There are many paths to tread.

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The Sprite’s Reprise

She wonders everyday
whether she might be allowed to say
what she’s thinking
as she looks out at the pallid green bay.
Its waves seem to withhold
information that might help the cold
within her troubled mind
no matter what she’s been told.
She holds in her hands her womb,
that rotten, crumbled, sealed-up tomb,
that once held her child
now wrapped in life’s gloom.
Salvation is not in order for her –
her pastor preaches to only the pure
of heart and body
but she could never be cured.
The waves call out above this thought
and around her ankles seem to be caught
so she gives in to them –
her soul by the sea was bought.

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Within a Soul There Writhes a Sprite

I.
Within a soul there writhes a sprite
of anguish, fear, and indignation.
The man sitting rapt in the pew
on Sunday ought not to be there,
or so he thinks.
The preacher blathers on about
that sin or the next,
nodding heads affirming his every word.
How can one show the turmoil in
their soul? He can’t.
Instead one musters courage to sit
in the presence of God the Awful,
risking disease or stroke to keep up
that which his brother thinks him
to be.
What a foolish man is that.

II.
         Previous longings seem like sin
When he looked back on what he knew.
         Was he going to let it begin,
The dream in his eyes, the crawling in his skin?
         He scratched at the mustache
Growing fast ’round his mouth.
         How would he start the tale of the crash
Of his soul towards that pornography stash?
         You could never quite tell
But there was something quite wrong
         With this young Christian Swell –
The rotting soul was beginning to smell.

         It needed to go, that he knew for sure.
But how could he get rid of his comfort?

III.
Will God listen to such a man?
He must, for we are still here.
Righteous wrath and holy hate
Are fully there within the church.
But God stays His own hand.

We are blessed
indeed.

Christmastime?

Is it truly that time of year?

How did it rush up to me so quickly?

I’m not ready.

 

I can’t be ready.

 

My heart isn’t in the right place.

My thoughts are scattered.

 

Shine a few twinkling lights into my

dark bedroom.

You’ll see it’s not ready.

 

Could it be here?

Are the Christmas specials on

at the right time?

 

My holly-festooned heart skips a beat.

Well, hang my mistletoe

and call me Santa.

First Snow

Tonight the conditions were just right. How beautiful. Welcome to the best season of the year.

My face feels the light of the cold air

and I smile.
Turning my head just enough
to keep it out of my eyes,
a single flake finds the corner of my mouth
and I smile.

I breathe deeply, opening my mouth
and the snow finds a warm home within.
I laugh as my nose catches the cold –
bewitched I am with this feeling

and I smile.
No one is around and all is as it should be
with me in the first snow

and you asleep in your bed.
This is my memory to keep,
which I remember
and I smile.
Here is my paradise:

Night, cold.

Fresh, new.
Life at its fullest is full of light
that catches my eyes
and I smile.

Homesick

Family comes first within my thoughts,

swirling dreams of holidays past

and candy on the mantle.

Friends come next within my thoughts,

twisting paths of encouragement

and frisbee on the field.

School comes last as all is fit,

for it is what keeps me from all of these

that I said before.

 

Forgive me if I seem nostalgic,

but even chocolate is allowed to be bittersweet.

Immortality Has a Cost

What is it within us that makes us sigh when we go outside on a cold day
Just so we can see our breath?
What spark of humanity within causes us to look at our hands moving
Just to see the sinews curling and retracting?
What catches our eye in the mirror to remind us
That we still look the same?
Why do we want to know that we are still alive?
Where do we think we’re going?
Perhaps we want to see our spirit form itself outside our body and see our
Mortality.
Perhaps we want to know what it’s like to grasp something untouchable and
Feel it squirm.
Perhaps we want to catch that glimpse of a timber in our eye so we can remove it
And call attention to our brother’s speck.
Perhaps we forgot that we are alive.
We might even know where we’re going.
But deception is our middle name and we enjoy
Torturing ourselves.
Let us sigh when we go outside on a cold day and experience the warmth of
Confidence.
Let us watch our hands moving and imagine them holding a loved one and
Comforting the lost.
Let us look into the mirror and see the beauty of God’s creation
Laid bare before us.
Let us know we are alive.
He’ll tell us where to go.

A Brief Thought

Heat from hands in midair.

Dreams caught between whisper and night.

Trust building in the meantime.

Desire.