Inside

It is a wonder our ribs don't break

as your love pushes outwards--

drawing people in, singing and dancing

toward you. You might see us through

our eyes-- tiny in comparison,

or large when taking the ants perspective,

or shining in front of your throne.

And when you see us crying or begging,

is it from our inside out-- my hands in front of you,

as if I were drying your tears and not mine?

Or outside in, my cheeks flush, your hands

reaching down?

Eternity Now

I'm trying to like the idea of endlessness.

Certainly not as I am now-- waiting for

maturity, longing for growth. Eternity

now would be like freezing a Caterpillar in it's

cocoon-- preserved forever in almost-ness.

Or plucking a lily before it's bloomed and

hanging it upside down to dry and display.

Don't pluck me yet, don't display me, don't

hang me out to dry or freeze me in my prison.

Let the bloom break and color come into fruition--

Only then could I bear the idea of living forever.

It's been a while....

It's been a long time since I posted a new poem (almost a year!). I don't write poems like I used to-- it is more rare when they happen. I miss the poems sometimes, but I've been songwriting more. There are a few poems as of late that I would like to share though. Here is one dealing with frustration in not feeling as close to the Lord as I used to. Maybe some of you can relate to periods of time when you feel distant to God-- if so, I hope you are blessed by this.

I'm slipping away,
fading into the sky blue wall behind me.
I didn't intend to hurt you.
I never meant to reject you.
I always ask: "Can you still hear me?"
So, can you still hear me?
Like David, I have searched for you with all my heart.
And found you at times like a child
finding a creek full of beautiful stones--
leaving saddened, dropping many--only able to carry
a few home in my tiny hands.
Sometimes I've found you like a monster in the dark,
full of fire and fury, breathing death on me.
Sometimes, I haven't found you at all--
sitting bored at my desk in the morning, then
deciding quickly to do something else instead--
the emptiness of the scripture on my heart
that's hard and decided already, a silence that
doesn't carry your voice but fear and isolation.
There was a time I went to the monastery
and bowed my head like a monk in the small
quiet chapel, asking, "Can you still hear me?"
Am I an idiot?
And now I have lost the energy to search,
angry and confused. I didn't mean to tease
you-- I'm still yours. I just wish
I were still an idiot for you.