They Will Answer

In the flurried, frenzied madness

are the words that never come.

There’s a sorrowful, silent sadness

like a rain soaked, broken drum.

 

When your spirit’s badly broken,

when the mocking page stares back,

and you’re reaching, reaching, reaching

down a hole that’s cold and black,

 

When the thirst is quenched within you

and imagination dies,

And the fire’s banked inside you,

no one’s there to hear your cries.

 

Go and order a tequila.

Go and throw a ball or two,

and somewhere between the sun and moon,

the words return to you.

 

For they never really leave you.

You’re a writer, after all.

When you give them life and purpose

they will answer to your call.

 

In the frenzied, furrowed madness,

they will answer to your call…

What Becomes of What Remains?

A clock ticks,

a ball drops,

and fires kisses the

lips of the sky

as lovers kiss on the sidewalk.

It is the hour of dreams

and hopes,

plans and purposes,

love… and its ending.

The rain comes now,

to wash the day’s revelry

away.

In the deluge I stand,

renewed, alive,

and oh-so-very-cold

from a longing, and absence

undefined.

The sand is warm,

the ocean pulls at it like

a child pulls its blankets up

when the monsters come.

What becomes of what remains?

I hold the warm sand,

but I can’t keep it from

slipping through

my fingers

like a fading dream.

What becomes of what remains?

The sliding sand

seeks its own

and leaves me powerless.

What becomes of what remains?

Of us?

Love is lost in the rubble,

engulfed by flames,

curling in on itself.

It will be reborn another day,

unknown to us, and if it tarries long enough,

unseen by us.

What becomes of what remains?

A history unlearned from,

a human sea of sadness,

or something far better,

and visible on the horizon?

How close can we come to it

without being burned?

What becomes of what remains?

We decide.

And we depart

And travel on

to find out

the answer.

 

 

Wisdom in Ruins

In all the rubble

are the books,

reflections of imagination,

containers of wisdom,

capsules of folly.

 

The silent dust drifts across them

as if selecting their choices.

 

Here, tales of emotions,

and beacons of reason.

 

Over there, breakthroughs

and heartbreak.

 

In the rubble of the halls,

discoveries and inventions,

science and faith.

 

And in the small fires that yet smolder,

the abandoned belief that

life is precious,

good wins out,

and

love

conquers all.

 

They are all covered now

with the dust and blood of

war upon war upon war,

silent as drowned river stones,

but still abiding,

seeds of spring

along the banks.

Christmas Lights

believer55

Luke 2:9

“And behold, an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were greatly afraid.”

A light from Heaven suddenly overtakes you.

In your world, this has never happened. It’s night time, and you’re outside, and suddenly….

We have the gift of hindsight, but the shepherds were afraid. Greatly afraid.

Did they cry out, shield their eyes, maybe even start to run? Yet, the light was not hurting them, or blinding them, or burning them. It was just sudden.

He is the God of “suddenly.”

Remember the conversion of Saul? In Acts 9:3 we read:

“As he journeyed he came near Damascus, and suddenly a light shone around him from heaven.” 

We are admonished to “walk in the light, as He is in the light.” (John 1:7)

May the light of God surround you with peace, and…

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The Inelegant Demise of Parson Brown

 

For Yuletides untold, Lexi and I built our meadow snowman, and just as frequently, Parson Brown came by in his one- horse sleigh, bells a-jingle.

Lexi would roll her eyes and smile, and I braced for the question he’d been asking since music was first heard.

“Are you married?”

“No, Parson, but you can do the job when you’re in town,” I finally answered.

He stopped the sleigh, and positively ran across the meadow.

“What about now?”

Lexi and I exchanged a look, and she gave a slight nod.

I knocked the parson out, and we dismantled the snowman and built a new one around the parson.

It was more slender and taller than our last, but it would serve our purpose.

We took the sleigh into town, where the children were caroling in the early evening.

I stopped, and Lexi approached the children.

“Hey, kids. Would you do us a favor?”

They turned and smiled at the pretty lady standing among them.

“How’d you like to knock a snowman down?”

Their cheers echoed into the snowy pines.

“Where?” one brave lad stepped forward to ask.

“In the meadow, not too far from here. You should do it now, so you’ll be home by dark.

The lad looked to his group, and they all said yes.

“On your mark! Get set! GO!” Lexi shouted, and they took off pell-mell.

**************

“Do you ever miss Parson Brown?” I asked her the following Christmas.

“Oddly enough, yes.”

We never did get married.

 

A Poor Reflection of a Star

This landlocked beacon longs for the sky,

imprisoned in its walls of stone and glass,

the filter like a soft manacle.

“This far, and no farther.”

The light strains against the bond,

but cannot break it,

and weeps.

Soft now, you are needed here.

Your purpose here is more immediate,

and meaningful.

You see, the stars can bring them here,

but cannot guide them into the harbor,

as you can.

You are bright enough. 

You go far enough.

They rely on you, and trust you

with their lives.

You are of no use to them in the sky

if the ship founders and breaks.

Be content to guide the ships of men,

that you may save the lives of men.

Go now, to your purpose

Fulfill it, and know that 

you are not a poor reflection 

of a star.

You are as

loved as any hearth fire,

for you

are the herald

of home.

 

*Photo by Joshua Hibbert / Unsplash