He’s gotten really good at looking in mirrors
Interacting with reflections
The image transferred
In reverse
Looking right through him
Now able to decipher
Behind his back
Over his shoulder
He’s gotten really good at forgetting people
Packing up
Moving on
Leaving behind
Rarely remembering back
Some meal he ate
A hand held
Expendable love
The best gifts to buy him:
Luggage
Walking shoes
Signed with a sharpie
Perhaps they’ll spark a memory
A thinking back to conversations
Shared laughs
Tandem dreams
Those things you hold so dear
Which he has all but lost
He’s gotten really good at letting go
Bonafide gypsy
Migrant reflector
Newness junkie
Mostly addicted to
His looking glass life
Friday, November 28, 2008
One?
He tries to unscramble the pieces
like a puzzle
unravel the riddle
But what if the One is the one?
And all others playing charades
constructed by Enemy
to draw him away?
What if The Way is the way?
With no other to get to the Place
where the One longs
to have him come near?
Can he even relinquish the idea
he holds so dear
That there may be more than one One?
The puzzle already solved
The only riddle left:
Can he even believe?
like a puzzle
unravel the riddle
But what if the One is the one?
And all others playing charades
constructed by Enemy
to draw him away?
What if The Way is the way?
With no other to get to the Place
where the One longs
to have him come near?
Can he even relinquish the idea
he holds so dear
That there may be more than one One?
The puzzle already solved
The only riddle left:
Can he even believe?
The Anti-Nothing
What lingers on the other side of nothing?
What squirms in the pit
Where blackholes dump their trash?
Spew their collections?
Bury their loot?
The ragged cusp of creativity
Where the universe spills over its edge
Into somethingness
Anti-nothingness
Perfect newness
Colors hum there
Matter, mass
New amoebas
Foreign, congealing
Into new music, novel mist
That random place where anti-dust & anti-heat
Implode & churn out anti-light
Anti-matter springs, unfolds
Anti-worlds & anti-words
Anti-poems, anti-songs
Anti-planets, anti-suns
Ante up in the anti-space
Where Auntie Em looks down in black & white
Swabbing the head with an anti-rag
Dipped in anti-water
Anti-thoughts in the anti-mind
Swim around in the anti-time
Where far & near are upside down
Anti-pulsars spin around
In retrograde
The anti-wormholes are antebellum
Post-apocalyptic felons
Anti-war & anti-peace
Anti-teeth in anti-jaws
Speak anti-rules & anti-laws
While living anti-true & false
Pooling up & cooling down
In the land where life creates itself
To shake the known with quasar-quakes
Giving birth
On the inside of everything
Nothing included
Nothing reborn
As something
What squirms in the pit
Where blackholes dump their trash?
Spew their collections?
Bury their loot?
The ragged cusp of creativity
Where the universe spills over its edge
Into somethingness
Anti-nothingness
Perfect newness
Colors hum there
Matter, mass
New amoebas
Foreign, congealing
Into new music, novel mist
That random place where anti-dust & anti-heat
Implode & churn out anti-light
Anti-matter springs, unfolds
Anti-worlds & anti-words
Anti-poems, anti-songs
Anti-planets, anti-suns
Ante up in the anti-space
Where Auntie Em looks down in black & white
Swabbing the head with an anti-rag
Dipped in anti-water
Anti-thoughts in the anti-mind
Swim around in the anti-time
Where far & near are upside down
Anti-pulsars spin around
In retrograde
The anti-wormholes are antebellum
Post-apocalyptic felons
Anti-war & anti-peace
Anti-teeth in anti-jaws
Speak anti-rules & anti-laws
While living anti-true & false
Pooling up & cooling down
In the land where life creates itself
To shake the known with quasar-quakes
Giving birth
On the inside of everything
Nothing included
Nothing reborn
As something
So She Sings
Snow shafts like ‘shroom stems
Shift slow so sleet stings
Slipshod shaped shadows
Slice straight through sun strings
Slung south since smooth skin
Sail silent sea springs
Side-saddle soldiers
Swing swords so steel stings
Sticks, stones stab sutures
Shown shut yet sap seeps
Sleep softly, soundly
Sweet song her soul sings
Sweet song her souls sings
Shift slow so sleet stings
Slipshod shaped shadows
Slice straight through sun strings
Slung south since smooth skin
Sail silent sea springs
Side-saddle soldiers
Swing swords so steel stings
Sticks, stones stab sutures
Shown shut yet sap seeps
Sleep softly, soundly
Sweet song her soul sings
Sweet song her souls sings
Sick
Tick tock ‘til ten ‘til
1:50 nightmare
Side-saddle she sits
Horseback misfit
Starving out the nitwits
Soaking all the sexy twits
Sperm sponge sloppy thick
Spilled seed oilslick
Sweep away the scary bits
Sorry suitors she submits
Six o’clock clock tick
Sleep engulfs the swollen sick
1:50 nightmare
Side-saddle she sits
Horseback misfit
Starving out the nitwits
Soaking all the sexy twits
Sperm sponge sloppy thick
Spilled seed oilslick
Sweep away the scary bits
Sorry suitors she submits
Six o’clock clock tick
Sleep engulfs the swollen sick
Summer Colors
Sometimes I see summer colors
In the wintertime
A swath of green
A streak of blue
There
Even in the coolness of colors
On the frigid days
The heat warms me
The fire burns
Through
In the wintertime
A swath of green
A streak of blue
There
Even in the coolness of colors
On the frigid days
The heat warms me
The fire burns
Through
Friday, November 21, 2008
Porcupine Pain
He clawed at the tree
One, two, three rings
Years deep
Ferocious vigor
The bark of the tree
Like porcupine pain
Shot under his nails
Red hot slivers
Quivers, quills
Pain
Electric
Shooting, shooting down
Out
Fire in his skin
His veins
His muscles
Pain
His bones
Blowing up inside
Explosions
Tons
Explosions
Pain
Excruciating quills
Terrible sharp
Poking through his callouses
Soaking through his meat
Piercing
Deep pain
Coming from the inside
Porcupine pain
Screaming from the tree
One, two, three rings
Years deep
Ferocious vigor
The bark of the tree
Like porcupine pain
Shot under his nails
Red hot slivers
Quivers, quills
Pain
Electric
Shooting, shooting down
Out
Fire in his skin
His veins
His muscles
Pain
His bones
Blowing up inside
Explosions
Tons
Explosions
Pain
Excruciating quills
Terrible sharp
Poking through his callouses
Soaking through his meat
Piercing
Deep pain
Coming from the inside
Porcupine pain
Screaming from the tree
Non-Religious Hypocrite
You can’t wiggle out of it
You non-religious hypocrite
Saying this while doing that
Skinny mind, marbled fat
Empty words of pompous weight
Nothingness upon your plate
Eat it sucker, suck it down
Pass the empty spoon around
Chew it well you tell us all
Recipe you can’t recall
Squirming two-face call your bluff
The tried & true have had enough
Thank you for a stab at this
You fire-breathing hypocrite
You scorch with words and burn with lies
And have no clue that we’ve surmised
The empty calories you sell
Have plumpened up the guts of Hell
Choke your propaganda down?
Another chef has come to town
Take it. Leave it. Watch it go.
Your final pup & pony show
Lid ripped off and you revealed
A bloody mess of smothered veal
Hypocrisy - the latest craze
To sweep the world at end of days
From earth to sky from shore to shore
Not just religions anymore
Swallowed whole with indigestion
Atheist beliefs in question
You non-religious hypocrite
Saying this while doing that
Skinny mind, marbled fat
Empty words of pompous weight
Nothingness upon your plate
Eat it sucker, suck it down
Pass the empty spoon around
Chew it well you tell us all
Recipe you can’t recall
Squirming two-face call your bluff
The tried & true have had enough
Thank you for a stab at this
You fire-breathing hypocrite
You scorch with words and burn with lies
And have no clue that we’ve surmised
The empty calories you sell
Have plumpened up the guts of Hell
Choke your propaganda down?
Another chef has come to town
Take it. Leave it. Watch it go.
