"nobody, not even the rain," by e. e. cummings

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

e. e. cummings

Thurible

I carry you with me, and it has me in pieces
my heart swinging like the reverend’s thurible
encased in metal, it censors my emotions
as they seep out pores in my side, drifting in the air
to those who do not have ears to hear
as the Father takes me down the aisle of my peers

They have not eyes to see me smoldering
the charcoal at the pit of my desires
as I throw caution to the wind 
and offer this holy sacrifice to God in fear:
“Lord I believe, help me in my unbelief,
give me a tongue and let my heart speak.”

Oh contradiction,

you have become the parish bell I ring;

but they hear not the bell I toll, they have only mouths to sing

can they not smell the incense burning, or even feel

my pain, for it's on the straight and narrow

I swing, like a ball and chain

(2/22/09, 5/12/09)

the fall.

i left my bike in dried up flower bed

the tires digging into the soil

treading on the easter lilies that once grew.

the metal kickstand dug like a knife into the dry ground

and the handle bars leaned against the house

white stucco flakes sticking to the rubber grips.

i had fallen.

the wing of my right arm scratched and bruised

rocks from the cluttered soil beside the path

embedded into my skin

and i carried the weight of my failure

until i reached the shower to wash myself clean.

(5/12/2009)

Southern Girl

her hair is damp with the moonlight

we watched rise over the trees

the dew settling in the grass

the trees battered by the wind

shake their trembling leaves 

mimicking the shivers in her voice

confessions carried in the breeze

cold that shoots up your spine

and haunts your mind like the fog

the trees are gluttons

thieves that stole away the water

in their pursuit of reaching the heavens 

with roots tangled like clasped hands

the trees sway sleeping in the night

as we lay awake beside the empty lake bed

and as i hold my southern girl

watching the passing night sky 

we lose track of time

who cares if the water rises again

when i'm holding her in my arms

the greenway and heaven meet

the stars above are a soft hum

whispering melodies on the breeze

slow dancing across the sky 

they look like gold on a cave wall

letting me know this treasure is mine

guiding my thoughts home

(4/18/2009)

He is Risen!

Galations 2:20

I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.

it's been a long time since i have cried. 

to be honest, i can think of only two instances in the past year.

the world has a way of hardening the softest hearts,

bringing malice from admiration, depression from peace.

and it's not that i am a hard hearted person, but sometimes

it takes the sharpest swords to pierce the strongest armor. 

i am reminded of Hebrews 4:12: "The Word of God

is living and active, sharper than any double-edged sword,

it penetrates, even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow."

the Word of the Lord is living and active, and I am reminded

He is Risen!

this morning, i cried for a third time.

 after i got up this morning, i watched the Mars Hill easter service 

with Mark Driscoll in Seattle. he presented the gospel, as was expected 

in a relevant and powerful way, proclaiming the Resurrected Christ,

but following was a call to repentance, which was fairly unique.

the call asked people to not only come forward and accept His grace

but to be baptized on stage as a symbol of a changed heart,

and a renewal of thoughts, lifestyles, actions, and deeds. 

admist intense worship, people came down to the stage,

and one by one were prayed over and dunked in and out of the water

in the clothes they came to the service wearing

as a symbol of a passing of their old self, cleansed. new.

i watched 

a pregnant, abandoned woman calling on the name of the Lord.

men and women, some my age, some older, boldly declaring faith.

a young girl weeping as she was brought under the water, 

laughing with joy when she arose.

a husband and wife, spiritually cleansed before hundreds of people.

a father, placing his daughter in the bath, and pulling her out

and capturing her in a loving embrace

as the worship band sang Gloria! Gloria! Gloria! Gloria!

i witnessed redemption, raw and pure

i witnessed unbridled emotion, tears and laughter

i witnessed the children of God coming home to their Father

i witnessed, from 3,000 miles away, grace

and i cried.

