Friday, June 15, 2012

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 pierc├Ęd 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.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

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.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

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.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

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.