Cradled

Peace,
The very nature of rest,
Is strangely found in the bosom of love.

Surprise being the tool of this delight,
It dazzles he to whom it is given.

Life is quick,
But true passion,
Steady.

The purest passions being those that calm us most,
Moments of real love do not inspire us to action only,
But reflection and...

Peace.

When, Still, Hope

When tools fail,
when notions die,
when words fall short,
when you feel so lost,
when the help you offer seems just as good as none at all,
when emotions force long drawn breaths,
when you say goodbye,
it hurts.


Just like hoping.

But still you say it,
still you stop,
still you love,
still you hurt,
still you die inside.


Still you hope.

Still you live.


Still you hope.

Still you live.


Still you hope.

Still you live,

And Faith brings Glory down.

Sharing

Seeing, but not seen.
Feeling, but not felt.
Lonely and alone in all but love, joy, sadness and pain.

For these know no distance.

One,
no matter how far,
knows of these in themselves.

One may not feel it,
but they share it.

Loves.
Joys.
Sadnesses.
Pains.

These they know.
These they share.
For in these they are one.

Heart Beat

Do you know how a heart gets its beat? Like all the best pairs God creates them as a team; creates the beat and heart so that they compliment each other perfectly. But the final union of the two is hard to come by, for many hearts and beats never find each other...

In the mysterious way of wisdom that the Lord has He does not bond the heart and beat at their creation. He lets them wander if they will ( which they always do) and to seek the existence that they desire. They may wander for ages, they may wander for days, months or years. Some will never find what they most desire, some will never realize that what they want is right beside them. But some will find each other, pulled by the love of unity that the Father has instilled in them.

The heart, once it comes into its full existence and knowledge of its desire, sits in the chest of its host growing in size and complexity. Being mostly of the material world it can do nothing but grow in the hope that it will find that beat that compliments it perfectly, and that then it may expel the forcefulness of that beat out into the world around it with the life-giving tones of perfect harmony.

The beat, being almost completely of the soul's world, moves about in that place beyond and yet about us, testing the world for a place to dwell, a place to make a home and thrive in. A place to give birth to the cantering dance within it.

The as the heart nears the time of decision it strains in the chest, listening for the rhythm of its beat... waiting... yearning...

and the beat too strives to find its heart... crying out for it heart... louder... louder...

until that moment, that moment where they touch ever so lightly through the knit of time, space and soul... exploring the being of the other, hoping for hope's sake that this is the one that they have been made for...

All Heaven holds its breath... until that moment of eternity where the Father smiles, the Son cries and the Spirit joins them in Joy!

Thump-Thump! Thump-Thump! Thump-Thump!

Whole at last, never to be parted, as they make the music of life.

Out of Sight...

I woke this morning to confusion: something was wrong.

I felt as though I had lost one of my senses.

I looked for my lost sense in the mirror, but saw nothing of it.
My hands groped for it, and felt naught.
I sniffed the air for it, and got nothing but a sore chest.

So, lacking though I felt I went to breakfast.
As I sat eating my cereal,
listening to the crunching inside my skull,
I wondered upon what I was missing.

I turned to my ask my love what she thought,
and realized she was gone.

Eternal Moments

A true lover's kiss,
once given,
cannot be taken.
It cannot be stolen by time or distance,
neither friends nor family.

And just as no earthly thing may take it,
neither may Death.

Christ still kisses those He loves.

So God honours the kisses of lovers,
whenever, wherever they be.
For with love there is truth.

So by loving,
lovers become most like Him.
This is how some find that they are a lover:
by discovering that the kiss of their love does not leave them,
staying constant as can be, with them always.

Eyes

Two beds of onyx,
inscribed with beaten bronze flames radiating out of that perfect,
deep, black circle.
Moss, cool green against that heated metal,
grows in from the rims of those domed rocks.
Cool and wet white sand surrounds the stones,
in contrast to them, yet feeding their deep wells of thoughtfulness.

Light clouds throw playful shadows across their mindful surfaces,
intelligence reflects as lightning flashes while storms come and go.
While the smooth surfaces reflect the surrounding sky and all its glory,
the depths are so calm,
their elements so refined,
nothing in this world or the next could shake them save their Maker.

And then she blinks,
I'm drawn back to the present.
I look away, self aware again.

Confusion of the Seasons

In winter the ground freezes.
Leafs hide in the the stems.
Stems grasp the ground with their roots.

Rain pelts the plant with cold hard water,
water that in other seasons would make the plant glad
but now makes it fear for it's well-being.

Fear of death knocks with every drop that falls:
shaking the stem, ripping the leafs.
But hope remains.

For where there's light there's hope.
And though clouds may crowd the sky
no shadow lights upon the plant.

This water thrown from above
may yet serve the needs of the plant.
Roots may grow deeper, leafs larger and stems longer.

This frozen rain will feel the warmth of the sun,
and as the plant too feels this love from Heaven
the water will be sopped from the soil and feed it's growth.

Winter comes every year,
but never alone.
Spring will always follow.

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?