Month: August 2014

This is an image of a modern soldier's helmet.

The Helmet of Salvation

For the helmet of salvation that we don

and the trouble that we have to keep it on,

it’s no wonder that we falter

with the mind of a defaulter

when the hope to rest in Paradise is gone.

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This is an image of the moon shining brightly behind a tree.

Violet Cream

violet cream pastel moon
a light velvety lavender
hints of golden orange
blew in soft clouds
street lights below
defined the road

the road surrounded
was still black
still motionless still
negating any light it touched
hiding any love it felt
if it felt any love at all

hard to tell whether or not
if she wanted the snow
if she needed some time to herself
or whatever roads think
what is it about snow
that reminds us how heartbroken we are

she is the road
everything around her
blends in the background
but she is still black
still motionless still
there.

This is an image from the film CONSTANTINE that features Constantine walking through hell.

When The World Will End

When the grass is brown and hot and dry
and when the vapor hazes in the air
and when the leaves crunch under feet
because the sun refuses to lay off the heat

When the veneration of childhood
becomes the exaltation of impulse
and when the discipline of impulse
becomes the repression of freedom

When lovers can call each other such
and not even offer each other much
because where love was once a sacrificial action
is now nothing more than a sexual satisfaction

When one would rather lie and save from getting hurt
than tell the truth for what it’s wholly worth
and suspicion makes up in a relationship
for what a surplus of patience used to give

When the means by which one accomplishes
become the end for which one wryly wishes
and when the happiness that once was purely fought for
becomes the complacency that one was surely bought for

When ethics are as empty as whitewash tombs
with no morality to guide them
and no absolutism to back them up:
this is when the world will end.


 

This is an image of King Solomon and three of his concubines.

Modern Solomon

A modern Solomon is what I may
become, my harem on the internet;
my concubines are digitally met
where I can click and double-click away;
I like that I remember every sway
and make my browsing history forget;
I like that I can take what I can get
without commitment getting in my way.

But this is only worship of the self,
and such idolatry is blasphemous;
whene’er I want my fantasies explored,
I turn my back on God to please myself;
how sad that I can feel so scandalous
and think I’m still within my loving Lord.

The Image We’re Made In


What good is a prophet when his words aren’t inspired
by the God that he wants us to know?
He tells us that, one day, we’ll burn in a fire
that roars in the caverns below.

But that’s not the image we’re made in,
the image of suffering and shame
’cause our God, He loves us, and wants us to claim Him
so one day, He’ll call us by name…
and one day, He’ll call us by name.

What good is a watchman when he loses his focus
on enemies approaching the door?
His thoughts are obsessed with the system that broke us
and not on the incoming war.

But that’s not the image we’re made in,
the image of worry and doubt;
our God knows the burden of all of our questions,
and with Him, we’ll figure them out…
and with Him, we’ll figure them out.

What good is a family when everyone only
cares for nobody else but themselves,
when brothers and sisters are cast out and lonely
and all they ever needed was our help?

But that’s not the image we’re made in
the image of being alone;
His death is the binder that brings us together,
and one day, He’ll call us back home…
Hallelujah, we’re going back home.

This is an image of a girl whose dress is blowing in the wind.

The Girl Who Flew Away

The grass a glossy emerald green,
beneath an azure sky;
the breeze was blowing to and fro,
a noontime in July.

The birds were singing melodies
of flying in the wind,
but they didn’t want to go alone,
so they sought out a friend.

A little girl with flowing hair
was dancing ’round the tree;
her dress reflected in the light
that shone throughout the leaves.

She clapped her hands; she clapped them twice;
she clapped her hands three times;
she then began to spin around
and jump just like the chimes.

And then two birds atop the tree
began to plummet down;
they swirled together as they traveled
toward the emerald ground.

The little girl had stopped her spin,
her arms were at her side,
until she stretched them out to let
the birds give up their glide.

They landed on her little hands,
their wings extended still;
the girl began to run to find
a place atop the hill.

As she ran up to the top,
a bird began to follow;
then all the birds soon did the same
and left their wooden hollow.

The girl, still running, birds in hand,
finally found her stop;
she slowed her feet and caught her breath
while on the mountain top.

The birds, still flying, followed suit
and tried to slow the flight,
but when they got to where she stopped,
they couldn’t stop their plight.

So ’round and ’round and ’round they flew
around the little girl;
she felt a breeze begin to blow,
then she began to twirl.

She twirled and twirled and twirled until
her feet were off the ground;
she felt herself move toward the sky,
and then she looked around.

She saw the tree beneath her feet,
the oak, so far away;
she was flying with the birds,
the girl who flew away.

Summer’s eve is not yet here;
the time is now or none;
so fly as high as you can fly,
or else your summer’s done.


 

I wrote this poem a few years back (2008).

Going back to it, I can kinda see the potential for a children’s book.

Know any good illustrators?

This is an image of a mountain range and its reflection in a nearby body of water.

Back Then, I Used To Love Myself So Much

Back then, I used to love myself so much,
I thought I was the only one around –
a mountain that would only focus down
on surfaces of waters I can’t touch;
then, using my reflection as a crutch
to hold myself in loneliness, I’d drown
alone…without a single mourning sound
from friends, if I could even call them such.

But now, I’ve set my heart on things above
and relish in the sunlight of my Lord
with brethren that were lonely just like me;
we welcome every ray of holy love
and celebrate our God in one accord,
together: mountains in a ranged eternity.


Here are some thoughts of Christian unity expressed an in Italian sonnet.

This is an image of a calendar.

I Hate The Calendar

I hate the calendar.
It hangs in the assumption
that something will happen.
not that it has to happen,
nor that it needs to happen,
          but it will happen anyway,
          no matter what I say.

I hate the calendar,
not because I fear commitment,
but I despise the thought of obliging myself
to something that doesn’t pertain
to my present state –
          tomorrow can worry about itself;
          I have enough to worry about today.

I hate the calendar.
Every day is another tilted red cross
that I bear. It’s a vibrant
intersection of lifelines
and deadlines –
          everything I can do in this life
          and how long I have to do it.

I most hate the calendar
because it answers
the question of my mortality.
It screams from every corner
YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED!
          I know I’ll die;
          I don’t need a calendar to remind me.


Here’s a poem I wrote back in 2009; it has since been revised and exists now as I believe it should.