Your final pup & pony show
Lid ripped off and you revealed
A bloody mess of smothered veal
Hypocrisy - the latest craze
To sweep the world at end of days
From earth to sky from shore to shore
Not just religions anymore
Swallowed whole with indigestion
Atheist beliefs in question
Groundhog
It’s not the groundhog’s day
I didn’t know they could get that large.
Is it bloated?
With its salt & pepper pelt
Big enough to make a small jacket
Or at least a large vest
Entrails still steaming
In the February air
Fogging the glass
A flattened shadow
Lies beneath him
Pinned to the permafrost
For at least 6 more weeks
I didn’t know they could get that large.
Is it bloated?
With its salt & pepper pelt
Big enough to make a small jacket
Or at least a large vest
Entrails still steaming
In the February air
Fogging the glass
A flattened shadow
Lies beneath him
Pinned to the permafrost
For at least 6 more weeks
This English
Recessed & depressed
Regressed in the best
Sort of way
Sense of the word
Addressed & sent West
The game is afoot
The love is abreast
Distinguished, distressed
This English request
This anguish, bequest
A language, bereft
Soon extinguished
Regressed in the best
Sort of way
Sense of the word
Addressed & sent West
The game is afoot
The love is abreast
Distinguished, distressed
This English request
This anguish, bequest
A language, bereft
Soon extinguished
Dragon Lady
Dragon lady spews
Her fire-breathing smoke
Billows, plumes
Razor sharp tongue
Slicing
Cutting deeper
Cutting quicker
Cutting stronger
Cutting down
Dragon lady harsh
Words
Braids flying
Mouth flapping
Nose flaring
Lips going
Hands moving
Making him smaller
smaller
This man
Belittled
Mistrusted
Slowly destroyed
Word by dragon lady word
Teeth, Scales, Claws
Coming down
Billows of smoke
Attacking
Killing
Flying
Soaring
Swooping
Talons out
Down
Cut
Crush
Devour
Her fire-breathing smoke
Billows, plumes
Razor sharp tongue
Slicing
Cutting deeper
Cutting quicker
Cutting stronger
Cutting down
Dragon lady harsh
Words
Braids flying
Mouth flapping
Nose flaring
Lips going
Hands moving
Making him smaller
smaller
This man
Belittled
Mistrusted
Slowly destroyed
Word by dragon lady word
Teeth, Scales, Claws
Coming down
Billows of smoke
Attacking
Killing
Flying
Soaring
Swooping
Talons out
Down
Cut
Crush
Devour
Loveliness
Nine finger Nanny looks at me with her lazy eye
I think
Then she flips me the bird
With that one finger that isn’t there
She’d be able to pick out my lisp
If I hadn’t swallowed my tongue
Of course, the deafness in her left ear
Keeps her from hearing half of what I say anyway
She hobbles along
As we stroll down the beach
Prosthetic hand in prosthetic hand
In the sand
She stops at least 9 times to dance on her one good leg
‘Cause she has to pee so badly
It’s been an issue ever since she sold that kidney
To buy me a valentine
Just as she sets out to recite
A love poem from memory
Her chronic amnesia kicks in
Again
So I slide out of my wheelchair
And plop down next to my sandy Nanny
As she pees her pants
And the waves lap up our loveliness
I think
Then she flips me the bird
With that one finger that isn’t there
She’d be able to pick out my lisp
If I hadn’t swallowed my tongue
Of course, the deafness in her left ear
Keeps her from hearing half of what I say anyway
She hobbles along
As we stroll down the beach
Prosthetic hand in prosthetic hand
In the sand
She stops at least 9 times to dance on her one good leg
‘Cause she has to pee so badly
It’s been an issue ever since she sold that kidney
To buy me a valentine
Just as she sets out to recite
A love poem from memory
Her chronic amnesia kicks in
Again
So I slide out of my wheelchair
And plop down next to my sandy Nanny
As she pees her pants
And the waves lap up our loveliness
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Spirits
:::For Forest:::
The living dead
Haunt
Tiny holes in the wall
Little dives
Having walked out
On their skins
Long ago
To sit side-by-side
Spirits in bars
Drinking spirits
Themselves
Past death
No life to breathe
Pulse-free
Green livers
Shining through sheets
Wrapped in chains
Rattling, clinking
Metal on metal
Glass on glass
Sometimes crying
Boo hoo beers
Lamenting
Tragic lives
Scared & scary
Slip into the grave
One sip slow sip
At a time
Last call
Ghosts drift out
Bloated, floating
Into the dark & stormy night
The living dead
Haunt
Tiny holes in the wall
Little dives
Having walked out
On their skins
Long ago
To sit side-by-side
Spirits in bars
Drinking spirits
Themselves
Past death
No life to breathe
Pulse-free
Green livers
Shining through sheets
Wrapped in chains
Rattling, clinking
Metal on metal
Glass on glass
Sometimes crying
Boo hoo beers
Lamenting
Tragic lives
Scared & scary
Slip into the grave
One sip slow sip
At a time
Last call
Ghosts drift out
Bloated, floating
Into the dark & stormy night
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Colors & Lines
I started school in the south with my baby teeth falling out
Right away, Miss Arrowwood taught me about lines:
How to stand straight in them
How to squeeze letters between solid & dashed ones
How to color inside them
She also taught me that colors don’t have to stay in the box
Beginning with the exotic tone of her skin - creamy & brown
Like the sweet chocolate-milk I chugged down in the lunchroom
I learned a lesson about the taste of white craft paste
Bland & starchy on the tongue
If you get caught eating it
You have to learn
The cold steel of the punishment pole in the center of the room
How many times did my nose freeze with the cold of it
Cross-eyed
Living within the lonely & torturous world of that avocado green
In rows of rust & mustard
Purple was the color of the books with the rarest spines
My five year old eyes would seek them out
As I drifted on the smell of must & ink down the library aisles
My only sworn enemy - naptime
No matter how I tried to resist, it’s undeniable power would overtake me
And cover me with its gray blanket of sleep
Except for that one time - the day my tiny fingers
Found a crack in the plastic of my blue & red nap mat
Dug out the yellow sponge inside and carried it to my curious mouth
Three trips to the boys’ room sink for secret water
To dislodge the lump in my throat taught me silver
The color of the safety pin securing a note for my parents to my shirt
A few of us were chosen to leave the others behind to take turns
Playing with tangrams, 3-D puzzles & the single, sacred computer
Black screen. Orange cursor blinking at me all electric, mysterious & wild
I loved its amber glow more than recess, but less than I loved Miss Arrowwood
Afterall, she was the one who schooled me on numbers & letters
Dick & Jane
Chocolate-milk skin
And that most of the time, it’s better to color outside the lines.
Right away, Miss Arrowwood taught me about lines:
How to stand straight in them
How to squeeze letters between solid & dashed ones
How to color inside them
She also taught me that colors don’t have to stay in the box
Beginning with the exotic tone of her skin - creamy & brown
Like the sweet chocolate-milk I chugged down in the lunchroom
I learned a lesson about the taste of white craft paste
Bland & starchy on the tongue
If you get caught eating it
You have to learn
The cold steel of the punishment pole in the center of the room
How many times did my nose freeze with the cold of it
Cross-eyed
Living within the lonely & torturous world of that avocado green
In rows of rust & mustard
Purple was the color of the books with the rarest spines
My five year old eyes would seek them out
As I drifted on the smell of must & ink down the library aisles
My only sworn enemy - naptime
No matter how I tried to resist, it’s undeniable power would overtake me
And cover me with its gray blanket of sleep
Except for that one time - the day my tiny fingers
Found a crack in the plastic of my blue & red nap mat
Dug out the yellow sponge inside and carried it to my curious mouth
Three trips to the boys’ room sink for secret water
To dislodge the lump in my throat taught me silver
The color of the safety pin securing a note for my parents to my shirt
A few of us were chosen to leave the others behind to take turns
Playing with tangrams, 3-D puzzles & the single, sacred computer
Black screen. Orange cursor blinking at me all electric, mysterious & wild
I loved its amber glow more than recess, but less than I loved Miss Arrowwood
Afterall, she was the one who schooled me on numbers & letters
Dick & Jane
Chocolate-milk skin
And that most of the time, it’s better to color outside the lines.
