Tag Archives: postaweek2011

darkness dims

darkness dims as light’s unfolding
wrapped up in my Savior’s love
Son of God am I beholding
resting in His might above

cherish, o, those words so tender
as He softly speaks my name
at His image I remember
not my sin or dark of shame

at the right hand of the Father
judging saints and sinners all
from His precepts never wandered
from His grace never to fall

saved from that dark pit infernal
getting not what I deserve
son of God and heir eternal
at the feet of Him I serve

sharing heaven with my Savior
life not ending, glory found
resting in the arms of my Lord
resting where pure joy abounds

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He holds me in place, gently yet firmly, knowing I won’t run.

I refuse to struggle against his grip – the ever-obedient son.

After all, Father knows best, even when I can’t make sense of it.

I just can’t help wondering, how will my suffering give anyone benefit?

As my hand brushes my skin, fear bumps swell in unison on my chest,

my face and heart involuntarily question the logic of my father’s request.


Why ask this of me? Why this? Why me? Why take what I might freely give?

Before my fears can grip me, rip me, I flip my tears away, or dam them where they live.


My adam’s apple’s swelling and getting harder to swallow.

But from Father’s eyes come peace, certainty, grace; my eyes follow.

Courage can mean a lot of things, but it does not mean fearless.

And what of Mother? Will she still laugh, or in her mourning remain tearless?

I try not to dwell too long on the coming scene, on how I will die.

I try not to think too much of the altar of twigs, of where I will lie.

Or even consider the cords that may bind my hands and feet.

My father will surely make it quick – finished before my first bleat.

So I rest on one knee, where the sacrificial oil will flow,

hesitating slightly, in case mercy he decides to bestow.


My weak body caving to my spirit yet willing:

Father, if you will, take from me this cup of suffering.


Nine Judges

Old trees stood nervously, swaying as one

arboreal chamber with walls of dismay.

Tarnished and yellowed, archaic and shunned,

limbs hanging tired in decrepit decay.

Bark fell off mangy and scabbed with disease,

rough like their voices, still churning out sneers.

Saplings and creepers, young scandalous trees,

sarcasm, ridicule, showing no fear.

Then all the trees to the bramble in scorn,

smiling and smirking, “You come be our king!”

Barbs, spurs, tines, points, prongs, spikes, prickles and thorns,

each red with tenderness after the sting.

Woven, suspended, intending no harm,

Thornbush fell wordless and stretched out his arms.


Seventeen

Adam, Eve, and snake

share a fruit snack from the tree.

Find figs in fashion.

 

Big hair meant great brawn.

Lost in lust, Delilah lied.

One blind act redeemed.

 

Prayed three times each day.

Pray, to avoid lion’s lunch.

Prey not, for Dan prayed.

 

Shad, Mesh and Abed:

Forty foot idol of gold.

No bow–fire–no die.

 

Minute man, big foe.

One choice stone properly placed.

Fought well. Believed well.

 

One Man, once for all.

His death exchanged for our life.

He lives, so we live.


Mr. Clean Jeans

My creases gone, my knees sore and stained with grass,

I embrace the kneading purr–a delicate setting at last.

With bleeding reds of ketchup, blood or wine,

the singe of one-hundred-forty degrees purifies

and lifts the spots, now soaked, washed and laundered.

 

Harsh detergents, new and improved, promise a deeper clean.

My fabric burns, naked and immersed in the ammonia chlorine.

Starched encounters softened by Downy blue

retain the garden stench of potpourri perfume.

Fifty-five minutes of tortured agitation squandered.

 

My world spins, dizzy. My mouth opens, watering to retch.

Then I rest, thirsty. The filtered rinse preparing to drench.

Gray water discharges to the long-awaited drain,

the evacuating reminder of a darkened disdain.

As my fleshy garment emerges afresh, I ponder–

 

the wash cycle’s cruel kindness.


Masterpiece

How would I paint suffering?

I’d choose a palette infused with browns and reds.

I’d squeeze onions to wet the watercolors,

warpaint under my eyes to battle with the canvas.

I’d paint with acrylics in an airtight closet

and one fifteen-watt incandescent bulb.

No smiling scratch-n-sniff.

No fruity tones.

No bouquets.

I’d lick the spongy tips to moisten them,

the venom of pepper-vinegar affixed to my tongue.

I’d whip bold, plucky, cutting strokes,

hurrying to finish and flip to the other side.

I’d not use paint at all, but spread gritty chalks on a new, black board,

screeching as they give themselves to the art.

I’d look away, toward the finished image of perfection,

the box-top of a jigsaw puzzle.

I’d finger-paint, boiling the colors to singe my fingertips,

adding blood to the red

and body to the brown.

Then I’d hammer nails in its hands and hang it high for all to see,

the beauty redeeming the pain.


Colored

Rage relents to the taste of copper

Originating from my own bite

Yawning now, the red masks my anger

Gazing blindly through my eyelids tight

Bellowing incoherent utters

I gag on the tang of words so yuck

Violently I start to stutter

Colorful language seemingly stuck

 

Ranging from the vile and vulgar

Or perhaps changing before my lips

Yelling morphs instead into whispers

Growing softer as my foul mood shifts

By the time my terse tongue needs taming

Involuntarily my fit folds

Victory over tantrum flaming

Colored stories thankfully untold