[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?

Bright-rimmed circle, glowing orange
Now rising slowly, burning gold
Ever higher, ever whiter
Sears the eye with purple fire

Flaming sphere of brilliant light
Runs its course in faded sky
Glowing still through cotton clouds
Pouring light on the distant ground

Falling slow, but ever faster
Down she goes to western pasture
Tinting heav’n with reddish hues
Last goodbyes ’til morning dew
–
Source of color, source of sight
Source of omnipresent light
But most of all His daily agent
Source of our sustaining life

This is a poem by C.S. Lewis that I have been enjoying lately. Maybe you will too:

All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you.
I never had a selfless thought since I was born.
I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through:
I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.

Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,
I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin:
I talk of love –a scholar’s parrot may talk Greek–
But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.

Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.
I see the chasm. And everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.

For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains.

What does this poem say to you?

We sit and think, but Nothing sings
We lie and dream, but Nothing sees
We try to feel, but Nothing’s real
We blankly stare, but Nothing’s there

God, save us from Nothing
Else it’s what we’ll become