Easter has been a long time coming

surviving the trials of Lent

desiring the grace and redemption of God to feel renewed in me again.

we are often habitual, dirty, lonely people, who infinitely need the Lord

for repentance is not what we can do to gain God's favor.

repentance is realizing what God has already done, and to trust.

and i need to learn to trust God with all of me.

i long for God's intent

the rejoicing of my spirit

the joining of soul and body

at the culmination of the age

but until then, He is Risen!

sin is conquered, we forgiven

born again in living hope 

to celebrate this easter day

(4/12/2009)

sauvignon

there are things that i deserve

narrow eyes and sullen words

i am all that's left of grace

a broken rope, a flooded path

forgotten love awakens wrath

when the sand buries my face

holding hostage ugly dolls

gold inscription on the walls

the music sets the pace

thunderstorms, bottles of wine

clay water mixed with iodine

alone i've found my place

(9/1/2008)

Bitter as it is red

I.

we sang walking beneath the trees

and down the concrete sidewalks

from the marble stoop of our hostel

you wore your favorite handcrafted beanie

as we walked down the stairs

and you told me your knees were cold

on the landing below the staircase

the people on the street could hear us yell

and sing the words chalked on the building walls

I'd been growing out my beard

and hiding the scratches along my chin

from when my arm clipped the motorcyclist

in france

it was then that I learned not to trust you

and the way your eyes lure a pressing danger

your lipstick bitter as it is red

leaving evidence like prints at a crime scene

that I had once been in love

II.

oh Lord i'm overcome

still air in the hotel lobby

prayers reverberate in my mind

i tried to remember your words last night

or the smiles you once gave me

whenever you met my gaze through a window

your eyes were either red or green

depending on your dress, or the last time you'd cried

and i thought i'd taken you away from that place

i want to take your face in my hands

and tell you everything is fine

but today we'll go for a walk instead

III.

I held her body in my arms

my face against her stomach

her legs kicking beside my head

and she was laughing

she rested her arms on the pillowcase

her wrists crossed above her tangled brown hair

her body rising and falling with every deep breath

and I was reminded of the tree dying outside our window

she slept the winter by my side

and we watched the frost creep along the glass

like splinters and frigid spiderwebs

hiding the light so we could sleep 'til noon

we eventually left the French countryside

with a bag of chalk and bandages on my face

a book of poems and kindness in her eyes

and set off to find a city where the streets still echoed desire

I'd met her last summer outside a bakery

standing on the busy streets I could never navigate

but with a taste for wine and a lust for her ruby red lips

I thought her light in me would never fade

now I hold her body in my arms

my face against her stomach

her legs kicking beside my head

and she is weeping

(8/8/2008)

Rainbows gilding her waist

inspired by the painting "Colors Unseen" by Sarah Guiffrida

(named from the poem that follows)

I found the Lord's presence

in colors unseen,

racing clouds across the sky,

on a chariot carried by

wings of the wind

I found the Lord's grace

wrapped like a dress,

brighter than the heavenly host

I feared the light,

but returned ashamed,

like a moth draws to the flame

I heard the Lord's voice carry

like birds of the air,

traveling the wind like the breeze itself,

hiding like the moon

I saw the work of the Lord

green like sage

Everlasting the light of day,

like smoke that trembles

from the mountains

I found the eye of the Lord

and prayed when it found

me, that my name

could be pronounced holy

I saw the heart of the Lord

hiding me like darkness,

igniting me like fire, and

holding wisdom in love's embrace

Rainbows gilding her waist

But the face of the Lord

I cannot tell,

from the leviathan of the sea,

or the shadows in me,

but I feel His hand

guiding me down the shaded narrow

For the Peace of God

rests in your branches

when the sun steals night

with the rise of day,

and your shade waters

the harvest planted

when thunder flees

the darkest sky.

