Beauty and Aching

May we not revel in the beauty
of the ache,
and the silent longing -
of tears and broken dreams
planted deep in our souls?
We must, and be defiantly hopeful.
Here in this sorrow, we watch 
for the dawn’s awakening.
In this crucible we welcome
the vigil, awaiting
the birth of diamonds.

What We Are

I have heard that You are patient,
and You are kind, and You are gentle.
I hope so.
 
I suppose - if You still want me after all
this time, how could You be
anything else?
 
There are many things
I do not know. But I do know
that I am afraid.
 
Yet they tell me that
You are safe, and 
You are Shelter, and
You are Protector.
 
I hope so.
 
Even You have said, that
Your name is I AM.
Oh how I hope that You Are -
that You Are everything I am not.

How Not to Drown

This fog pierces
like lightning - thick as mud
and hurts like hell.
I joke with my friend,
“Even breakfast is too complicated!”
We laugh.
But the joke is real today, and I
am not laughing anymore.
 
… Should I go to class?
Probably.
I wander out the front door
five minutes before Basic Swimming
and drive to the gym.
At least I will not drown
in pool water.
 
Front crawl.
Back crawl.
Breaststroke.
Sidestroke.

At the deep end
I grab the pool edge breathing
heavy and deep, and stare dully
over the watery expanse.
 
I do not know anything,
or feel anything - except the
searing, mind-numbing reality
of right now.
What else is there?
I have forgotten already.
I begin again the front crawl.
 
Reminiscent of Dory, the mantra arises,
unbidden -
“Just keep swimming, just
keep swimming, just keep
swimming,
         swimming,
                     swimming . . .”

To Build A Mountain

I glance at her, pensive.

Hands shoved deep in my pockets, I say

“But if I go there . . .

I don’t know anybody. And it’s flat,

what about the mountains?”

She gazes intently at her shoes as we walk

together in the sunshine.

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to kick up some dust –

make your own mountains.”

She grins at me, quite pleased with her answer –

no hint of doubt in my ability

to construct such a monstrosity. Because of course

it takes no more faith to build a mountain

than to move it.

The Night…

Maybe I do not expect you to understand.

How could you fathom such suffocating blackness,

when you were raised

to gaze at the beauty

of the heavens?

To you, the night sky

is but a backdrop for the brilliance

of the stars.

But the night . . . 

The night is a black hole

which consumes me.

It devours

my waking hours, and

desecrates my dreams

while I sleep.

It is a living death,

which could not be troubled

to die in truth.

Amicolola Falls in Autumn, Georgia

Such a procession I have never seen!
A cry goes up, “come -  let us watch
the leaves lay down their lives
one fading spark at a time.”
 
         “What is this beauty you see -
         Is it not but the funeral
         of a multitude of leaves?”
 
“Ah, but my friend -
what is this funeral if not
a memorial bursting with joy?
Yes, a celebration of beauty -
of hope arising triumphant
from so many fallen waifs.
 
The leaves bid us farewell
with a promise that has never died.
‘Goodbye -
we shall come again!’”

Inspiration

Oh inspiration, where be you?
Fleeting mischievous phantom that you are!
You entice me at work
sidle up during lecture
and torture me when I am trying
(however haphazardly) to study!
 
Frightful creature, here I sit -
notebook open, pen in hand,
and you have flown away.
The NERVE.
 
My next exam is tomorrow.
I shall be expecting you,
scoundrel.

demons and Divinity

I hear the demons

demand –

“who are you, little human,

that you dare think you could ever

change?”

But my dear –

they have the question twisted

all wrong.

Now it is I who ask you,

“Who do you think I am,

that I could not transform

you?

Who do you think you are,

that you could never be

so transformed?”

demons and Divinity

I hear the demons

demand –

“who are you, little human,

that you dare think you could ever

change?”

But my dear –

they have the question twisted

all wrong.

Now it is I who ask you,

“Who do you think I am,

that I could not transform

you?

Who do you think you are,

that you could never be

so transformed?”

demons and Divinity

I hear the demons 
demand
“who are you, little human, 
that you dare think you could ever 
change?” 
But my dear - 
they have the question twisted 
all wrong. 
Now it is I who ask you, 
“Who do you think I am, 
that I could not transform 
you? 
Who do you think you are, 
that you could never be 
so transformed?”