Dichotomy or The Judgment

There are two kinds of people:
some are crazy
and some are dead,
and some days
it’s hard to say who
is better off.

There are a few layers of meaning in this particular poem.

On the surface level (Dichotomy), what I’m saying in the first three lines is that everyone is crazy. More or less. And then in the last two lines, the surface reading questions if its really always better to be alive than dead.

On another level (The Judgment), you can read “crazy” as “loving Jesus” and “dead” as “lost”. So in this reading the last two lines point out that at times it seems like those without hope of the Resurrection are enjoying life a lot more than those who are waiting for a future fulfillment of Heaven.

On the deepest level (though that’s not to say that the others are less important), this poem is about the difference between those who live life on the edge and those who live life all structured and precise. And some days, it’s hard to tell who is better off.

[This poem is now finished. At least the first draft. The poem is meant to be read with a very very slight pause at each line, other than that it flows pretty naturally. There is no end punctuation, but don't let that throw you off--just roll with it. Each of the three sets of three stanzas should be read as a unit. This is close to what some people call slam poetry.]

aporia

Heaven is as sure as hell
and Hell is pretty damn apparent

The earth’s a lake of fire
at its core, its inner nature
boiling up
with hate and malice
all diseased and rotting
essence oozing out

From pores and fissures
violent cracks spew
out the stench of death
and dying, fractures
in the love that makes us up

…

It’s not the sky
no, it’s the world that’s falling, fallen
out of sync with how we know
it’s meant to be

Upside down, the sky beneath
us, waiting patiently
until our spiral downward is complete

And we go SPLAT
against the solid air and understand
that all along
the heavens were the grounded ones
and we
the shadows slipping out of reach

…

Evil has no sense apart from good
the dark is empty–light is full
privatio boni
good deprived, but still
the solid substance surely real

But nothingness means something
is, or can be
one day will be (will we be?)
real enough to fill
this void for good

To dwell within, inhabit
all this darkness
supersede, consume, explode
the veil that lies so heavy on our hearts
was ripped in two

Life is a changing constancy;
Ever a new face, new clothes—same substance.

The wind bring rain, which drains into the ground
til the earth is full—stuffed
—ready to explode
at a moment’s notice, bursting into green
grass and flowers and bluebonnets galore.

You’d hardly recognize that hill
if you saw it now in Spring:
there’s a new wrought-iron gate
over the ancient, rusty cattle guard,
and tall, straight pines now keeping watch around the tank.
The yard’s old barbed-wire boundary replaced
by a vintage white-washed fence,
and the dirt patch pitching mound we wore into the grass
now marked by a sturdy, promising oak.

I have to wonder: what’d this look like a century or four ago?
Would I have known as I stood on this soil
in knee high grass untouched by any man—
this hill, this dirt, this risen lump of ground—
that I was home?

The tides of time and the literal rivers
must have shaped and formed this plot of land
over who knows how many thousands of years.
But it was still this hill,
it was still this place and still this earth.
And this was ever my heart,
this was ever my soul and ever my song
—though I have yet to truly find the melody.

Everything has changed…in a sense
nothing stays the same…in the end
heaven is eternal…in our souls
when all is put to right we’ll finally know:
we are home, and have been all along.

[Note to the reader: in defiance of the established practice of reading (modern) poetry by stopping at the punctuation and ignoring the line breaks for the most part, this poem is written with stops at every line, regardless of the punctuation. This nuance affects the meaning and flow and feel of the poem, so yes, it does matter how you read it. Thanks for your cooperation, and I hope you enjoy it.]

Oh, God,
So many thoughts swirling around in my head
I can’t get any rest.
Every time I close my eyes,
Every time I try to think, or pause
I get flung off the merry-go-round to a new set of tracks,
Short little trains of disconnected thoughts.

