Theory

 Love is
a growing thing.
A sort of bliss in life:
content, in a way,
with past, present and future.

And yet,
through unknowable magic,
it never ceases to become more.
That is where its contentedness lies:
in its eternal becoming.

The only
real question is:
where does it start?
For we know it does
not end.

Romantic?

 A Romantic I've been called,
A description more disturbing once realized.
Doomed to see lines on a page melt at the edges and fall into waves,
each sweeping the last out of sight beneath itself.

Forced by your own heart not to kiss her
'till the Lord showers you with His blessing from the clouds above,
And then laughing at how all the best kisses are wet.

We all learned that lesson first in love,
as we kissed our family members on the cheek goodnight,
to see them smile and wipe their faces.

So here I sit like some child with a crayon;
wishing these lines would soften at the edges,
rise and fall with a splash!
then reach with all their might,
streaching as they may
to lay their foaming fingers on the binding.

Beach House

I miss the Oregon beach house

I miss the Oregon sea

I miss the Oregon in the sand

I miss the air crisp and free

I miss the room 'neath the stairwell

I miss the over-tall stools

I long for the room-making window

that watches the surf keep God's rules

I miss the blue 'neath the sea-foam

I miss the gold 'neath the grass

And 'neath the stirring gaze of my Maker

I miss the love that did pass

But most of all I miss childhood

I miss my sisters as friends

I think that Heaven is Oregon

An Easter which never quite ends

Here

Amber in the water, the lights that play in dark
And the moon's wake, rushing to kiss our toes
Once

Eyes adjust as Time keeps the rhythm of the waves
Shadows appear
To play amongst the frothing water

Stars light and bowed necks straighten
To gaze

Words are spoken in the lighted dark
And looks cast
Like stones
Skipping across the deep
Of another's eyes

Inquiries are made
Soft requests of a promising spirit
Whose mere being is a balm to
The soul

Waves thunder
The waters boil and roar
In lines like troops rushing
To pile haphazardly against the walls of sand
At our feet

I speak

The water,
Now at its greatest extension,
Striving to touch
Looks like
Lace

Shoulders,
Once burdened down with a weight
Heavier than that water,
Are now bare enough

To recieve a kiss

In the moonlight

We still throw shadows

'Neath our feet

The sand still moves

Our breath still disturbs the air around us
But in that reservoir of nature
The waves still crash
And turn to lace
And go no further.

Daylight

Rising, when the skys sing.
Resting, after questing.

Baking in the sunlight, freezing 'neath the moon
Sitting round the shoreline and then waking all too soon
This is called vacation, this the bliss named rest
And frankly given choice I think it's this that I like best:
Being a beloved, living under Grace
Hoping with a steady heart that I can keep the pace.
The gifts He gives are grandest,the life He lends is best
So for no other reason does my heart beat in my chest
For only He can phase me, only He can give
The powerful fates that force the traits with which I daily live
Praise to God almighty, Praise to God above!
Who cares for me when I don't care, and always sends His love.

Carpenter

The Carpenter lays His hand to the saw
though varmint and insect may gnaw
'gainst his dream made wooden law,
He carries on with His saw.

Buildings are burned at will,
statues topple for ill,
beauty dies, but He creates still,
for none can overcome His will.

For the Creater will make become
what has healed the dumb,
and made feel the numb,
for the created must become.

Waiting at the Gates

I sit here at the gate,
I've been here for some while.
I sit and sing and smile,
And ponder just one fate.

Now, roads have many ends,
Some good or bad or tough.
While one is quite enough,
If one roams not 'round bends.

So sit there at that gate,
And ponder you that flower,
A sign from yonder tower,
Of your quite happy fate.

Flow of Thought

The words that we speak
are the things we create.
I've never said the same thing twice.

What an Image.
To think we are just a reflection,
as He hovers over the waters.

What is perceived has being,
and being never ceases to be.
Erasers are lies:
the words are still there.
Fresh paint never leaves,
just smears.

So while some of us paint slowly,
with bold studied strokes in jewel tones,
and others dips dots,
thousands of pastels on the tips of their brushes,
it all is.
And shall be.

Good God.

