I play the same song

over

I practice the same wrong

over and over

I read the same story

over and over and over

I forget His glory

over and over and over and over

I wait for the times where I can walk, barefooted,

freely on sand, and cement, and dirt, and garbage, and water.

When can my heart be free from pumping this hot

lead of oppression, of a tearing earthquake ripping

through me, taking me out of the gray area

I often linger in and forcing me to

pick sides.

Change when it is needed

This is not a one way road...

we have a choice in this.

What is your fame? Nothing.

Stop it.

Just because there is a connection,

doesn't mean it is the Connection.

Just because there is chemistry,

doesn't mean you've made gold.

When will you learn to guard yourself...?

Not giving over to everything that whispers

soft and smooth into your ear?

When will you be strong enough, ... or rather

when will you be given the strength

to hold up that strong, heavy shield to 

deflect the red-hot arrows...

those stinging touches...

those piercing eyes.

FULL GOD

FULL GOD,

come to my broken self.

come to my broken relationships.

come to my broken commitments.

come to my broken faith.

FULL GOD,

heal these open wounds

heal these open hearts

heal these open minds

heal these open people

FULL GOD,

You are Good.

You are Faithful.

You are Strong. (and You love me . . .)

You are Wise.

FULL GOD

You are full

      fill us

CLARITY

of mind:

you

cannot make a difference

so don't try

don't even attempt

My shortest poem

The green of Eden

The fire.

Can you feel it?

I can.

I can't resist the flame.

I reach out my hand,

only to burn red and bloody.

The winter.

Can you feel it?

I can.

The frozen pond is so still.

I walk out onto the surface,

only to fall into its depths.

The ink runs blotchy and next dry,

afraid of what could happen with actual balance

(One more to end the night :)

Most insignificant and fragile you are, Leaf!

What are you, but to be replaced in a season.

Your color may shine bright, even burn towards the end.

But a thousand generations have come before you,

and a thousand more will soon come after your passing.

Who is to come and say that you, and the forest you belong,

even compares to the ancients before you or the

splendors of new?

A fire burns deep.

The thought takes over mind. and body

The heart is soon engulfed,

entrenched on all sides.

Coherence and consciousness is distant

an Eastern land that is filled with darkness.

Only the warmth of the flame before you.

The embers become one with a soul

burning hot and cold, red and black.

(This one has no title or date, but I can tell that

 it is from about two years ago because of the

 content. Thankfully, I am being blessed with 

 more days to actually follow this through)

Its time . . . to move to a

new frame of mind.

To confront yourself.

To let truth smack you.

To start new.

To let go of a thousand wants

and focus on one need.

To give up glory,

and develop servanthood.

To forget culture,

and remember God.

To stop writing,

and start doing.

Does it seem that opposites come together

in imperfect harmony?

why is that?

why does much work equate to little diligence,

  or huge social issues to minimal connections?

When we have, we eat and drink in plentiful amounts.

when we lack,

      we swallow down the dried up bud.

      we drink from illusionary reservoirs.

Does the heart's impatience mean anything?

Do the heart's longings mean anything

      if nothing is done?

These rain drops of distant day

   still come to me.

I, under the umbrella,

camera in hand,

taking hundreds of pictures of the same scene,

over and over till there is nothing left 

to capture.

what yellow beauty was that?

can I find it again?

dreams I've lost; thoughts

that I can't reclaim

the barn that collapsed, forcefully

never to house any life again.

only rain . . . and mud . . . and filth

the path was so dark . . .

so dark I thought I was blinded

At that moment I wished that 

midafternoon's delight hadn't came to me,

that summer's rush would have fleeted

but now, there was no sleight of mind,

  no turning from what I came to ...

surely I must go on...

inwards into the depths of the Great Forest

Nothing will touch me there . . .

not one will harm me.. .

?

Mystery;

a dreamer's delight.

something which beckons us closer,

while equally pushing us away.

we call                            by incendental     

we reach   OUT     means .....

we find

... yet we try to find reason 

behind it all