Paint With the Color of Pain

This poem is really late. I wrote it early this year and then "let it sit." But I came back to it today and it actually convicted me. So, on that note, here you go--

Paint with the Color of Pain
(Written for Bethany Rose, anyone who needs it, and for myself)

So brittle 

I might break.

What's it like 

not to ache?

Pushed it too far--

my mistake.

This smile

is getting

hard
to fake.

I ask the inevitable, 

dear Lord, why me?

I look down the long road.

I'm so weary.

It's part of Your plan,

but did it have to be?

My pain and confusion 

are all I can see.

So strange

how short my memory.

My wish for change

gets the best of me.

To not feel pain--

how glad I'd be!

But I'd forget that

once I was freed.

The rose is perfect,

the shape of grace

and heavenly peace

upon its face.

But see the color,

the brightest red

like the living blood

our Savior bled.

The color of both

joy and sorrow

--scarlett--

it chases the sunset

and

heralds tomorrow.

The trials are ugly

because you stand too close:

step back,

they're the spiraling petals

that form the rose.

This is meant to make you look

in the right direction,

so that His plan

and your purpose

won't escape your detection.

Do you want your life to be
built on a cloud
 that shifts more than sand,
 is a fast-fading pink?
 That deep, bright, bold red speaks
clear and loud:
 it spells "suffered but saved"
in permanent ink.

So remember the heartbreaking
 beauty
your life will retain
when He chooses
 to paint
with the color 
of pain.

Playing War to Pass the Time

This is a poem I wrote for a literature class in response to a story by James Joyce using the themes "escape" and "the passing of time." The story is about a boy who reads Detective and Wild West stories and plays Indians wars with his friend but still feels that he is lacking something. He finally decides to play truant from school and explore a nearby city. In case you are wondering how that turned out, he saw the sites, bought sweets,  but then he met a crazy stranger and came away from the encounter rather shaken, having learned his lesson.

Playing War to Pass the Time

He played at war to pass time,
but  time lead him to believe
he heard a call, a distant chime:
“For true excitement, you must leave.”

For he was trapped within routine
and the dulling colors of life;
pretend adventures lost their sheen:
A boy's no warrior! A stick's no knife!

He sits inside a shrinking room
hour after ponderous hour.
Facts and figures, this tedious doom
would crush his dream while still in flower.

To be a traveler-oh what glory-
in his land the sharpest mind,
quick and dangerous like in stories:
there's not one outlaw he can't find.

He thinks that he might risk a scrape.
He quells the thought, but he still finds
he cannot find a real escape
in playing war to pass the time.

This is the Real World

This is the real world

where thunder reels the world.

The wild wind steals the world.

The huge sky fits the world.

The lightning splits the world.

The ocean tips the world.

The earthquake rips the world.

The mountains top the world

And wartime rocks the world.

But they can't burn the world

'cause God's hand turns the world.

And it won't end 'till he wants it to.

Even so...come, Lord Jesus, come.

As beautiful as earth can be,

the better world needs not the sun.

Only the Son.

Homesick Heidi

I cannot see the mountains

I've looked through every window:

rooftops block the horizon-

I can't shut my hope in, though.

It seems I want for nothing,

but something's eating up my soul;

Lock a free thing in a prison

and time will surely take its toll.

My feet wear shoes I don't need;

I walk on heartless cobblestone.

I've never seen so many people,

nor have I felt so alone.

I've looked for things I know about

but everything here's strange.

The swirling crowds are driven on-

I cannot bear this change.

Where is green rocky freedom?

And where the wild rains?

They stare like I'm a heathen,

but they're the ones in chains.

I ran to climb the tower,

but nothing of it came:

my mountains, they were nowhere.

The city looked the same.

Live colors fade from mem'ry

Saphire, gold, and indigo.

The mountains seem worlds away.

I can't shut my hope in though.

Thanks, Discouragement, for Asking!

I imagined one day I met two of Me,
and I pictured them sitting side by side.
The Me on the right was writing frantically.
the Me on the left dared ask why she tried.

While the Right Me wrote, the Left Me sat still
as if she was working for an opposite will.
She sat idly, her hands folded in her lap,
her eyes closed, creativity taking a nap.

