Life is a changing constancy;
Ever a new face, new clothes—same substance.
The wind bring rain, which drains into the ground
til the earth is full—stuffed
—ready to explode
at a moment’s notice, bursting into green
grass and flowers and bluebonnets galore.
You’d hardly recognize that hill
if you saw it now in Spring:
there’s a new wrought-iron gate
over the ancient, rusty cattle guard,
and tall, straight pines now keeping watch around the tank.
The yard’s old barbed-wire boundary replaced
by a vintage white-washed fence,
and the dirt patch pitching mound we wore into the grass
now marked by a sturdy, promising oak.
I have to wonder: what’d this look like a century or four ago?
Would I have known as I stood on this soil
in knee high grass untouched by any man—
this hill, this dirt, this risen lump of ground—
that I was home?
The tides of time and the literal rivers
must have shaped and formed this plot of land
over who knows how many thousands of years.
But it was still this hill,
it was still this place and still this earth.
And this was ever my heart,
this was ever my soul and ever my song
—though I have yet to truly find the melody.
Everything has changed…in a sense
nothing stays the same…in the end
heaven is eternal…in our souls
when all is put to right we’ll finally know:
we are home, and have been all along.
There are two kinds of people:
some are crazy
and some are dead,
and some days
it’s hard to say who
is better off.
Heaven is as sure as hell
and Hell is pretty damn apparent
The earth’s a lake of fire
at its core, its inner nature
boiling up
with hate and malice
all diseased and rotting
essence oozing out
From pores and fissures
violent cracks spew
out the stench of death
and dying, fractures
in the love that makes us up
…
It’s not the sky
no, it’s the world that’s falling, fallen
out of sync with how we know
it’s meant to be
Upside down, the sky beneath
us, waiting patiently
until our spiral downward is complete
And we go SPLAT
against the solid air and understand
that all along
the heavens were the grounded ones
and we
the shadows slipping out of reach
…
Evil has no sense apart from good
the dark is empty–light is full
privatio boni
good deprived, but still
the solid substance surely real
But nothingness means something
is, or can be
one day will be (will we be?)
real enough to fill
this void for good
To dwell within, inhabit
all this darkness
supersede, consume, explode
the veil that lies so heavy on our hearts
was ripped in two
Main street, Small Town, Old West, USA.
That’s where I’d think I landed
but for the road noise beyond the shrubby trees.
There’s a broad dusty street lined
by rustic wooden buildings set
with hardly a space to walk between
the old city hall, or maybe a dance room, or maybe
a restaurant, and the tiny little bar/sallon and then
the classic white church—double doors and steeple—
and something else I can’t make out a ways
in the distance. Across the street,
the “Bride’s House”, it’s called: a nice, well landscaped home
of a fine upstanding citizen, surely, beside
a massive shotgun meeting hall,
and after that a bit out of place,
so lightly anachronistic is a Forty’s or Fifty’s restored
garage or barn or shop type place.
It’s marvelous, really, the way it feels
like stepping on to a movie set:
the decorations perfectly placed, the houses obviously well kept,
the street so free of cars and plastic, the old-school
jive and the other-worldly feeling.
But back on Second Street behind mesquites and cedar trees
On the far back porch of the reject homes
—or maybe works in progress—
the truth comes out all told.
All kinds of junk in piles and mounds:
old carriages, wheels, tire-base boles;
red ice-boxes, horse statues, even metal trashcans;
dead branches, rolled wire, is that an air conditioning vent?
I wonder what this stuff is for—
The dump, or renovation?
Is it set aside to be brought to life
Or cast away to be left for dead?
Is that always what it takes for something
to be restored—the implicit realization that it’s useless
as it is?
Praise God! that He doesn’t ever leave us as we are,
piled up like trash to be taken
to the landfill, gathered up like weeds
to be burned, cast aside like junk
to be forgotten.
No, but He comes to us—
outside the camp, covered in rust and dirt and moss—
and He cleans us up and cleans us out
then He puts us in His house.
We are useful again, wanted; we are
beautiful once more, valuable and treasred, we are
RENEWED.
Just because you know doesn’t mean you don’t need to be told:
the truth isn’t always true.
I know that you know who you—yeah I knew it too—
but let me take you back to the start.
I never knew what it meant, what it took
how to be (just) who I know that I am.
I still haven’t quite figured out how this works,
understood how I’m supposed to find myself (only) in Him.
But I know something now that I couldn’t see before,
my red eyes were too focused on me:
even though it don’t make sense
the more closely you squint at yourself
the less truth you reveal.
And I learned something now that I had never heard before
though ear all ringing with voices of insecurity:
intimidation stems from self-centered vision.
You can’t be afraid of someone you love—remember?
—perfect Love casts our fear.
But you know—or maybe you don’t (I didn’t)—
self discovery doesn’t tell you a thing
you didn’t know already.
And coming to grips with who you really are somehow
feels a lot like getting lost,
like letting go.
So let it go—your self that is.
Forget your own identity, remember who you are
in Him.
Lose it all—your insecurity.
Find your hope and rest your soul
in He in Whom your life is hid with God.
Oh, God,
So many thoughts swirling around in my head
I can’t get any rest.
Every time I close my eyes,
Every time I try to think, or pause
I get flung off the merry-go-round to a new set of tracks,
Short little trains of disconnected thoughts.
It’s like a rapid-fire see-saw:
Up and Down; There and Back; Again
and Again. Where do i get off
This treadmill I’ve been running on for hours?
A six-minute pace, but no distance at all
To show for my “work” to make it seem worth-
While. An endless, vicious cycle—
like night and day (more like predator and prey)
—perpetuates itself with brutal, deafening efficiency.
