let’s go

I bring you my heart
all tied up in knots impossible to undo.
I place them into your kind hands
and my heart falls down like dew.
Your hands, like little green leaves
in the sweet morning light,
scoop me up safe from the air,
tangled strings to unwind.

You hold my freed heart,
a waterfall fluttering wild.
I dream of being the frost
on the grass of your smile,
hardening into one happy whole
no hot sun could ever steal.
Let’s stay, fluttering frozen forever here.
Let’s go, flying forward with no fear.

el poder de una palabra

“La angustia abate el corazón del hombre, pero una palabra amable lo alegra.” Proverbios 12:25

La angustia (noun): anxiety, concern, distress, anguish, sickness

Abate (verb): shoots down, brings down, knocks to the ground, demolishes, defeats, depresses, disheartens

El corazón (noun): the heart, the core, the center

De (preposition): of, in, from, with

El hombre (noun): a man, mankind

Pero (conjunction): but

Una palabra (noun): a word, a promise

Amable (adjective): gentle, kind, friendly, nice

Lo alegra (verb): cheers it up, makes it happy, livens it up, brightens it up.

3D printer

Filament unwinds
as some new object comes to life.
Some new plastic fascination,
some new cause for celebration.
If you could make me over-
could draw up a plan to make me better
then watch it come together,
layer by each perfect layer,
what would you design?
Tell me, what would I be like?

the guitar

He sits in an old case
in another room.
He slowly gathers dust.
He sleeps alone.

He finds his heart
is always out of tune,
like six limp strings,
a pain to have to strum.

I try to lift him
from his chosen tomb,
twist the pegs and stretch the strings
to make brighter sounds.

But when the song is done
and I am gone
and he sits once again
in his faraway room

I'll miss the music,
but he will forget the song.
I wonder if I've held onto him
too long.

Maybe he'd be better off
in other hands-
with someone who could make
those tired strings truly dance.

raspberry jam strips

My mother grabs ingredients
from the shelves of her soul, an abundant pantry.
She knows that all will be well
as long as she follows the old, old recipe.

She beats together butter and sugar
in a large bowl on medium speed.
She cracks an egg and blends it in
with delightful drops of vanilla and almond.

Then she whisks together flour and salt
and adds it slowly to make dough,
turns the oven on to heat
and sprinkles flour on the counter like snow.

She divides the dough into pieces.
Then, with her hand or a rolling pin
shapes them into long flat strips
that she dusts with flour again.

She places the strips onto baking sheets,
then takes the back end of a wooden spoon
to carve like a river a line through the middle
that she fills with red raspberry jam.

The cookies go in the oven
until the edges turn light brown.
She lets them cool, then drizzles
a sweet almond glaze o'er the raspberry canyon.

She cuts the strips diagonally
and puts them on a plate
for all the family to enjoy-
our favorite Christmas treat.

My mother's love is Christmas love.
She is fluent in the language of "give."
Her heart blooms in the red center
of each raspberry jam strip.

humble heart

I don't think I actually want to die,
I'm just overwhelmed by living.
I used to turn to cutting
as a craved way of escaping.

Now I drive home in the dark.
I hit myself. It doesn't work.

In the car, a new song starts.
I want a humble heart.
The words hurt, my spirit burns
Oh, how I have so much to learn.

I don't know if I have the will to try,
at least I cry instead of bleeding.
I don't think I actually want to die,
I'm just a teacher in need of teaching.

procrastination

When my head is full of poems,
little graspings at unknowns,
and worries rise like waves
to toss about my ship of faith,
it is so easy to talk
about standing on the rock,
and so easy to write
about fighting the good fight.

It is harder to put down the pen
of my numb procrastination,
that desperately yearns and aches
to put the unknowns in their place,
while the knowns, the things I need to do,
are piling up and overdue.
I think of God and think of you
and write until my hand turns blue.

sickness

“I’m feeling like myself again”

is often said in relief,
a happy reassurance

after some prolonged sickness or grief.

But sickness is my natural state,

I would rather feel like You

than ever feel like myself again.

Lord, change me through and through.

near and far

If I were a floating cloud
looking down upon the world,
I would make whimsical, wonderful shapes
to open your imagination like drapes.