Doubt

there is a worm that infests
this valley, that fen.
he eats the hearts of those who dwell there,
consuming always first the men

but that worm I will take in hand
and make him obediant to the lords of the land.
on that line, that line you drew,
on that cool sand, on that line, from you,
I'll make my stand

For now that I know, where my feet they may go,
and know beyond wonder where my hands they may wander,
and am told, without miss, just what I might kiss,
there is no question of quest left now in my chest
So that worm, he is dead, as he's lost all his dread.

for Doubt is a demon of lies,
and general reaking putressence.
but swift is the sword of certainty,
stripping his life of its essence.

down to the dirt will he fall,
and though hardly made of naught,
as the worms' life is done,
he will finally do what he ought,
the twists of his being undone,
he will meet the God he fought.

And we left in peace,
to enjoy the sweet release,
to find a sweet respite,
our foe out of the fight.
Maybe a bit of coast
to do what we like most,
to linger far and free,
and with each other be.

Growth

Demons of Doubt trouble me deeply,
tempting thoughts of twisted Truth twining 'round my wrists.
Rising and afraid, I raise my voice to my Savior:
"Save me Lord!" His sad servant calls.
As a kindness, he quickly comes, murmuring:
My child, My boy, My dear man, I Made thee!"
Moments of Mercy pass between us, beneath us, around and about us. Bliss.

The pain of Doubt, now dead and done. Long dead, in Truth, never living.
That once twisted Truth, now whole and wholesome, does not hinder but helps, ever giving.
Beaten, bruised, broken lies become beautiful gifts from God.
Gold and silver, good and true, gauntlet now my arms.
Hands to hold, hearten and humble, to hurting and healing akin.
For to bear a burden, become a blessing, and be one man among men.

Blessed

How will it be, when the wind blows the clouds about in the sky,
furrowing the heavens with an easle of moisture?
When the very air is bright,
and the ground is covered with light,
playing with the shadows of the leviathans of the air, how will it be?

How will it be, as the waves crash on the Oregon coast,
and the sea salt breeze pushes you so hard that you lean into it to stand straight?
As the cliff you stand on,
water pummeling itself with joy below,
shakes with the force of created goodness,
rocks and stones held together with razor grass roots, how will it be?

As you stand there, air about, clouds above, pushing you in,
As you stand there, cliff beneath, water below, holding you up,
As you stand there, seeing her, through Him, how will it be?

Something Sounding Silly. Still, Stuff Happens.

Words. Words with weight, wont to withhold worldly withering wants. Words will withstand whilest wounds of wonder will heal.
How a hardy heart heals, hardpressed while hoping to honour a honourable heroine, worthy of high praise.
Poor praise, poor practicioner of praise, prompting persons of pathos past points of comfort.
Comfort cannnot continue, could only cause conditions of calamity, culpability coming to corner the fellow.
Fine fellow finds his focus firmly fixed on feminine fingers, fingers from a female found infalably fine. Now finding his feet haven't found footsteps, forces his focus to shift from the fair to the forest, free thought affirms feeling in his mind.
Many modest moments of marvelous mirth mold the minutes passing by.
But, the bubbling bounteous boistrous, but blessedly brief, buffoon blunders: why?
Why would Beauty so bestow blessings, when a wanton wearysome wanderer asks?
Affrimation then occurs, as memory arrives armed with accounts of actions taken.
Tickled, torn and tremendously touched, the tired transgressor thanks that God.
"Glorious God, I give thee great praise. The gifts you give, the grand, gargantuan gifts of grace, grant goodness to your sons."
Sons of the Saviour, sisters too, sing praises of the Good God!

Song

I've walked in a desert all of my life
I've lived in the dry sand.
I search for a home, not starving,
With Hope indwelled in the land.

In the distance a sight comes to me.
I see walls rising high,
The glint of gold, the shine of silver,
A fresh breeze draws nigh.

The temperature falls, the sun still tall
I lay my hand to the brick.
A fortress, a temple, a palace, a home,
A garden, perfumed light and quick.

I walk the long wall, in it's cool shade
I pace the path beside.
A gate I find shut, all bars and lock
Guarding this desert bride.

A tremor of joy nigh breaks my heart
To find this guarded jewel.
A man who left such a blessed spot
Is naught better than a fool.

And fools do die, unsatisfied,
While good men guard the way
And win the key to Beauty's heart,
A gift, a wedding day.

So here I'll rest, with all my best,
Though ground now cold and hard,
'Till I'm let in, and ownership win,
A husband to replace the guard.

Welcome all... Espeacially You...

Please, inquire within.

-Ivan