Tag Archives: writing

Obscene Strength

An unexcavated strength,
Veins extracting their toll,
Forms in the deepest, darkest holes,
The abandoned mines of broken-down souls
Possessed by the weakest parts of the whole-

Strength that screams
With foamy lips never dry
At unseen ghosts in black skies,
Weeping for the strangers hobbling by,
Dreaming of consciousness as a closing eye-

Strength still, that looks,
And in looking, sees
All that is and should not be,
The kind of madness compelling, “Flee!”
And all perceived chants agreement-

And in the sweat, the sorrow, and the mud,
The hunger, the loss, the burn of chains,
In thirst, in isolation, in condemnation
The strength tarries-
The soul remains.

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August Ruminations

Here sits the castle of my soul,
Touched by rot and ruin,
Cramped and narrow,
Housing doubts, fears, confusion
Standing room only

This aged mansion
Can’t hold the immensity
The vast expansion
Or colored intensity
Of a summer sunset.

Man from clay,
But here I lie, on earthen hill,
My corridors splay
Insufficient to fill,
To swallow the ground beneath

Incapable of cleansing my stains,
Or repairing my breach,
Created: I cannot contain
These elements beyond my reach
Beyond my reason

But even they have a first:
God’s handiwork unfurled.
He fills to burst the
Confines of this world
That cannot contain Him.

And how small am I?
Woven in the womb’s darkness
By His delicate design
And omnipotent sparks
Of fragility and fate

And I ask Him to abide
In this broken abode.
I ask Him to hide Himself inside,
This God I know
Of fire and radiance

I ask Him into this crumbled pittance
Decaying more each season,
Because denying Him admittance
Is no small treason,

This Creator who can neither be contained,
Nor restrained,
Nor ever moves He in vain.


Strike Anywhere

This under-the-bushel life:
This hush-or-you’ll be seen,
Silent in the strife,
Lucid in the dream,
Choking-out-the-light life

When I should let it burn.

This habit I’ve worn,
These lies I’ve swallowed
Hiding what’s torn,
Filling what’s hollowed
By grief or scorn

With whatever can’t burn,

I keep the wick trimmed
Waiting for an invitation,
But when beckoned, I dim
In reckless hesitation
And sin

Because the light burns

But these dark nights
Call my name
And if light gives sight,
Bring on the flame
It’s time to ignite

My resistance and my purpose
To see what burns,

And what remains.


Self-Deskovery

I miss the road trips
Destination: Me
Always looking to find,
Looking to see,

Look at me now.

I’ve been here,
Been grounded,
But in my stillness
I’m astounded

Hounded by me.

This pen doesn’t aid,
Doesn’t trace my lines
Or uncover my being;
It just reminds me

Of the kinds of me
I’ve already found.


Dammed

I was born into the flow,
The water from my mother’s womb
Rushed forth, followed by the tune
Of all the words I know.

And this river is always pounding
The banks of who I am,
Destroying any dam
Diminishing it’s expanding and expounding

By the time you came along
To a waterline risen
I was completely given
To the current’s song

And you supported me with one word,
But belittled me with the next,
So I read your subtext
And remained unheard

Eleven more years, the waters kept rising,
As we grew into each other,
You were comfortable with the smother,
And I’m skilled at compromising

But the waterline rose all the same
So you adjusted the box you keep me in,
I’m careful where I seep when
I walk around in your name.

Until the day we broke and
All of you entangled
In my flow, suddenly strangled
And forced me unspoken

But we worked our way back again,
I left my words on the stagnant floor
Growing up, heading inshore,
To walk in the land of men

And I’ve barely written since
The tide dried, words don’t persist,
But we still talk like they exist
In the present tense.

Yesterday I called it my work, to hear you say
“If it’s work, you need a new hobby,”
Somehow, it embodied
These years I’ve underplayed

I didn’t wince, or shirk,
I stood erect to face you
To speak my breakthrough
“It’s work; it’s my life’s work.”

All at once, I could see
How simple, how true,
And it doesn’t belong to you
And it doesn’t belong to me

I’m dammed
But it isn’t your fault
I’ve kept sealed my vault
I’ve held this ocean in my hand

Raging in my pen
All my life, I never called it by name
I looked for someone to blame
For the fear I live in

I made you my moon,
Giving you power over the sway
Of in and out, the tidal play
Where my words commune

But these words need the sun
Gold on shimmering waves
Daylight saves
And night should be overrun

But if I succeed,
Whatever success entails,
Or if I fail
The work I achieved

Is my legacy.


Hello, Again

It’s time to reopen
Metered communication
The celebration
Of the mystery of language
And enduring relationship,
Beyond numbing paralysis
Or faithlessness.

It’s time to heap coal
Into the faith,
To fill this space
With the heat waves of hope
Draped in robes of grace
Unearned, but unwasted
On the sole basis

Of His interventions.


The Emperor Has No Clothes

I’ve tried to read
E. E. Cummings
And as an author
I cannot speak ill of the read,
But as a reader
He writes suddenly, without thinking,
And I mostly go unfed.