It’s like a rapid-fire see-saw:
Up and Down; There and Back; Again
and Again. Where do I get off
This treadmill I’ve been running on for hours?
A six-minute pace, but no distance at all
To show for my “work” to make it seem worth-
While. An endless, vicious cycle–
like night and day (more like predator and prey)
–perpetuates itself with brutal, deafening efficiency.
It’s so fast, so loud, I can’t hear myself think–
Oh, God!
Where is the calm in the storm, the gentle whisper
Of promises kept and every need met?
I need some peace right now. Frantically
Waiting for, willing the tumult to desist,
But the waves don’t heed; my command
Lost in the dissonant roar.

I’ve heard that one time You
Were asleep in the midst of the raging tempest;
Annoyed–woken by silly, distracted disciples
Like me–You just spoke, but the storm obediently subsided,
Sheepishly rebuked, tail between it’s legs, eyes to the ground
–Oh, God!
Would you speak right now?
If you don’t I’ll drown
Or at least collapse in a heap from the panic;
The waves they just don’t listen to me
But I know they’ll heed their King.

So God, my God, would you speak again
that powerful word:
Peace.

For even in my failures
When I turn to gratify my flesh
I simply still am only yours
And my thirsty soul you quench.

Though I all too often look back into death
For life, ironically, to find within
Your common grace is here to bring me comfort
Your sacrifice to bleach the stains of sin.

For just as there are warm reminders
of summer in the dead of winter
You show deep mercy, grace, and love
In the darker hours to this sinner.

Amen.

Here I am, a snowflake white
Falling, blowing ever so light
Racing, flutt’ring toward the ground
Myself willing, forcing down.

To my left and to my right
Snow-speckled air–what a sight!
What joy in my flutter found
Yet unknown, to my doom I’m bound.

I do not know whereto I fly
But only in my nature delight
Is that the end, a pale white mound?
I think it is! But what’s that sound?

A cry and screech, mourning in the night
From where’s this noise, my ears to bite?
Cries: “slow down! stop yourself! slow!”
I hear, and I think I now know.

My kin now in suffering quite,
Found the ground not to like
It’s there they die, I guess I will too
Alas, I wish that higher in the sky I knew.

content

got my coffee
got my bag
got my phone
what else to add

ready for work
ready to go
ready to live
all on my own

work on a project
work to get paid
work to fulfill me
nothing else my heart stays

ive got it all
ive got all i need
ive got money and shelter
only myself do i lead

lonely

bored with my work
bored with my home
bored with my paycheck
i think my life is gone.

there’s got to be more…
do we all but drone on?
there’s got to be more!
are we but America’s pawn?

hopeful

But someone might tell me:
To the Cross! To the Cross!
Turn your head and your heart
To Jesus Christ on the Cross!

a reflection of life in the city

Here’s my meditation on the “quiet place” that I found to go and sit and think and pray and write. This poem is called “Last Resistance”.

The sound of cars beyond the trees
Now a glimpse of road through the leaves
It would’ve fooled me: this forest vale
As I sit on the edge of this spongy mound–
Of old, dead grass piled bale on bale
–Where it drops off quick to the leafy ground
Of the forest floor; it’s so self contained!
This tranquil still midst the clatter and clang.
But is it mockery, or deceit
Or is it a pocket of last resistance?
Does the proximity to a busy street
Mean the charm is lost, or sweetened?
Can Man’s machines of smoke and noise
Really destroy the calm of Nature’s repose?

No. I think not.

You have saved me from the pit of despair
Now save me from myself

I am the hindrance
I am the sin that clings closely
I am the weight that pulls me down

I am Little-faith
I am the heart prone to wander
I am the obstacle

You are my Savior
You are the one who works in me
You are the founder and finisher of faith

You are my Redeemer
You are the King who died for me
You are my hero

So fight for me and give me victory
Over myself

A smallish trek from home I find,
above the rocks, past path wound high
A clearing of unusual kind
low trees that almost touch the sky
That seems both close and spread out wide.

Where sun sits proud across the way
As if it will not set this day
But march with mirth around earth’s edge
And glory in never setting again

Where cool air blows from somewhere east
And all the plants seem dressed for feast
at least-
here I enjoy quiet peace.
The warm and dry and green and trees
Envelope me in nature chatter
Living silence, growing matter

Why would I ever go back indoors?