Some of my favorite verbs became so
because of
prepositional phrases and
direct objects.
I am sad now
because those verbs have become
past tense.
Poetry
With a Storm
How do you respond
(w)hen t(h)e w(i)nd (s)hakes your tem(p)orary dwelling?
when the thund(e)r b(r)eaks your sense of calm?
(w)hen t(h)e l(i)ghtning (s)trikes your storehouses?
when all around you is (p)urifying floodwat(e)r and fi(r)e
life-giving,
all-consuming?
What do you do
when the Father answers your prayers with a storm
and a whisper?
Do you run away?
Where else would you go?
There is a response
when the w(i)nd sh(a)kes your te(m)porary dwelling.
when the thunder (b)reaks your sens(e) of calm.
when the lightning (s)trikes your storehouses.
when all around you is purifying floodwa(t)er and f(i)re,
(l)ife-giving,
a(l)l-consuming.
This poem would not be what it is today without the contributions of Andrew Wilson. He helped with both the structure and the content, improving the rough draft immeasurably and guiding the poem to its final form. I’m incredibly grateful for his feedback.
Photo by Victor Rodriguez on Unsplash
Denial
Whether three times,
fearful,
or seventy times seven times,
graceful,
we all will deny
one of two persons
daily.
Photo by Pablo García Saldaña on Unsplash
Discontentment
How many days
will I dust these shelves
in this room
until I am allowed to move
and can then,
finally,
dust these same shelves
in a different room?
Photo by Tbel Abuseridze on Unsplash
Provision
Some hopes are dashed upon the throne of grace,
Are lifted up in pray’r to be denied.
And though it seems the Father hides his face,
We need not fear that he will not provide.
But his provision oft is of a kind
Perceived unkind while in the midst of loss.
What he deems “need” is diff’rently defined.
Sometimes the crown is traded for the cross.
But crosses borne in faith will always form
Our souls as needed, so we need not fret.
His grace suffices for the fiercest storm.
None who trust full in him shall feel regret.
But it is faith—not sight—that shows the way.
God is our shepherd. We need ne’er dismay.
Photo by John Joumaa on Unsplash
Little Sins
Subdue my unconcern with little sins,
Death in installments, small sips of decay,
Rebellions I would rather overlook.
Correct the imperfection in the lens
Through which I see and fail to see the way
I idolize the gods that I forsook.
Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash
Redeem
How can you redeem what I have done?
I have sought solace in sin,
worshiped idols, chose
self over you.
True,
you are sovereign still,
ruler over every realm.
But how I rebel,
rejecting life,
desiring death.
I wound
myself as well as
those I love
less than I love myself
but more than I love you.
I have no excuse,
no plea but your pardon,
no hope but your help.
Salvage me
that I might be useful,
perhaps even
faithful.
May it be.
Have mercy.
Redeem even me.
Poets
The poets worshiped you through verse and rhyme,
Turned their imaginations to the task
Of translating eternity to time
That image bearers might be brought to bask
In light refracted through a humble lens,
Refracted so to share a diff’rent view
Of beauty. Souls in wonder took up pens
And wrote to cultivate their love of you.
One wonders if the words will ever cease,
If all might soon be said, each rhyme fulfilled.
But throes of life persist, and words bring peace,
So movement of the quills will not be stilled.
Rise up, you poets, scribes of humble soul,
To teach and train us better to extol.
Photo by Lukasz Szmigiel on Unsplash
Who Are You?
Who are you? Majestic Maker of all
That moves and all that remains still. You fill
With fullness all spaces, unperceived, call
Dead things to life, direct with perfect will
Without removing our ability
To truly love and to be loved by you.
You are the true source of tranquility,
The good shepherd, trustworthy, steadfast through
Every scene of the story. You are
The center and the circumference, all-
Encompassing and all-surpassing, far
Beyond, nearer still. Somehow you still call
Our small souls into fellowship and free
Our idol eyes to readjust and see.
Photo by Zach Betten on Unsplash
Sadness is a growing thing
Sadness is a growing thing.
It is watered by frustrated plans,
fed by unfulfilled affections,
lengthened by loss.
Sadness is a subtle thing.
Unchecked, it soon can choke
life and love and laughter
as grief sours and
breeds bitterness.
Sadness is a frail thing.
It breaks open and spills out
unexpectedly
at the slightest touch.
Sadness is a fleeting thing,
a fading thing.
It is disarmed by a deeper truth,
held in perspective by purpose,
and will be redeemed
at the coming of the one
whose love was never lost.
He will wipe away every tear.
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
as i learn to walk 