Strings

A string floats lazily
upon the water, eluding capture,
such are the strings of my life-
far reaching, uncatchable.

Just once I’d like to catch one,
direct its flow, have control –
but one who is greater
twirls the string
with perfect direction
and a greater, more magnificent plan.

Do you have a purpose for me?

All those times you were trying
to let me know you were there
and I holed  up in loneliness and despair.
I couldn’t feel anything more
than the pain of my psyche,
my broken body.

You were there…all the time.
How blind I can be to your presence –
to seeing opportunities –
to reach beyond myself
and try to comfort others.

Help me God to see your hand
and the direction it is pointing.
Give me the strength to follow your lead
without thought for me –
knowing you have a purpose
I need you.

(I wrote this when I was in rehab for back surgery.)

Shame

Shame-a draft of hot bitters-
unquenchable, harsh,
it can only be choked down.
You can drown in it,
wrap it around you,
a cloak to keep out fresh air.

It clings to you,
saturates creeps beneath the skin,
like a tick or parasite, corrosive.
So hard to let go of
for it is self-imposed.
Only you swallow it
hold on to it,
refuse to release it.

You can hold on to it an eternity,
or have the self-possession to release it,
strengthening your resolve
not to carry someone else’s baggage.
You can allow yourself to release it
and live a life of freedom.

Joy’s Revisions

Tears come of their own accord
catching me by surprise.
The Dam is cracking –
leaks ebb and flow
of their own accord
for days . . .

But they are the stirrings
of a new spring –
rejuvenating, cleansing,
purifying the soul.
Washing away crusty memories
of resentment or pain.
Letting life flow in.

They are far too few,
too spaced apart.
And while they may feel like pain,
They are the beginnings of joy.

How Do I Know?

 

Lord I hunger for your touch. . .
ache with the deepest longing
yet still believe.
How does one continue
In endless moments
With face turned upward
Begging for 0ne touch.
To say . . . I believe,
Not just spouting words
But searching
Within and without
For the Truth
And the Word.
I await
Your glorious splendor.
Thoughts whir
through my head
drowning out
the soft sounds
God leaves within
God, he’s easy
No one can dispute
His majesty.
But Jesus
The Word, the Light
Both son and equal
Of the almighty?
Of course he was human
Any fool knows that.
But divine? –
Still waiting for
A Proof I can believe in.
Sometimes I think
I believe . . .
But believe enough?
Enough to ward off
Doubts, despair
Soul wrenching
Emptiness?
In darkest night
I huddle, question,
Wrap belief through
My fingers,
And wait for assurance,
For answers.
For a quiet peace
To steal over me.

Lord hear my soul

Precious Lord of my soul
I look to you in night’s web of darkness
and dawn’s sweet, soft light
in hope, in wonder.
In supplest nuances
and bold staccatos of sound
You exclaim your presence
again, and yet again

There You are
but . . .
how do I cross
the bridge of my unknowing
to meet you unwaveringly?

Silent moments slide by
An ocean’s worth
while I look and wonder
And question –

Who are you?
Why am I here?
And most important –
What use can I possibly be
to your purpose?

I am as lost
As one of your sheep
slow-witted and dumb
breaking from the safety
of your guiding presence.

As angry and suspicious
as Moses’ Israelites
only believing during blessings –
fighting, scratching, bitterly rebellious
until God’s plagues of rage
or bold strokes of divine intervention
shake them from their torpor.

I am no more
Than those ancient peoples
But – I trust
Just as the race itself was saved
So shall I be
As long as I believe.

goat wrangler

Spring into Summer’s spring

Winter seasons’ past, spring is idling its way to renown
a special year this – leaves carried down the quick racing Farmington
Densely matted foliage crushed into compost waiting
Seasonal plantings – this year more fingerling potatoes smooth and tasty,
Basil stalks thrusting skywards, continually dead-headed to
Preserve the fragrant leaves at least through the
Tomato season. Sunflowers thrust themselves high only
To hang their heads in bounty.

Jungle vines scream in their rush to wrap about sturdier stock
along wires, into cracks in hut shingles, demanding infiltration
There is no rest in spring. Life rushes pell mell along its was
forgetting the cares of city dwellers-

It is a time to worship – the stars, fireflies, campfires
of summer’s long embrace. Even the flickering, tension filled
Apprehension of summer storms pounding, is naught but the match for
Of greater instances of Nature’s grand power.
Their coppery smells and fearsome noises
swirling into the potent mixture
already exposed – light jagged, breaking into fork
some hurtled across the sky, striking ground
burning unsuspecting trees while
goofy kids dance the rain dance,
counting the days till school’s end.

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