Friday, November 14, 2008
The New Story
It was late September when he looked up with
Those beautiful saucer eyes of his
Tugging on her sleeve
She smiled & sat down to share
One of his favorite stories
But all she could find was darkness
The blackness of a hole there
The words fell out silent
Spilled out all blank
Her brain ached with the effort
Sharp pain of emptiness
The sides sucked in upon themselves
At the query
Even the failsafe failed
Not only had all his stories disappeared
But so had all of hers
The cold of late December
Painted her face in bright red blush
There were the shelves
She could see them
through the snow
Outlines in the dust
Where the ancient books of memory
should have been
All barren
Lonely
Stolen
In the void
she had to stutter something - anything - out
Quickly now
He’s waiting
The retelling of someone else’s story
Only half-remembered?
Or observations of the then & there
The here & now?
Sweet smell of April drifting near
The color of life shining out
From those saucer eyes of his
She paused.
She chose.
And the words flowed out so liquid smooth
Full & rich
A new story
Caressing his ears
Tickling her lips
Refreshing drops
Of July rain
Overflowing the cups
Filling up the saucers
Those beautiful saucer eyes of his
Tugging on her sleeve
She smiled & sat down to share
One of his favorite stories
But all she could find was darkness
The blackness of a hole there
The words fell out silent
Spilled out all blank
Her brain ached with the effort
Sharp pain of emptiness
The sides sucked in upon themselves
At the query
Even the failsafe failed
Not only had all his stories disappeared
But so had all of hers
The cold of late December
Painted her face in bright red blush
There were the shelves
She could see them
through the snow
Outlines in the dust
Where the ancient books of memory
should have been
All barren
Lonely
Stolen
In the void
she had to stutter something - anything - out
Quickly now
He’s waiting
The retelling of someone else’s story
Only half-remembered?
Or observations of the then & there
The here & now?
Sweet smell of April drifting near
The color of life shining out
From those saucer eyes of his
She paused.
She chose.
And the words flowed out so liquid smooth
Full & rich
A new story
Caressing his ears
Tickling her lips
Refreshing drops
Of July rain
Overflowing the cups
Filling up the saucers
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
A Clean Kind of Dirty
The blue tones come off
Whitewashed
In the nightlight
Fading
Disappearing
Into nothingness
The shadows cast on
Wallpaper
Live in warm hues
All it costs me
A little body heat
After sundown
A small price to pay
For the debt I owe
At the watering hole
Wetness
Flowing freely
From the wellhouse
The water comes across
Drier
Than it used to
At the homestead
When the dust was light
And washed off easily
In the sunlight
Whitewashed
In the nightlight
Fading
Disappearing
Into nothingness
The shadows cast on
Wallpaper
Live in warm hues
All it costs me
A little body heat
After sundown
A small price to pay
For the debt I owe
At the watering hole
Wetness
Flowing freely
From the wellhouse
The water comes across
Drier
Than it used to
At the homestead
When the dust was light
And washed off easily
In the sunlight
Handshakes
Overcooked linguini draping over saucepan’s lip
Limp, soggy noodle fingers dangle there
Overzealous, more than eager boa constrictor grip
Firm, squeezing coil vice of angry meat
Underfed, gaunt little skeletal twig of digits
Thin, bony pipe cleaners wrapped in paper sleeves
Oversized pork sausage swollen tight links
Plump, greasy clogging our connection with fat
Underdeveloped seed of esteem, timid shrinking back
Small receding, recoiling, quick retracting stem
Understood instant longing resting within my welcome hand
Firm but gentle, perfect size, hold me longer, don’t let go
Limp, soggy noodle fingers dangle there
Overzealous, more than eager boa constrictor grip
Firm, squeezing coil vice of angry meat
Underfed, gaunt little skeletal twig of digits
Thin, bony pipe cleaners wrapped in paper sleeves
Oversized pork sausage swollen tight links
Plump, greasy clogging our connection with fat
Underdeveloped seed of esteem, timid shrinking back
Small receding, recoiling, quick retracting stem
Understood instant longing resting within my welcome hand
Firm but gentle, perfect size, hold me longer, don’t let go
Friday, November 7, 2008
Biker Man
Look at you straddle that Harley
On your way to work
Downtown
Cautiously stopping
At the yellow light
Highly-pressed khakis
The biggest patch
On your jacket says
“Live Free. Ride Hard.”
But those papercuts
You hide inside
Those leather gloves
And the neatly trimmed
Hair parted
To one side
Safely tucked inside
Your helmet
Speak volumes about
How free you are
How hard you ride
Your rebellious ways
Biker man-
I know these might be
Fighting words
But the polish you
Expertly laid
On those square-toed
Dress shoes
Is outshining
the chrome on
your bike
But you keep on
Living free
Biker man
Keep on
Riding hard.
On your way to work
Downtown
Cautiously stopping
At the yellow light
Highly-pressed khakis
The biggest patch
On your jacket says
“Live Free. Ride Hard.”
But those papercuts
You hide inside
Those leather gloves
And the neatly trimmed
Hair parted
To one side
Safely tucked inside
Your helmet
Speak volumes about
How free you are
How hard you ride
Your rebellious ways
Biker man-
I know these might be
Fighting words
But the polish you
Expertly laid
On those square-toed
Dress shoes
Is outshining
the chrome on
your bike
But you keep on
Living free
Biker man
Keep on
Riding hard.
Amputee Scarecrows
He resisted the chill with all he had in him
[Which wasn’t much]
But cold seeped in
Nonetheless
Frost formed on his hat
Ice latched onto his boots
Angry crystals grew on his collar
Turning him brittle and stiff
As hard as he tried
[‘cause he really did try!]
He could not stretch his arm stubs
To hug himself for warmth
A fate suffered by all of his kind
Amputee scarecrows
Cursed to wander through Autumn
With short-sleeve shirts
[Which wasn’t much]
But cold seeped in
Nonetheless
Frost formed on his hat
Ice latched onto his boots
Angry crystals grew on his collar
Turning him brittle and stiff
As hard as he tried
[‘cause he really did try!]