It’s so fast, so loud, I can’t hear myself think—
Oh, God!
Where is the calm in the storm, the gentle whisper
Of promises kept and every need met?
I need some peace right now. Frantically
Waiting for, willing the tumult to desist,
But the waves don’t heed; my command
Lost in the dissonant roar.
I’ve heard that one time You
Were asleep in the midst of the raging tempest;
Annoyed—woken by silly, distracted disciples
Like me—You just spoke, but the storm obediently subsided,
Sheepishly rebuked, tail between it’s legs, eyes to the ground
—Oh, God!
Would you speak right now?
If you don’t I’ll drown
Or at least collapse in a heap from the panic;
The waves they just don’t listen to me
But I know they’ll heed their King.
So God, my God, would you speak again
that powerful word:
Peace.
This ground is smooth and level as far as eye can see
A boulder here, a flower yonder
But all considered: flat as can be
With every day that passes, I note with growing wonder
That level ground is sinking down
Like the whole world is going under
I cannot find the problem that has hit this peaceful town
My closest friends, and neighbors too
No longer seem to want to hang around
There’s something fishy going on—a conspiracy—I won’t be fooled
The world’s demise beneath my eyes
Is a story too good to really be true
Not only is the earth sinking; I’m closer to the skies
The could are now surrounding me
I think it’s probably about time I realized
What’s happening unseen
Though all along I thought the ground around was sinking in
It was my ascent that made me in to what I am—a Mountain
It’s times like these I really get confused
When calender and weather don’t agree
December 14th’s plastered on the news
But August 10th is screaming from the trees
I took a walk around my block today
And stepped outside prepared to face the cold
Instead I felt humidity’s embrace
As beads of sweat began their quickening flow
If you had dropped me straight out of the sky
Not knowing date or time of year at all
And told me it was Winter—I’d say: you lie
I’d say: it can’t be five days into Fall
Until I realized just where I’d been dropt
In Houston, a land perpetually moist and hot
Sitting inside—warm
—staring out a window
Through a foggy frost—ice
—that plates the panes of glass
Looking at a tree—dead
—deprived of all its foliage
Wishing I was out there—cold
—shivering ‘neath the willow
Fallen, fallen are the children of the autumn
Deprived of all their dignity, trampled underfoot
Barren, barren are the mothers of the forest
Acquainted with bereavement, overwhelming loss
Alas! Alas! O who will mourn?
For the orphans and the widows
Have no voice
Empty, empty are the once luxuriant branches
No more they bear their bounty, forsaken as the dark
Grinded, grinded are the grapes of Spring’s begetting
But off’ring no redemption, wine to glad man’s heart
Alas! Alas! O who will mourn?
For the empty vine and fruit
Have naught to sing
Silent, silent are the oft’ loquacious poets
That sang in green and crimson, chanting golden tunes
Weary, weary are the words of Summer’s music
Devoid of poignant meaning, lacking any ring
Alas! Alas! O who will mourn?
For the writer and his pen
Have lost their song
When children die and mothers wail
When fruit has dropped and vines have failed
When words don’t come and poets cease
When autumn trees lose all their leaves…
Take heart, my soul, forsake not hope.
For the Tree of Niggle’s Leaf
Will bloom again
I wonder which is more insulting
To a fallen leaf?
The joyous STOMP of a care-free little girl
Going out of her way to step on all the leaves she can
Looking for, exulting in, that satisfying crunch
or
The careless MARCH of a hurried business-man
Giving neither care nor thought to what (or who) he tramples
Thinking only, ever only, of his (next) destination
I suppose that’s loaded question
Since leaves don’t hurt or feel
Or see or understand
But if a leaf could think and talk, I think it just might say:
“Sweet child, I hope you never lose your love for crunching leaves
To know my death has brought you joy has made my life complete”
I was walking along in the way I was going,
Lost in my thoughts, far too many to count–
People problems, lonely feeling;
Trivial issues, seeking meaning
–Stopped by the moon, peaking out through the clouds,
I could wander no more this calm beauty ignoring.
…
If only I could describe the serenity of the sight:
I can picture it even now in my mind’s hazy eye
Like a photograph of a picture I saw once in a dream.
I can glimpse its gleaming edge, it’s stillness feel.
I could try to describe to you that breath-giving scene
But I’m afraid that if I did you might miss the point;
Because the peace was not contained in the physical, literal thing
But in the more real, more vivid unspoken voice:
And He said “Peace”.
The sound of cars beyond the trees
Now a glimpse of road through the leaves
It would’ve fooled me: this forest vale
As I sit on the edge of this spongy mound–
Of old, dead grass piled bale on bale
–Where it drops off quick to the leafy ground
Of the forest floor; it’s so self contained!
This tranquil still midst the clatter and clang.
But is it mockery, or deceit
Or is it a pocket of last resistance?
Does the proximity to a busy street
Mean the charm is lost, or sweetened?
Can Man’s machines of smoke and noise
Really destroy the calm of Nature’s repose?
No. I think not.
Bright-rimmed circle, glowing orange
Now rising slowly, burning gold
Ever higher, ever whiter
Sears the eye with purple fire
Flaming sphere of brilliant light
Runs its course in faded sky
Glowing still through cotton clouds
Pouring light on the distant ground
Falling slow, but ever faster
Down she goes to western pasture
Tinting heav’n with reddish hues
Last goodbyes ’til morning dew
Source of color, source of sight
Source of omnipresent light
But most of all His daily agent
Source of our sustaining life
