day
is here…both Lincoln’s chin
and the mighty Mississippi
breathes collective sighs of relief
as the cries of a new born day
begins.
At Bed Time…
After I have collected
Mortal fingers and toes
Wrapped in cotton
Bathed, smoothed down
Deeply breathing
Faint wisps of
day time energies
and ever so slightly
nestled in these
undeserving arms
growing older that I
should recognize as mine.
They both look like me,
of that there is no
perjured witness.
Pointed nose that,
Lacking arch and rounded
Bulbous, points its
Finger at me.
Flaxen colored haired
Waves to me as I carry
Them up the creaking stairs.
Treasures come in all shapes
And sizes,
Some planned,
Others surprises
Valuable determined
By how much pain
Joy, buckets full of laughter
Handfuls of tears…
These are my treasures
Enfolded in aging arms…
Blessed.
.
“At the Cancer Clinic” by Ted Kooser
She is being helped toward the open door
that leads to the examining rooms
by two young women I take to be her sisters.
Each bends to the weight of an arm
and steps with the straight, tough bearing
of courage. At what must seem to be
a great distance, a nurse holds the door,
smiling and calling encouragement.
How patient she is in the crisp white sails
of her clothes. The sick woman
peers from under her funny knit cap
to watch each foot swing scuffing forward
and take its turn under her weight.
There is no restlessness or impatience
or anger anywhere in sight. Grace
fills the clean mold of this moment
and all the shuffling magazines grow still.
Pastor's Ponderings 