Thirsting

If spirits could storm
mine would be tearing
itself a part with lightning.
If hearts could dry up
mine would be
whithered and dirty.

I thirst for Living Water -
You hold it out to me.
I pretend I do not see you
and turn to walk away.

I drink the dust instead
and die a little bit more.
But still you're there,
inviting me in.

The Heart by Stephen Crane

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
who, squatting upon the ground,
held his heart in his hands,
and ate it.

I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter -- bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
because it is bitter,
and because it is my heart."

Breaking Tears

A tear drop
wets
the lashes of
her eye,
until they sweep
her upper cheek,
and slowly
down
it glides.
The tear
pauses
at the corner
of her upper
lip,
tasting the salt -
another teardrop
drops -
falling to
her chin
where it
rests
awhile,
until it
breaks upon
her chest.

To weep
is a release,
a break
in self sustaining
pride.
To cry out -
whether in
anger
or
remorse -
is still
falling
into
you,
becoming,
once more,
your little
child.

Just Me

You are God,
but I am me.
You are God
though I want to be.
You mastermind the workings of the universe.
I stupidly try to interfere.
You count down the months till the doe gives birth,
I hold out to you my self destruction.
You smile and say, "Give it here."
Then, because you can't fix it fast enough,
I grab it back and hold on tight.
Maybe this time God, it's too much.
You smile and say,
"Try as you might, you won't get it right.
I give orders to the morning,
I show the dawn it's place.
By my command the eagle takes off soaring,
and finds a safe place to rest at night.
I've counted every hair on your head,
your name is engraved upon my palms.
But you choose to trust yourself instead."

And after I'm exhausted and my anger has subsided,
after my self loathing and the nagging and the chidding,
I realize that you are God.
And I am just me.

~ June 10, 2008

The Art Of The Blindside

Physical pain

that hits you deep

in the gut

caused not by a blow

to the stomach

but a stab

to the heart.

An innocent scene

that ignites a memory

which in turn invokes

such a strong immediate

emotion

it takes you by surprise -

the art of the blindside.

Some Words

There are some words
that you never imagine
you'll hear, words you
never hope to hear,
words you fear to hear.
And no matter how
dark the outlook is,
no matter how many
ominous signs there are,
hope holds tightly by the
thinnest thread, until you hear
those damning words.

And then time slows.
And you can't believe it.
Something won't let you believe it.
You know you've just
been dealt the biggest
blow of your life -
but you can't feel it.
Something akin to pain
hits every few minutes
and the new reality
washes all over you again -
taking you by surprise each and every time.

I think I cried that night
more for the pain I knew
was coming and less for
what we were feeling then.
I cried for the anguish
of my brother,
for fear and worry over him.
This road that he now travels,
it's a road he goes alone.
It's a road of raw emotions,
a road where he'll wrestle with God.
And there's no way to protect him.

Hating Hope

Sometimes
I hate
hope.
It's fleeting
and flighty,
teasing
and shadowy.
It's absence
angers me.

Don't talk
to me
about hope,
unless once
you've lost it.
Don't sing
to me
about hope,
unless once
it's disappointed
you too.

God's looking
over
at me.
He reaches
for my hand.
Quietly
he's telling
me,
"The Story's
not finished
yet."