He could not stretch his arm stubs
To hug himself for warmth
A fate suffered by all of his kind
Amputee scarecrows
Cursed to wander through Autumn
With short-sleeve shirts
Saturday, November 1, 2008
The Dance Above Me
Shards of light like icepicks piercing
Drive through eyelid skin so thin
Causing moaning, groaning, wincing
Squeezing tight to keep night in
But Sun runs wild, a slave set loose
To burn the world with shine so free
A necklace now - a lovely noose
Surrounds the throat of captured sleep
Daystar climbs into his glory
Shredding shadows, rising high
Peaking where apex so lofty
Bilaterates the bluing sky
A lasso flung from deepest west
Ensnares the beast and draws him down
Until the sizzle sound of dusk
Is swallowed up by hungry ground
Then tiptoes out the timid moon
Dressed in lace with shoulders bare
And glides across the tapestry
Of clouds and love, of stars and air
Tired now, she yawns a bit
A rumble shakes the eastern shore
Proud lion breaks his binding bands
And thrusts through dawn to roar once more
Drive through eyelid skin so thin
Causing moaning, groaning, wincing
Squeezing tight to keep night in
But Sun runs wild, a slave set loose
To burn the world with shine so free
A necklace now - a lovely noose
Surrounds the throat of captured sleep
Daystar climbs into his glory
Shredding shadows, rising high
Peaking where apex so lofty
Bilaterates the bluing sky
A lasso flung from deepest west
Ensnares the beast and draws him down
Until the sizzle sound of dusk
Is swallowed up by hungry ground
Then tiptoes out the timid moon
Dressed in lace with shoulders bare
And glides across the tapestry
Of clouds and love, of stars and air
Tired now, she yawns a bit
A rumble shakes the eastern shore
Proud lion breaks his binding bands
And thrusts through dawn to roar once more
Morning
I love it when the cold sting of
the freshly peeled sheets
frozen by moonlight
Fades away into the warm toastiness
that swallows me up
just before dawn
But I hate how that splendid comfort
is destroyed
by a whoosh of the covers
And the scent of a frost-laden morning
fights against the heat
hiding in my eyes
the freshly peeled sheets
frozen by moonlight
Fades away into the warm toastiness
that swallows me up
just before dawn
But I hate how that splendid comfort
is destroyed
by a whoosh of the covers
And the scent of a frost-laden morning
fights against the heat
hiding in my eyes
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Sad Song
Slow woodwinds play
I am a sad bird
Alone
Moaning for something
I've loved
And lost
Longing for sky
Slow drumbeats bump
I am a red fox
Slinking
Grazing tree bases low
Sneaking along
Unseen
Looking for rest
Slow voices sleek
I am a blue stone
Sunning
Open to the heat
Then cold
Closed up
Waiting for dawn
Slow reeds quiver
I am snow falling
Drifting
Floating to earth
Tiny ice
Blown white
Touching down soft
Slow branches wave
I am a cedar
Dancing
Swaying in wood winds
Breathing in clouds
Evergreen
Tasting the rain
Slow birdlings sing
I am the wind
Blowing
Over hilltops
In valleys
Running
Chasing the fog
I am a sad song
Longing
Waiting
Reaching
Hoping
For home
I am a sad bird
Alone
Moaning for something
I've loved
And lost
Longing for sky
Slow drumbeats bump
I am a red fox
Slinking
Grazing tree bases low
Sneaking along
Unseen
Looking for rest
Slow voices sleek
I am a blue stone
Sunning
Open to the heat
Then cold
Closed up
Waiting for dawn
Slow reeds quiver
I am snow falling
Drifting
Floating to earth
Tiny ice
Blown white
Touching down soft
Slow branches wave
I am a cedar
Dancing
Swaying in wood winds
Breathing in clouds
Evergreen
Tasting the rain
Slow birdlings sing
I am the wind
Blowing
Over hilltops
In valleys
Running
Chasing the fog
I am a sad song
Longing
Waiting
Reaching
Hoping
For home
Monday, October 13, 2008
Birthday Dung
The oversweet icing from the birthday cake
has tinted my dung
One birthday in
The same birthday out
Exiting an olden green
from Blue #40
black
has tinted my dung
One birthday in
The same birthday out
Exiting an olden green
from Blue #40
black
Luv Ya
“Luv ya.”
She spat those two half-words at me
Like seeds from an orange
an involuntary reaction
a sudden sneeze
Escaping, flying out
without weight
without thought
I remember when they were full-words
Large and velvety loops
carefully written
lovingly impressed
Like lipstick kisses
On the vellum of my soul
Now - just ugly letters
Scribbled out in haste
on scrap paper
Empty
Little more than items
Jotted on
The Shopping List
- Hot pink lipstick
- Antihistamine
- Oranges (seedless)
She spat those two half-words at me
Like seeds from an orange
an involuntary reaction
a sudden sneeze
Escaping, flying out
without weight
without thought
I remember when they were full-words
Large and velvety loops
carefully written
lovingly impressed
Like lipstick kisses
On the vellum of my soul
Now - just ugly letters
Scribbled out in haste
on scrap paper
Empty
Little more than items
Jotted on
The Shopping List
- Hot pink lipstick
- Antihistamine
- Oranges (seedless)
Monday, October 6, 2008
Parallel Rails
Blink, blink
Blink, blink
The red & white stripes
of the crossed arms
Tell me, “NO!”
The pain
of the wait
As the slow, slow
Slightly moving shape
Trickles its way
Down the track
“Come on!”
I beg aloud
Punishing
An innocent steering wheel
The lights wink
Imperial red
Back at me
Blink, blink
Blink, blink
Just me
And the train of
almost empty cars
Trapped
On our
Parallel rails
Blink, blink
The red & white stripes
of the crossed arms
Tell me, “NO!”
The pain
of the wait
As the slow, slow
Slightly moving shape
Trickles its way
Down the track
“Come on!”
I beg aloud
Punishing
An innocent steering wheel
The lights wink
Imperial red
Back at me
Blink, blink
Blink, blink
Just me
And the train of
almost empty cars
Trapped
On our
Parallel rails
Height Depth
Blue light
Crystal meth
Night life
Hardened edge
High time
Golden egg
Wired spine
Shrunken head
Gone blind
Walking dead
Warning sign
Cliff ahead
Downward climb
Riverbed
Icy crime
Frozen sweat
Liquid mind
Soaking wet
Leaking eyes
Blood red
Tortured cries
Wasted breath
Endless lies
True regret
Stay alive
Left for dead
Coming night
Growing heft
Out of time
Heavy chest
Hours fly
Minutes left
Pain subsides
Numb collects
Twilight
Facing west
Final sigh
Peacefulness
Sunrise
Sunset
Crystal meth
Night life
Hardened edge
High time
Golden egg
Wired spine
Shrunken head
Gone blind
Walking dead
Warning sign
Cliff ahead
Downward climb
Riverbed
Icy crime
Frozen sweat
Liquid mind
Soaking wet
Leaking eyes
Blood red
Tortured cries
Wasted breath
Endless lies
True regret
Stay alive
Left for dead
Coming night
Growing heft
Out of time
Heavy chest
Hours fly
Minutes left
Pain subsides
Numb collects
Twilight
Facing west
Final sigh
Peacefulness
Sunrise
Sunset
Charmer
He could have sworn he heard hissing
So he approached her from behind
Afraid to look at her face
And sure enough
Her hair didn’t cascade down
The full length of her back
But pooled up
Between her shoulder blades
Like a jumble of nesting serpents
In her hood
And when she asked him,
“What kinda music you into?”
He stared at his shoes
Because He knew
She was hunting his soul
“Depends on my mood,”
He mumbled.
“Figuresssss” she answered.
Then smelled the air
Between them
With the quick flick
Of a slightly forked tongue
He slowly
Found her eyes
And felt himself
Turn to stone
So he approached her from behind
Afraid to look at her face
And sure enough
Her hair didn’t cascade down
The full length of her back
But pooled up
Between her shoulder blades
Like a jumble of nesting serpents
In her hood
And when she asked him,
“What kinda music you into?”
He stared at his shoes
Because He knew
She was hunting his soul
“Depends on my mood,”
He mumbled.
“Figuresssss” she answered.
Then smelled the air
Between them
With the quick flick
Of a slightly forked tongue
He slowly
Found her eyes
And felt himself
Turn to stone
Excuses
But the water’s too cold
And the sun’s really hot
And I’m feeling quite old
And the smell turns me off and makes my eyelashes itch
But what if you had to?
But the line is so long
And my time is so short
And the price is quite high
And I’ve got lots to do before the junkmail arrives
But what if you had to?
But the moon’s almost full
And I might oversleep
And I eat lunch at 12:30 sharp
And would hate to stop working on my Soduku before it’s solved
But what if you had to?
But my arms are quite weak
And I don’t like to sweat
And I’m allergic to pain
And I’d rather lie on my couch and get fat eating pork rinds
But what if you had to?
But I just washed the car
And my wrist hurts a bit
And the air has a chill
And there’s some kind of meat stuck between these two teeth
But what if you had to?
What if I had to?
What if I had to?
What if you stopped whining
And just did what you need to?
But
And the sun’s really hot
And I’m feeling quite old
And the smell turns me off and makes my eyelashes itch
But what if you had to?
But the line is so long
And my time is so short
And the price is quite high
And I’ve got lots to do before the junkmail arrives
But what if you had to?
But the moon’s almost full
And I might oversleep
And I eat lunch at 12:30 sharp
And would hate to stop working on my Soduku before it’s solved
But what if you had to?
But my arms are quite weak
And I don’t like to sweat
And I’m allergic to pain
And I’d rather lie on my couch and get fat eating pork rinds
But what if you had to?
