Who Sees

What patience, His, to watch our stumblings,
having paid for every one,
and then with yearning heart to seek us,
only then to watch us run.

The longing gaze of He Who Sees is
bearing down upon the blind
who scratch and scrabble for some purchase,
solid ground long left behind.

The scale His, the weight, the measure,
His the standard, His the bar
that not one of the prideful fallen
have approached yet by afar.

And yet in whispers, shouts and screaming,
deep within, and far above
He speaks aloud, and proves in power,
evermore, His word is love.

Pathos

A titan, curled in on himself.

A giant, eyes clenched tight.

In the corner of his dripping eye, the stars.

Were he to stand, could he reach them?

Could he have them?

Knees drawn, face to earth, he whimpers.

"A thousand million choices,

all wrong."

And so the lights remain distant as dreams,

the earth no brighter.

(not a very good poem, I don't think, but an illustration nonetheless of somewhere i've been off and on for a while.  feeling much better now, having talked to and prayed with my pastor.  i recommend it.)

Reasonable Certainty

Torrents and tides we can predict, and give fair warning to

the misfortunate body-affixed souls in their paths

- unless a levy break, or the ocean floor heave

dislodging peace with water -

to put height or solid shelter between their

fragility and the crush.



And yet the treacherous fluid motion

the steaming reaction of clashing humours

the drunken roll and pitch

the self-afflicted heaving

the mind-blank, roaring, rigor mortis clutch

of the desire of woman and man

breaks all models

leaving behind shards, and blood.

Magnetic Poetry: Come

and Omega.

His words will be full of ancient wisdom and boundless mercy.
But first,
he must learn to speak.

He shall strain against His cross, carrying up to Golgotha all our burdens.
But first,
he much learn to walk.

He shall live a perfect life, and die a perfect sacrifice.
Bur first,
he must be born.

One day, He shall cry out
"It is finished!"
and it shall be true.

But on this day,
this Christmas Day,
it begins.


Merry Christmas, one and all.

I have also reposted a certain Christmas story I wrote a few years ago on Nightsawake. Please enjoy.

And may God's immeasurable grace be always before you.

I've posted a short prose poem at Nights Awake 2.0.

Christmas Morning

It's been decided.
For a change of pace,
it will be the stars
that will shine down
on God.

While enjoying a beverage with mom at Starbucks this evening, I composed a few haiku. Of course, being a stupid American, I followed only the syllable structure of the form - 5/7/5 - and not the poetic structure. That said, they were all written within a minute apiece. Thus, I give you:

Six Non-sequential Minutes of Something
(an impromptu haiku series)

caffeine drink buzzing
full of light, nervous power
sixteen ounces awake

ballistic stomach
protesting tasty sausage
slow to recover

closing coffee shop
students in aprons, glaring
at those who linger

blessed ginger beer
ancient brewers’ elixir
Jamaican goodness

advice from the geeks
do not buy a PS2
to play DVDs

dub revolution
we hope you like jammin’ too
turntable reggae

Voila. Fun aplenty. Oh, and check out my previous post (updated just now) for a Jhonen Vasquez trivia contest! Whee.

(and now, a bit of melancholy in the form of prose poetry.)

But those who trust in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.
-Isaiah 40:31 (New International Version)

I remember when my love called me Angel. (it seems long ago, but it was not.) As now, I was no radiant being then. My best guess, and hope, is that in my arms was some security. Safety. That I was less a threat than a guardian. Perhaps that is why she called me Angel. Whatever the reason, I loved the name as I loved her.

Since, the word has floated past me, sometimes toward me, perhaps a few times. Angel. Each time, I remember holding my love as though I sought to keep her. She has not called me that in these few years. Angel. If that is what I am now, I have one wing at best. Perhaps I always have. Certainly, I have always borne wounds from the same demons I seek to protect my loves against.

It seems that, even in my most radiant days, I have always been a man with paper wings. So often, I want to be more. What can a man do? Angels fly. Angels strike with divine swords. Angels appear when they are needed, alight with strength. Angels deliver judgement. A man sees an angel and trembles.

What can a man do?

If I were to ask she who was my love, she would tell me, as she has before. There is much a man can do. I have heard the proof whispered thank you, or I love you. I draw in these words as I draw in breath or water. I feel them as I feel the warmth of light. Without them, I begin to panic.

Angels depend on the Lord alone. Men should, but do not. My idols are her smile for me, her head on my shoulder, and her hand in mine. The Lord has made these things good, but He has not made them God. The angels remember this well. Too often, I forget.

I want to learn. To love and not possess. To serve expecting no payment. To desire, and not receive. Humbly. Peacefully. Until I can do these things, I will remain a dim sort of angel. A man in a costume. No less an emissary of God, but less obvious. Less consistent.

I hope that someday my wings will not longer be paper, but cloth.