The Crescendo

I rage, I toil, I cower and sweat.

I have not met my maker yet

and if I meet him I shall say,

‘Please come again another day.

I am not ready. I am not ripe.

The times not right!’ I’d wail and gripe.

I’d beg of him right there some sign

that he was fair; that fate aligned

and gave me all that I deserved

not less and from the path I swerved

by some dark power ill beset

to full crescendo of regret.

And in the whisper there I heard

the tempest break at silent words.

I knew, and he reminds me now,

that I deserved much worse allowed

for fate is held by piercèd hands

that save each one from fair demands.

From instant darkness, ash, and flame

and takes upon himself the blame

So God the Father please forgive

my angry heart; my will to live.

Teach me—slowly—how to die

that I might live for more than lies—

not what I see but for the hearts

That beat for thee—in distant parts—

a tune you love to hear and share:

The music of the lives you cared

enough to bring out from the dark.

And each that beats and stills you mark

as yours—this orchestra of strings.

So take my heart and make me sing:

Now in life and then in death,

may all I do; may every breath

be all for you my Elohim—

the Ever Greater Than He Seems.

The Grand Risk

And I said that if they don't
then you will
leave...
but I knew that the truth doesn't
break
down so simply,
because there
at the breaking
and in the moment of
retreat
the tale of the steps you took
and the hearts that
meet
are lost in the blur of the 
momentary.


Before the smudging
of present sufferings
there was love and
hope
smiles and
laughs
and eventually
those things that will last on
into life and memory. 
And we look back
and see
and know
it was worth it to
go past this 
flickering hesitation. 


Go past this and don't
build those comfort walls
of fluffy cells
in the cold institute of your 
self-embracing solitude. 
Go past this into that
grand risk
of a heart open to 
greater loves than this.

My Choice Draught

I’m inebriated on life

And all it has to offer

I keep taking big gulps

—Coughing, spluttering, spilling—

Rather than sips and swallows.

There is so much music

Sights, smells, things to try

Tastes to taste

Feelings to feel

Thoughts to think

There are so many books,

Sports, jobs, games, skills, responsibilities

And the people!

The people!

There are so many of them

So many of us

So many stories,

Tales of families, sorrows, joys

Of evil, good and all that’s between,

Friends, acquaintances, lovers, and all who could be...

Why is it that so few will touch my life?

So few... and so many...

I am drunk on presence

And thirsting for presence

I vacillate between extreme loneliness

And a desire for solitude

But the people

I wouldn’t give them up

I wouldn’t go sober

For while they kill me, enrage me,

Love me, challenge me, seduce me,

Question me, inform me, teach me,

Learn from me, touch me, strike me,

Enable me, analyze me, judge me,

Forgive me, kiss me, speak to me,

Destroy me and rebuild me

I know that I would not be me

Without you.

Let us get drunk on our presence

On our very being, and that being

Together.

In the Presence of Greatness

IV. The Diving Post

Lone and jutting from the wave brushed sea

I waited long for him to climb up me.

Once a summer he’d make a single trip

To my lonely beach to take a dip.

He would swim a hundred feet from shore

To take a single dive and not one more.

III. The Pier Column

Barnacled, I raised my load so light

In my row I stood so true and right

And once a month she’d be coming down

To the coast by this fast dying town.

She’d walk the planks past me down to the end

And watch the sea pass by just like a friend.

II. The Evergreen

A blaze of green I stood so proud and tall

Until that day when my turn came to fall.

A man came with an eye patch and a brace

And looked at me with sun upon his face.

He felled me there, in land becoming stark

And took off his glove to touch my gnarled bark.

I. The Sapling

Awake with waiting till my time would come

To be between his finger and his thumb

And from his bag of forest he grabbed me

To place me in the soil to form a tree.

Upon a stump nearby, he sat to eat

And shed some silent tears into his meat.

V. The Carving

Now I stand upon a shelf austere

With memories in moments through the years.

She found me there along the beach one day

A chunk of driftwood, weathered, dried and grey.  

She carved and whittled something out of me,

Something always waiting for her to see.