But I just washed the car
And my wrist hurts a bit
And the air has a chill
And there’s some kind of meat stuck between these two teeth
But what if you had to?
What if I had to?
What if I had to?
What if you stopped whining
And just did what you need to?
But
Travel Agent
Exotic destination
Three rows back
Window seat available
This job is in the bag
Wet footprints
Invertebrate tingling
Broken ribs
Void of meaning
The sign on her back says
“Be Quiet”
That way we can read it when
She turns around
Bushels & baskets
Lifted & filled
Acres of okra
Slaughtered & killed
For what?
Travel Agent
of guilt trips
Booking again
Selfishness
Hurtful & cancerous thing-
It eats at the soul like a rotting gangrene!
It throbs & it itches
Chomps away as it twitches
What a loneliness
[Slow death]
Terminal.
Sickness.
It eats at the soul like a rotting gangrene!
It throbs & it itches
Chomps away as it twitches
What a loneliness
[Slow death]
Terminal.
Sickness.
Holidays
Once upon a time
There was this virgin
Who gave birth to
The Son of God.
So go to sleep now
And some fat guy’s
Gonna bring you tons
Of plastic crap
You don’t need
Wrapped in shiny paper.
Then, a few years later
Jesus popped up
From the dead
and said,
“I’m alive!
Go find some eggs!”
And they all lived
Happily forever after.
There was this virgin
Who gave birth to
The Son of God.
So go to sleep now
And some fat guy’s
Gonna bring you tons
Of plastic crap
You don’t need
Wrapped in shiny paper.
Then, a few years later
Jesus popped up
From the dead
and said,
“I’m alive!
Go find some eggs!”
And they all lived
Happily forever after.
True Star
All of them sparkling up there
Twinkling.
Shining.
Quietly beckoning, “Look at me. Look at me.”
But which one is that true star?
They all sing so brightly. There together.
Sweetly.
Gently.
Like tiny diamond sirens, “Come to me. Come to me.”
Which one shall I choose?
Each takes its turn at peeking.
Pulsing.
Poking.
Peering through the velvety veil of darkness.
On which will I lock my gaze?
My heart is set on the one of the many.
True.
North.
I listen for the voice, “I’m the one. I’m the one.”
Yet can I chase the sound amid the glitzy noise?
Somehow the choice is narrowed down a bit.
Closer.
Smaller.
My soul is honing in, “Here I am. Here I am.”
A million stars recede to black.
Then the shining slows to one.
Bright.
Alone.
Speaking in the night, “This is the way. This is the way.”
So I tiptoe towards its light.
Twinkling.
Shining.
Quietly beckoning, “Look at me. Look at me.”
But which one is that true star?
They all sing so brightly. There together.
Sweetly.
Gently.
Like tiny diamond sirens, “Come to me. Come to me.”
Which one shall I choose?
Each takes its turn at peeking.
Pulsing.
Poking.
Peering through the velvety veil of darkness.
On which will I lock my gaze?
My heart is set on the one of the many.
True.
North.
I listen for the voice, “I’m the one. I’m the one.”
Yet can I chase the sound amid the glitzy noise?
Somehow the choice is narrowed down a bit.
Closer.
Smaller.
My soul is honing in, “Here I am. Here I am.”
A million stars recede to black.
Then the shining slows to one.
Bright.
Alone.
Speaking in the night, “This is the way. This is the way.”
So I tiptoe towards its light.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Timeless Question 17
Q: Would it be any harder to walk up invisible stairs in the darkness than in the light?
Free From Form
She wandered through the ugly duckling
Dancing there with gloves unseen
Until the sound of foreign nothing
Landed near with thoughts unclean
And so fair lady with her toes
Dangled in the autumn breeze
Unsure of what to do with time
Aware of all the brittle leaves
Dancing there with gloves unseen
Until the sound of foreign nothing
Landed near with thoughts unclean
And so fair lady with her toes
Dangled in the autumn breeze
Unsure of what to do with time
Aware of all the brittle leaves
FAUXALIA Series
I have been creating a new series of worked entitled FAUXALIA. Here are is a link to an online album for the series:
http://picasaweb.google.com/JohnLucZArtiste/FAUXALIASeries#
Artist Statement
The FAUXALIA series is an exploratory commentary on what makes something 'genuine' & 'real' versus 'inauthentic' or 'fake'. FAUXALIA also tests the boundaries between plant & animal, sentient & non-sentient life. Where does one begin and the other end?
This series was created mainly through direct modeling techniques with paper, aluminum, joint compound, latex paint, wood, yarn, fabric & copper wire. These ‘organic’ forms are then mounted onto faux fur wrapped boxes. The pieces are modular & can grouped to create unique 'pieces' from the unrelated modules. At what point do disparate individuals connect to others and become part of a community or a colony?
As in all my art, the FAUXALIA series is an attempt to obliterate the myth that some things are merely ‘secular’ while others are somehow inherently ‘sacred’. Symbols, materials, spaces, colors, forms, ideas - are only as sacred as the value placed upon them & drawn from them. My pieces are allegories for whittling away at this mythical dichotomy in a quest for that place where humanity & divinity collide. Does value placed on an item really exist apart from the one giving it value?
By connecting the space around, in & through the works with the space the viewer occupies I hope to encourage the viewer to find a sacred value in the interaction. My pieces echo the results of a struggle to entice a creation off the flatness of a two dimensional plane & into the viewers’ space. This projecting is accomplished through the use of visual inlets, highly textured media, tactile elements & negative space. At what point does a 2-dimensional piece become a 3-dimensional piece?
My pieces, like life itself, serve as convergence points. They are birthplaces where thought & idea become solid and alive. They are points of decision where opportunities for exploring the sacred can be either investigated & discovered or written off & ignored. Can new ‘life’ be created by the interaction of a living being with non-sentient materials?As the FAUXALIA series continues to unfold, I plan to recreate [and create new versions of] oceanic forms which particularly seem to blur the plant/animal division.
As my art continues to develop, I hope to break the static nature of surface-anchored art & entice it to enter the viewers’ experience with even more presence. I will also continue to experiment with - and push the limits of - varying, nontraditional media as I express my deep-seated inner faith & spiritual understanding.
http://picasaweb.google.com/JohnLucZArtiste/FAUXALIASeries#
Artist Statement
The FAUXALIA series is an exploratory commentary on what makes something 'genuine' & 'real' versus 'inauthentic' or 'fake'. FAUXALIA also tests the boundaries between plant & animal, sentient & non-sentient life. Where does one begin and the other end?
This series was created mainly through direct modeling techniques with paper, aluminum, joint compound, latex paint, wood, yarn, fabric & copper wire. These ‘organic’ forms are then mounted onto faux fur wrapped boxes. The pieces are modular & can grouped to create unique 'pieces' from the unrelated modules. At what point do disparate individuals connect to others and become part of a community or a colony?
As in all my art, the FAUXALIA series is an attempt to obliterate the myth that some things are merely ‘secular’ while others are somehow inherently ‘sacred’. Symbols, materials, spaces, colors, forms, ideas - are only as sacred as the value placed upon them & drawn from them. My pieces are allegories for whittling away at this mythical dichotomy in a quest for that place where humanity & divinity collide. Does value placed on an item really exist apart from the one giving it value?
By connecting the space around, in & through the works with the space the viewer occupies I hope to encourage the viewer to find a sacred value in the interaction. My pieces echo the results of a struggle to entice a creation off the flatness of a two dimensional plane & into the viewers’ space. This projecting is accomplished through the use of visual inlets, highly textured media, tactile elements & negative space. At what point does a 2-dimensional piece become a 3-dimensional piece?
My pieces, like life itself, serve as convergence points. They are birthplaces where thought & idea become solid and alive. They are points of decision where opportunities for exploring the sacred can be either investigated & discovered or written off & ignored. Can new ‘life’ be created by the interaction of a living being with non-sentient materials?As the FAUXALIA series continues to unfold, I plan to recreate [and create new versions of] oceanic forms which particularly seem to blur the plant/animal division.