To cause you to look up to the sky
I would make glorious pictures on high.
To cause you to ponder its deep mystery,
I would point like a sign to eternity.

But if you were still drawn to the earth,
walking with your face to the ground and the dirt,
I would make myself a dark rain cloud
flashing bright and rumbling loud.

To teach you the wonder of love divine,
I would reach down from heaven and touch you with rain.
I would let pain thunder in your ear
to bring you low, to bring God near.

child of God

Last night you held me close to you-

I let you see my flaws.

You told me I was beautiful,

a precious child of God.

This morning I looked in the mirror

and your words came to mind-

words able to alter vision,

words with power to define.

"A child of God,"

the most important part of who I am.
I start the day, His child by grace,
ever growing to look more like Him.

speak

Speak to me
in any language that you can.
There is no dictionary
that can translate total silence.

Hold me
in the bandage of your hands.
There is no substitute
for physical presence.

I'm listening
with moth-like ears, this love's mutation,
silently waiting with every power
of translation.

I'm bleeding
from a wound that never heals.
How sweet a blessing, how cruel a curse
to deeply feel.

reflections on love and conjugating verbs

Love is a verb,
conjugated differently depending on its subject,
a treasure box of a word
that holds some cherished object.

When I speak of conjugations
I mean I love differently than he loves,
but we love in the same direction,
holding treasure boxes open.

Love is a noun,
too big to fit in any single poem-
big enough for all the singing,
shining anthologies of heaven.

Too far, too high to submit
to our small earthly powers of description.
Close enough to cover
our deepest darkest direst distance.

deliver us (part 1)

Deliver us, O God who sees
our bondage, hears our cries,
from slavery in Egypt
to the promised paradise.

Pass over us, O Lord, we pray
and paint our doors with blood.
Let not the destroyer strike us down
along with Egypt's sons.

Go before us, split the sea,
make us walk on dry land,
that we may know the mighty power
of Your saving hand.

Give us this day our daily bread,
paint the ground with manna white.
Make us hungry for Your Word-
be our souls' greatest delight.

Be near to us, be Thou our guide
by fire through the night
and cloud by day, that all may see
You are with the Israelites.

And when we grumble and we stray,
forget not Your promises.
Bring us safely to that land-
for You are compassionate and gracious.

You are faithful when we are faithless.
Help us trust you day by day
as we wander through this wilderness,
and for your salvation wait.

pantoum 2

I glided gold across a cloud of gloom

and skated silver on an icy pond

imagining the fish below entombed

like pictures in a dream, making no sound.

I skated silver on an icy pond

of memories, the life I knew before.

Like pictures in a dream, making no sound,

they dodged my reach, vanished into the air.

To memories, the life I knew before,

I do not cling, but rather float above.

They dodged my reach, vanished into the air

‘Til my hands were empty, ready to hold love.

I do not cling, but rather float above,

Imagining the fish below entombed.

‘Til my hands were empty, ready to hold love,

I glided gold across a cloud of gloom.

perseverance

You are the author, the author of me-
so on the subject, you must be the prime authority.

You are my creator, the potter who molds the clay.
So tell me who I am, Lord. Teach me my frame.

The author of my faith, you created faith in me.
To be your servant is the only way I can be free.

Let me run with perseverance whatever race you've marked for me.
Let me fix my eyes upon your Son, my gaze on Calvary.

cinderella

When the clock strikes midnight
in the castle of despair,
she is a Cinderella
running promptly down the stairs.

She speeds back home to safety-
never leaves behind a shoe.
No dark prince can follow where she goes,
far from the halls of gloom.

Far from the ballroom's lofty music,
she now hums a simple tune-
sheds her costume, feeds the mice,
bends to pick up a broom.

elsie

Elsie is a quiet dragon
aching to explode,
a poet in the corner
striking fear into her foes.

She speaks so softly
all the class leans forward, listens close,
but neither hears her silent screams
nor detects the scent of smoke.

What hides inside that muted mind?
I work to crack the code.
I sense a little light of mine
beneath bushels of woe.

A strong voice snuffed and smothered
by some burning in the throat.
Dear Elsie, I am listening.
Read me the riddle of your soul.