Sometimes, y'just gotta write a poem!

My heart bursts its banks, spilling beauty and goodness. I pour it out in a poem to the king, shaping the river into words.

~ Psalm 45

Brer Rabbit had his Laughing Place. Mary Lennox had her Secret Garden. Poety is my Kingdom Place. It's where, like John, "the disciple Jesus loved," I recline beside my Brother and listen to his heartbeat, walk with him in the woods or field or sit quietly at his feet.

Far more than in the majesty and melodies of a Sunday morning service, more than in the wispy grace or primitive rhythms of dance, I sense His closeness in the crests, troughs, grit and glories of verse, where I am free to express my awe and passion, faith, frustrations and doubts. Nowhere else do we laugh so together--or He at me, which is okay too.

I write poetry when there’s something inside me that can’t get out any other way. And when I re-read what I have written, I revive forgotten or neglected intimacies and revelations.

I share a few of these verses with you, not as literature, but in the chance that one might cause a sympathetic vibration ... that it might, in the kind words of one friend, help you to exhale.

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One of my favorite toys

as a kid

was a simple, benign god who was

all about presents.

The god of my adolescence

was understanding and lenient.

He didn't go where

he wasn't wanted

and always made things come out

okay.

I didn't notice you

behind my gods,

behind the seens, as it were,

until one afternoon, over pancakes,

you stooped to eye level, and

we laughed at each other.

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To forgive

when dearest friends misunderstand,

when no one offers me their hand,

when wounded pride demands a price

and vengeance grips me like a vise,

I forgive.

To forgive

when expectations turn to dust,

when Love's exposed as Greed or Lust,

when fortune falls apart and turns

and anger, fueled, consumes and burns,

I forgive.

To forgive

because my God's forgiven me,

His Love impaled on bloody tree.

Though Justice ruled, "The man must

die," my Father said, "No, instead,

I forgive"

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I waste so much effort

trying to please you,

forgetting

that I am your

beloved companion.

Guilt and Worry

twist your voice and

make it cold,

so when you speak,

I hear a scold.

You thunder,

and I think it's wrath,

when it's really

the sound of your laugh.

And the rain is

the splash of your tears,

you're laughing so hard.

You love me, but I amuse you, too--

not my pain,

but the needless

things I do

trying to please you.

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Reveal yourself to me, Papa.

Every morning, reveal something new.

But make it clear

because I miss things.

You might reveal something about yourself

in a rabbit,

but I miss it,

because I've seen a rabbit before.

Because sky and trees and birds and grass

are as common as breathing and eating,

I miss you ...

in thistles and colors

and shapes

and twisting, stretching trees.

I don't recognize your scent

in early morning air

or your power in the lake's decisions

to crush, drown or nurture.

I miss the awe of you in birdsongs

in tweets and twitters,

caws, squawks and whoops--

meaningless sounds that

the Psalmist calls praise.

Where are you in the will of the wind?

What is there about you in the

protectiveness of the drake

that flew out of the grass

and tried to lure me away from his wife?

Three ugly birds hear my approach and

soar out of the buzzard's roost,

posing as eagles and

encouraging me to overlook their crude

table manners.

I miss you in the shade,

miss your comfort in the quiet woods,

your wisdom deep in the roots of ancient,

shaggy-headed trees.

Although I cannot count

Fall's crunchy brown leaves

beneath my boots,

I imagine myself able to number your blessings,

measure your love by met expectations,

and point to those you have not met

as evidence of unfaithfulness.

My blindness galls, appals me.

Two cardinals dart in front of my face,

race behind me and streak into the woods ...

soaring, flaming jewels

in your crown.

And I look back over these lines

and recognize that

I did recognize you

after all.

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Worship happens

in the giddy incense of

a buzzing summer field,

catching the breath of

sweet mowed grass,

content in the pungent promise of

freshly-turned loam.

Worship happens

among the mountains,

in the midst of a storm,

standing in a snowy wood

where a sighing breeze and creaking trees

exchange secrets.

Worship happens

when I consider

that you chose me,

with nothing to commend me

or set me apart

from Earth's billions.

And when my thoughts collide

with the inevitable,

terrifying alternative,

I tremble ...

and worship.

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Sin is

a "hateful, deceitful

rebellious child."

I occupy the throne;

the child rules.

Tow headed,

long-lashed, soft brown-eyed,

it winsomely smiles

and sprightly capers,

grinding its teeth

and pressing its nails

into its pudgy palms.

Anticipating

and eager.

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I have nothing to lose

once I've given all away.

Nothing to choose,

since I chose you.

Nothing to want,

when I make you my provision.

Nothing undone

but to worship you.

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Children laugh

at mice

that boast of

overturning elephants.

You

split your sides

at anthills

aswarm with kings

shaking their swords

at heaven.