As my art continues to develop, I hope to break the static nature of surface-anchored art & entice it to enter the viewers’ experience with even more presence. I will also continue to experiment with - and push the limits of - varying, nontraditional media as I express my deep-seated inner faith & spiritual understanding.
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Tracks
Glimmers at first. Now - a remnant.
Faithful but inward. Hospitable. Build there?
Old stones on this side of the tracks.
The roots of a heart on the other.
Homemade quilts in the backyard of a stranger.
Cookies. Koolaid. Safety. Concern.
Exhaust through the cornfields leads from emptiness
To mint chocolate chip
And craft paint.
The dwindling.
A restart? A regenesis? A death? A rebirth?
The bridge crosses the tracks & beckons me home.
Will I walk it? Will I go? Can I make it that far?
Faithful but inward. Hospitable. Build there?
Old stones on this side of the tracks.
The roots of a heart on the other.
Homemade quilts in the backyard of a stranger.
Cookies. Koolaid. Safety. Concern.
Exhaust through the cornfields leads from emptiness
To mint chocolate chip
And craft paint.
The dwindling.
A restart? A regenesis? A death? A rebirth?
The bridge crosses the tracks & beckons me home.
Will I walk it? Will I go? Can I make it that far?
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Character Puzzle
Piercing through the thick unknowing
Shrouded droplets cling with roots
To darkly tinted glass
Surely unsure of the weight of the keystone
Heavy or light? Needed at all?
Unable to commit to the one or the other
Unwilling to choose from the this or the that
Unstable fence-rider!
Splinters & splits
The privilege - not robbery
Equality. Identity.
The crux, a crutch, revolving portals
Breaking through the utmost finish
Entrance there through force-field doors
Many rivers flow and merge
Only to plunge from the downpour cliff
In a fiery crash of mist & whitewater
Whittling away at the rock of offense
Shrouded droplets cling with roots
To darkly tinted glass
Surely unsure of the weight of the keystone
Heavy or light? Needed at all?
Unable to commit to the one or the other
Unwilling to choose from the this or the that
Unstable fence-rider!
Splinters & splits
The privilege - not robbery
Equality. Identity.
The crux, a crutch, revolving portals
Breaking through the utmost finish
Entrance there through force-field doors
Many rivers flow and merge
Only to plunge from the downpour cliff
In a fiery crash of mist & whitewater
Whittling away at the rock of offense
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The Tallest of 4
Her toothbrush is the tallest of four
Worn out, frazzled & leaning to one side
Quietly
Inside the cheap plastic cup
Worn out, frazzled & leaning to one side
Quietly
Inside the cheap plastic cup
And her life is so hard
With the bills, mismatched pajamas, tantrums
Scary nights
It's a struggle, it's a fight
But at least she struggles & fights
Her bed is the warmest in the house
Not quite as wide as it needs to be
For 40 toes, 8 knobby knees, 4 resting heads
A couple of snores
Not quite as wide as it needs to be
For 40 toes, 8 knobby knees, 4 resting heads
A couple of snores
That stupid van never runs like it should
A knock, a jolt, a belt
A whatsamathingy
But the road never stretches too far too fast
(How far could she get
If she slammed the pedal down hard
Bald tires screeching
And never looked back?)
But, her toothbrush is the tallest of 4
And her bed is the warmest in the house
And even though it's a struggle, it's a fight
Worth fighting
The quiet breath of sleeping angels
Is her favorite sound in all the world
So they brush their teeth, crowd in together
And dream pretty dreams
Is her favorite sound in all the world
So they brush their teeth, crowd in together
And dream pretty dreams
Original Write Date = 20071230
For a friend...
For a friend...
Ekklesia [a prophecy]
The jet black vultures hover & circle, darkening the sky
Descending on the perfect brick building - clean and polished - steeple aimed high
The spire jutting upward - piercing - the clouds with its whitewashed paint
Yet unseen beneath the fatal wounds, an underground spring flows to new places
Original Write Date = 20071223
Descending on the perfect brick building - clean and polished - steeple aimed high
The spire jutting upward - piercing - the clouds with its whitewashed paint
Yet unseen beneath the fatal wounds, an underground spring flows to new places
Original Write Date = 20071223
Holy Discontent
Monotone ringing out
Heavy sighs of unsure groaning
Escaping from a numb-like breathing
Only wanting evermore
Good stuff? Yes
But what of better?
Greater still
What of the best?
Burning discontent with simple mediocre
Aching drive inside to thrust for the upper rung
Golden ring in shiny splendor
Shining forth with Spirit life!
Ever reaching, grasping, stretching
Out a hand that longs for light
Perfectly content with going one
Step further, one inch more
Original Write Date = 20071104
Heavy sighs of unsure groaning
Escaping from a numb-like breathing
Only wanting evermore
Good stuff? Yes
But what of better?
Greater still
What of the best?
Burning discontent with simple mediocre
Aching drive inside to thrust for the upper rung
Golden ring in shiny splendor
Shining forth with Spirit life!
Ever reaching, grasping, stretching
Out a hand that longs for light
Perfectly content with going one
Step further, one inch more
Original Write Date = 20071104
A Sure-Coming Summer
As I awoke this morning, I found myself thinking about seasons & how they gently meld into one another. God could have kept us in a constant state of summer & we would never have known that other possibilities were even out there. But, He has chosen to give us seasons. And we are only aware that there could even be such things - because He reveals that truth.
I can imagine the seasons working in reverse: spring flowers closing, shrinking & the new sprigs sucking back into the ground. Water seeping up through the soil, forming a layer of white that separates and then floats upward in tiny flakes. The crisp, fallen leaves taking flight back into the warming air, reattaching themselves to their limbs and changing into a uniform green.
But, when God wants to make things new He doesn't take dead leaves & reattach them - He lets them decay. Trees go bare for a time. But, sure enough, He creates fresh, new, vibrant leaves to replace the dry, lifeless ones.
I can't quite draw all these thoughts together but there is a connection here somewhere with putting new wine in old wineskins. My faith is intertwined somewhere in here too. I am not willing to live a life that is a constant attempt at reattaching old, dead leaves to a tree that wants to fall asleep...
Even if it means the ice of winter - the cold of a temporary death - I want that newness of spring. I will shiver for a time - if that's what it takes - to see the bud shoot forth. I just want to find that new wineskin & discover what it should hold. For I know that in so doing, I will reach that promise of a sure-coming summer.
Original Write Date = 20071009
I can imagine the seasons working in reverse: spring flowers closing, shrinking & the new sprigs sucking back into the ground. Water seeping up through the soil, forming a layer of white that separates and then floats upward in tiny flakes. The crisp, fallen leaves taking flight back into the warming air, reattaching themselves to their limbs and changing into a uniform green.
But, when God wants to make things new He doesn't take dead leaves & reattach them - He lets them decay. Trees go bare for a time. But, sure enough, He creates fresh, new, vibrant leaves to replace the dry, lifeless ones.
I can't quite draw all these thoughts together but there is a connection here somewhere with putting new wine in old wineskins. My faith is intertwined somewhere in here too. I am not willing to live a life that is a constant attempt at reattaching old, dead leaves to a tree that wants to fall asleep...
Even if it means the ice of winter - the cold of a temporary death - I want that newness of spring. I will shiver for a time - if that's what it takes - to see the bud shoot forth. I just want to find that new wineskin & discover what it should hold. For I know that in so doing, I will reach that promise of a sure-coming summer.
Original Write Date = 20071009
Healing Flash
The darkened depths that dip within
to both the hard & softened parts
So deep beneath the thickened skin
where sovereign light has never gone.
Oh so deep. Ever deep.
They stretch out wide with rubber arms
to wrap around & help them hide
Those secret & clandestine charms
who duck & dart to not be found
In the caves. Darkest caves.
Hidden chambers, trapdoor hatches
Open. Close. Fold in. Swing wide.
While locking all the hooks & latches
to block out help that waits nearby
With a smile. Peaceful smile.
But light! It bends. It splits. It curves.
to maze its way around the stops
To shine, to glow, to grow, to surge
and cause the crouching rogues to squint
Oh so bright. Painful bright!