(12/11/2007)

Tent Pitching

She stands in a field like a silk tent
the ropes taught around her body and arms
dragging her into the ground, if not for her legs
stubborn trunks, columns into the soft earth
and you can feel the strain on her neck
just by glancing or walking past

The sun heats what she keeps inside
kernels and seeds, love and malice
they bubble and pop in the heat
rising out of her, begging to break free
bitter salt on the lips of those who have ears to hear

If I asked her to set her chains free
would she leave her burdens with me
or bury herself farther in the ground?

I ran my fingers along the tent wall
down her side, tracing her navel and her spine
and I felt the ropes pull farther into the soil
like a wind were galling against her mind
and her desires were a sail lifting her from the ground
wrapping the ropes tighter around her throat
sa précieux, or la gorge...

What if I were to take up the ax lain at her feet?
Would she be set free?

(6/5/2008)

Would You Be a Lilac?

Kiss me, you’re beautiful. These are truly the last days.
(a Reflection on Godspeed You! Black Emperor's F#A# infinity)

The train through the window was a muffled weeping
with the rain scratching on the glass
like the whispers of a vinyl record. 

I sat in this tub room for an hour yesterday,
the passengers knocking incessantly;
a desperate boy who had to pee, a woman who swore I had drowned.

I refused to answer because I had none,
other than to rest in the water that couldn’t cover my body.
The water had soaked the hair on my legs and I could feel it
weigh down my knees as they stood out of the miniature tub, 
like volcanic mountains among pacific waves.

I sat my book on the toilet’s rim and set my arms in the water.
The hair of my arm caught bubbles of air
like droplets of polystyrene dew on an artificial flower.
The water was warm like my brazen skin
and I was reminded of you again.

If you were a flower would you be a lilac?
Some say they represent a first love.
Others claim youthful innocence.

Yes, I had a love once before, but she was no lilac.
She was a cherry blossom. Transient and ephemeral.
Knowing nothing of love but a simple naiveté,
like a child who longs for God’s attention.

God is buried in a book, sitting on the toilet’s edge
anxious to turn every page and discover the next chapter

God is buried in the bagpipe player’s chanter
as he drones from a cabin down the hall

God is buried in the sewage of the train
as it crosses the South African border
expecting the passengers to be able to sleep
until the destination has arrived

We will be crushed, you and I
like two pennies laid on the rail
laying face to face as our tales fade
into the discourse that keeps us one,
ending where we'd begun.

Somewhere in Tibet a baby is crying.
Her father lay to waste under Olympic coliseums
and the fervor of dreams of fame and wealth.

Somewhere in Vienna a woman is drowning
in a pool of vomit and spit, her stockings strewn about her face
like a holy handkerchief, fishnet prints on her cheek.

The complaints of the homeless are a muted cello
in the cellar of an Italian winery. The catacombs echo
a resilient, dampened satire, a plot-less minstrel show;
improvisations of the beggar laying on a park bench,
cheating death under the same stars that guard this border.

We’re not so safe, you and I. 
We are afraid.

(4/29/2008)

Learning to Listen

The moon in the trees
was like crinkled cellophane,
filtering the light in a camera lens,
watching the young musician
as he took the artist’s hand,
in a spotlight under moonlit sky,
as they leaned against his beaten subcompact
in a parking lot behind a church,
watching the cars pass on the interstate,
with the windows cracked behind them
to hear the stereo.

She wore her heart on a chain,
like a millstone around her neck,
and a light rain began to fall
from cloudless skies,
as she looked at him and said,
Holding your hand is letting go of this weight,
and placed the necklace in his palm.
In the drizzling rain,
beside a fallen sycamore,
they swayed in time to the music:
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound…

Since then her words have been a cymbal,
ringing in reverse,
a crescendo with every stroke,
constantly building into something more,
rolling off her tongue like pennies down a slide
in a park where children play in the sun
with no mind for the shape of the stars,
or what tomorrow leaves on their doorstep.

(3/15/2008)