Thrust upon them - burning stars
blaze the darkness, flood the night
Mushroom clouds & halo bombs
refract, reflect, revamp their lives
In a flash. Healing flash.
Original Write Date = 20070925
to both the hard & softened parts
So deep beneath the thickened skin
where sovereign light has never gone.
Oh so deep. Ever deep.
They stretch out wide with rubber arms
to wrap around & help them hide
Those secret & clandestine charms
who duck & dart to not be found
In the caves. Darkest caves.
Hidden chambers, trapdoor hatches
Open. Close. Fold in. Swing wide.
While locking all the hooks & latches
to block out help that waits nearby
With a smile. Peaceful smile.
But light! It bends. It splits. It curves.
to maze its way around the stops
To shine, to glow, to grow, to surge
and cause the crouching rogues to squint
Oh so bright. Painful bright!
Thrust upon them - burning stars
blaze the darkness, flood the night
Mushroom clouds & halo bombs
refract, reflect, revamp their lives
In a flash. Healing flash.
Original Write Date = 20070925
Friday, April 18, 2008
E a R t H q U a K e
So... my family woke up this morning around 4:40 am to a quivering floor. Is it a storm? A train? Did an oil pipeline blow up? Is Jesus coming back....
Southern IL was hit by a 5.2 magnitude earthquake this morning. We're about 1.5 hours from the epicenter. They felt the quake all the way up in Chicago - 5+ hours away from the origin... So, yeah, we felt it alright!
It was kinda eeire, kinda surreal. Just a rhythymic rocking, shaking. And it was so quiet... When I looked outside to see if it was a train - I saw a dark orange moon above the trees. A load of scriptures came rushing at me all at once..."earthquakes in many places.." "the moon will be turned into blood" "...like a thief in the night..."
Had I missed out on one of the most important events of a believer's life?
The kids woke up a little spooked. We had them climb in bed with us. As parents, we certainly couldn't stop the earth from shaking beneath them, but we felt better having them close to us. We prayed, talked for a little bit, then they voluntarily went back to their own rooms. We were a little sad to see them go...
There's still this haunting feeling about the whole thing. The experience is still hovering at the forefront of my thoughts. Everyone is buzzing about it - sharing their own experience. It made me question my beliefs - check myself to make sure I'm right with God. What if Christ had really returned at that moment? What if it was more than just an earthquake? What if it had been an 8.0 on the Second Coming scale?
And, I believe I'm alright. Even though some questions are still lingering... So, I'm climbing in bed with my Daddy so He can keep me safe until the trembling stops...
Southern IL was hit by a 5.2 magnitude earthquake this morning. We're about 1.5 hours from the epicenter. They felt the quake all the way up in Chicago - 5+ hours away from the origin... So, yeah, we felt it alright!
It was kinda eeire, kinda surreal. Just a rhythymic rocking, shaking. And it was so quiet... When I looked outside to see if it was a train - I saw a dark orange moon above the trees. A load of scriptures came rushing at me all at once..."earthquakes in many places.." "the moon will be turned into blood" "...like a thief in the night..."
Had I missed out on one of the most important events of a believer's life?
The kids woke up a little spooked. We had them climb in bed with us. As parents, we certainly couldn't stop the earth from shaking beneath them, but we felt better having them close to us. We prayed, talked for a little bit, then they voluntarily went back to their own rooms. We were a little sad to see them go...
There's still this haunting feeling about the whole thing. The experience is still hovering at the forefront of my thoughts. Everyone is buzzing about it - sharing their own experience. It made me question my beliefs - check myself to make sure I'm right with God. What if Christ had really returned at that moment? What if it was more than just an earthquake? What if it had been an 8.0 on the Second Coming scale?
And, I believe I'm alright. Even though some questions are still lingering... So, I'm climbing in bed with my Daddy so He can keep me safe until the trembling stops...
Monday, February 11, 2008
As God Wants It
I found this quote from some guy named Wolfgang Simson.
Don't know who he is & don't know what he's all about.
But... I have, indeed, been hearing God say the same thing for quite a while now.
"God is changing the church, and that, in turn, will change the world.
Millions of Christians around the world are aware of an imminent reformation of global proportions. They are saying in effect,
'Church as we know it is preventing church as God wants it.'
Amazingly, many are hearing God say the same thing to them."
Makes me want to cry, work, run, pray, bail, jump, do, be!
Don't know who he is & don't know what he's all about.
But... I have, indeed, been hearing God say the same thing for quite a while now.
"God is changing the church, and that, in turn, will change the world.
Millions of Christians around the world are aware of an imminent reformation of global proportions. They are saying in effect,
'Church as we know it is preventing church as God wants it.'
Amazingly, many are hearing God say the same thing to them."
Makes me want to cry, work, run, pray, bail, jump, do, be!
Raise That Torch!
The glowing blue lights bobbed & swayed in the air - their rhythmic weaving reminiscent of fireflies dancing or a school of luminescent fish swimming in unison. But the periwinkle light was not coming from insects or underwater creatures. The soft blue glow was that of thousands of cell phones brightening the air.
‘Back in the day’ I attended concerts where the crowd lit & held their archetypal lighters in the air. Man did your thumb get hot pretty quickly! That was many years and a lot of technological advances ago. Since cell phones have become more prevalent than smokers, they have replaced the lighter as the unofficial concert torch.
As we worshipped & celebrated at an evangelism conference this past weekend, thousands of students (& chaperones) held up these digital torches. It might take some convincing if you’ve never seen it, but this display was actually quite beautiful. The crowd of over 9,000 was somehow unified by the constellation of lights scattered across the stadium. As the musicians used their gifts to enhance our worship, there was a connection of the worshippers with one another. We experienced that tangible thrill that comes when many individuals bond together for a common purpose, a common goal, a common task, a common mission. In that moment, our focus was on celebrating the love, joy & hope found in our saving God.
It’s easy to keep the torch in our pocket – refuse to hold it up. We can use our cell phones for their intended, functional purpose and never be part of something different & alive & beautiful. Who first decided to hold up his glowing cell phone in the context of a concert? Did others laugh, point, pull out their own digital lights? Innovation can be beautiful – especially if it leads to advancement or a deeper sense of organizational unity. In fact, without breaking into new frontiers & creating new uses for old things, progress cannot be made. The best way to propel the gospel forward is to pray for invigorating new methods, concepts & contexts in which to share it. And then, we must implement the guidance the Lord provides.
When is the last time you found a new use for an existing object – or giftedness – or strength – or idea that you possess? When is the last time you raised your torch in unison with others for a God-sized purpose? What exciting ministry, outreach, worship, discipleship, fellowship concept has been lying dormant within you – just waiting to be flipped open and held high for all to see? Would you discover it? Share it? Incite thrill in those around you with it? It’s time to raise that torch.
‘Back in the day’ I attended concerts where the crowd lit & held their archetypal lighters in the air. Man did your thumb get hot pretty quickly! That was many years and a lot of technological advances ago. Since cell phones have become more prevalent than smokers, they have replaced the lighter as the unofficial concert torch.
As we worshipped & celebrated at an evangelism conference this past weekend, thousands of students (& chaperones) held up these digital torches. It might take some convincing if you’ve never seen it, but this display was actually quite beautiful. The crowd of over 9,000 was somehow unified by the constellation of lights scattered across the stadium. As the musicians used their gifts to enhance our worship, there was a connection of the worshippers with one another. We experienced that tangible thrill that comes when many individuals bond together for a common purpose, a common goal, a common task, a common mission. In that moment, our focus was on celebrating the love, joy & hope found in our saving God.
It’s easy to keep the torch in our pocket – refuse to hold it up. We can use our cell phones for their intended, functional purpose and never be part of something different & alive & beautiful. Who first decided to hold up his glowing cell phone in the context of a concert? Did others laugh, point, pull out their own digital lights? Innovation can be beautiful – especially if it leads to advancement or a deeper sense of organizational unity. In fact, without breaking into new frontiers & creating new uses for old things, progress cannot be made. The best way to propel the gospel forward is to pray for invigorating new methods, concepts & contexts in which to share it. And then, we must implement the guidance the Lord provides.
When is the last time you found a new use for an existing object – or giftedness – or strength – or idea that you possess? When is the last time you raised your torch in unison with others for a God-sized purpose? What exciting ministry, outreach, worship, discipleship, fellowship concept has been lying dormant within you – just waiting to be flipped open and held high for all to see? Would you discover it? Share it? Incite thrill in those around you with it? It’s time to raise that torch.
What Tribe Are You From?
“Can you help us? Our success rate is only 65%. How do we get more people to receive Jesus when we share the gospel?” This was the question that a native Kenyan posed to a short-term American missionary. This local evangelist was deeply disturbed because only 2 out 3 of the people he witnessed to accepted Christ. How would we, in America, feel about such a ‘low’ percentage?
Some of us may be blessed with a 100% success rate. You see, if we never share the gospel, then there is never the opportunity for failure. So, in essence, not sharing is probably the only way to keep a perfect record! But, I have a really tough time believing that God is pleased with that type of ‘success’. I’m sure He’d much rather us have a 100% obedience rate in sharing the story of the love of Jesus with everyone we come in contact with.
I asked this short-term missionary, Eric, to share how exactly the natives of Kenya shared the gospel with their fellow countrymen. “I don’t really know. Even though they spoke English most of the time, they used each individual’s tribal language when sharing the gospel.” How beautiful.
I see in this answer a great truth that we in the West need to learn. Regardless of how you slice it – America is no longer a ‘Christian nation.’ Sure, there are still plenty of Christians in it. There are thousands upon thousands of church buildings. But what about our heart? Our worldview? Our priorities? Our values? Our overall attitude to the exclusive claims of Christ? Whether we like it or not, many researchers tell us that we are actually in a ‘Post-Christendom’ America where churches no longer hold their once-prominent, central place in society.
If this is true, then believers have to reevaluate how we minister to the culture around us. One thing we can learn from the Kenyans is that we must speak to each soul in his or her own tribal language. Do we present the gospel to a 21 year-old the same way we present it to a 55 year-old not-yet-believer? Is there a different dialect that we must employ to engage each tribe? Is it OK to share the eternal truths of God’s Word in different ways based on a person’s background, age, lifestyle, needs, media exposure, communication methods, interests, etc?
It better be.
If we are not willing to engage people with a language they understand, we might as well shoot for the 100% success rate that comes from not even trying. But, once again, I have a tough time believing that’s what God expects from us.
Some of us may be blessed with a 100% success rate. You see, if we never share the gospel, then there is never the opportunity for failure. So, in essence, not sharing is probably the only way to keep a perfect record! But, I have a really tough time believing that God is pleased with that type of ‘success’. I’m sure He’d much rather us have a 100% obedience rate in sharing the story of the love of Jesus with everyone we come in contact with.
I asked this short-term missionary, Eric, to share how exactly the natives of Kenya shared the gospel with their fellow countrymen. “I don’t really know. Even though they spoke English most of the time, they used each individual’s tribal language when sharing the gospel.” How beautiful.
I see in this answer a great truth that we in the West need to learn. Regardless of how you slice it – America is no longer a ‘Christian nation.’ Sure, there are still plenty of Christians in it. There are thousands upon thousands of church buildings. But what about our heart? Our worldview? Our priorities? Our values? Our overall attitude to the exclusive claims of Christ? Whether we like it or not, many researchers tell us that we are actually in a ‘Post-Christendom’ America where churches no longer hold their once-prominent, central place in society.
If this is true, then believers have to reevaluate how we minister to the culture around us. One thing we can learn from the Kenyans is that we must speak to each soul in his or her own tribal language. Do we present the gospel to a 21 year-old the same way we present it to a 55 year-old not-yet-believer? Is there a different dialect that we must employ to engage each tribe? Is it OK to share the eternal truths of God’s Word in different ways based on a person’s background, age, lifestyle, needs, media exposure, communication methods, interests, etc?
It better be.
If we are not willing to engage people with a language they understand, we might as well shoot for the 100% success rate that comes from not even trying. But, once again, I have a tough time believing that’s what God expects from us.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Is It Just Me?
I read over our ‘Church Covenant’ again today. It hangs in the hallway right where the old & new sections of our building come together. It hangs there – where the new – and the old – come together. The glass covering the Covenant is cracked. Someone has made an attempt to doctor it and smoothen the sharp edges with a few strips of scotch tape. There are a lot of challenging concepts to chew on in those inch-high letters.
“…we…most solemnly & joyfully enter into covenant with one another as one body in Christ.”
Is it just me? Or does it seem like we’ve got the solemn part down but neglect the joyful part at times? When I step into the life of Jesus, I see a big, welcoming smile on his face. I smell life. I taste joy. I feel love. I hear laughter seamlessly woven into his words of infinite truth. Joyfully.
“…to avoid all tattling, backbiting and excessive anger…”
Is it just me? Or does it seem like we, far too easily, stumble into dry seasons where we forget this commitment? All it takes is one sharp tongue, one quick word, one tired moment, one untethered opinion and an inferno is unleashed in the forest. (See James 3:5) Living water can put it out.
“…to be zealous in our efforts to advance the kingdom of our Saviour…”
Zealous. Is it just me? Or does that word have power behind it? Zealous. Say it out loud. It sounds strong, immediate, sure, unstoppable. Zealous.
“…to be slow to take offense, but always ready for reconciliation & mindful of the rules of our Savior to secure it without delay…”
Is it just me? Or is there great wisdom in rinsing the dishes as soon as you get done eating? Otherwise, the food gets dried & caked on and it takes a whole lot more scraping & scrubbing to get them clean again.
“We further engage to watch over one another in brotherly love…”
Is it just me? Or does it seem like the spirit of this line is to take care of one another? It seems that our ‘watching’ should take place more in the role of a caregiver or a close, loving friend than in the role of a babysitter or a guarddog. And it ought to be done in brotherly love. Love.
There are some good biblical precepts behind that broken glass in the hallway. Those words give a strong sense of the reason that we exist as a body. I can see the wisdom in most of what is recorded there in the hallway - where the old – the new - come together. I hear echoes of Jesus’ all-knowing voice. Does anyone else hear it? Or is it just me?
“…we…most solemnly & joyfully enter into covenant with one another as one body in Christ.”
Is it just me? Or does it seem like we’ve got the solemn part down but neglect the joyful part at times? When I step into the life of Jesus, I see a big, welcoming smile on his face. I smell life. I taste joy. I feel love. I hear laughter seamlessly woven into his words of infinite truth. Joyfully.
“…to avoid all tattling, backbiting and excessive anger…”
Is it just me? Or does it seem like we, far too easily, stumble into dry seasons where we forget this commitment? All it takes is one sharp tongue, one quick word, one tired moment, one untethered opinion and an inferno is unleashed in the forest. (See James 3:5) Living water can put it out.
“…to be zealous in our efforts to advance the kingdom of our Saviour…”
Zealous. Is it just me? Or does that word have power behind it? Zealous. Say it out loud. It sounds strong, immediate, sure, unstoppable. Zealous.
“…to be slow to take offense, but always ready for reconciliation & mindful of the rules of our Savior to secure it without delay…”
Is it just me? Or is there great wisdom in rinsing the dishes as soon as you get done eating? Otherwise, the food gets dried & caked on and it takes a whole lot more scraping & scrubbing to get them clean again.
“We further engage to watch over one another in brotherly love…”
Is it just me? Or does it seem like the spirit of this line is to take care of one another? It seems that our ‘watching’ should take place more in the role of a caregiver or a close, loving friend than in the role of a babysitter or a guarddog. And it ought to be done in brotherly love. Love.
There are some good biblical precepts behind that broken glass in the hallway. Those words give a strong sense of the reason that we exist as a body. I can see the wisdom in most of what is recorded there in the hallway - where the old – the new - come together. I hear echoes of Jesus’ all-knowing voice. Does anyone else hear it? Or is it just me?
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