Left Me asked Right Me, "Aren't you discouraged?"
The poet continued to write.
"Not being like you is reason to be encouraged."
But her grasp on her pencil grew tight.

"I guess you're not like me, 'cause I would give up now,"
said the slacker, trying once more:
"You don't like what you've written, you think it is worthless,
and your penmanship's almost as poor!"

"If I don't keep trying, I'll never get better;
now please let me finish this verse!"
Left scoffed, "Please, the meter's barely holding together:
if anything, this piece just gets worse!"

Left continued: "Forgive me, I don't understand--
you scribble and scrawl until pain cramps your hand.
I really don't know how this comes over you.
Writing poetry's silly, so why do what you do?"

Right Me slammed down her pencil,
looked Left straight in the eye.
"Okay, so you asked for it--
I'll tell you why!'

"It's structured and satisfying,
easy to write;
When things do fall into place
the poem glows in the light!"

"Furthermore, poetry, by nature, must be concise.
No long-winded sentences! (My incorrigible vice:
when I read over them later, I think I might as well keep
my thoughts to myself since my reader's asleep!)

"The balance and rules
give the words symmetry;
When I find rhymes and count syllables
 It's like composing a symphony."

Then, Right Me looked at her pencil
as if she'd come home.
She turned the page,
knuckled down,
and
she
wrote
you
this
poem.

God and Man: The Story

 MAN

                                         

 Breakers of rules

Scoffing the wise

Ungrateful fools

Makers of lies

Angry

Deceptive

And

Willfully blind

Helplessly

Hopelessly

Lost

Mankind

     

GOD

                         

The Infinite Being

Who numbered our days

Glorious Father

Most worthy of praise 

He knows every thought

That’s entered your mind

He’s unendingly wise

And

 Immeasurably kind 

The Lord of the Earth

Of whom Angels sing

Everlasting Word

And

Heavenly King

He gave speed to the fleet deer

Brute strength to the ox

Flight to the eagle

And

Cunning to the fox 

Blessed Creator 

Unblemished Lamb

Most Powerful

All-knowing 

The Holy

I AM

The Story

  The gulf between God and man 
was immeasurably wide;

It had been deepened by hate 
and lengthened by pride.

   That dark abyss- which men themselves had dug- forever denied   

their privilege to walk with God
and be at His side.

They could never bridge the gap
 no matter how hard they tried.

So man, whose life 
is like but a breath

and who’s sea of transgression 
had him inevitably doomed 

was justly condemned 
to an eternal death

and be by hell fire 
forever consumed. 

But God, whose eternal goodness 
is unendingly wide,

and whose forgiveness is far stronger 
than all of man’s pride,

loved the world so greatly 
that He gave up His only Son

to live perfectly the life of man 
and then to be the One

to pay the thing which men could not: 
their own sin’s costly price.

He gave up His life upon a cross 
as the ultimate sacrifice 

   The temple curtain was torn in two, 
and the day became like night.

The sun was lost in darkness, 
and nowhere was there light.

The earth was shaken violently, 
and mighty boulders broke.

Nearby the graves were opened,
and the dead within awoke.

In the cool of a sealed and guarded tomb 
His lifeless body lay.

All hope seemed lost, His friends despaired, 
then dawned that third and glorious day 

when Christ arose-no longer dead-
with majesty unveiled...

Death is dead and sin is crushed--
He fought both and prevailed!

He then ascended into heaven 
and sat down at God’s right hand.

 So all who live for worldly pleasures
 have built their lives on shifting sand.

For their pursuits are for a moment,
 and with their riches they will fade.

But all who follow Christ will live, 
for, with His love, they are remade.

A Greater Cause

Every Little Thing

Every little thing I do

Is the serving of a greater cause

Whether it’s the fueling of a fruitless feud

Or furthering the work of God.

Now isn’t it odd

That it’s the big things we focus on

When we know the larger matters are founded

On the smaller stuff they’re built upon.

Do you really know where you need to go?

Do you see the smaller things in working harmony?

Do you perceive all of the parts that fit just right

and move together to form your life?

And just how much were you shown of

the greater plan you did not write? 

What is this that you would change?

And, by contrast, look at things that have passed:

See how the greater things become small

Compared to him who is Lord over them all,

Who knows the future as well as the past,

And all of the things that will truly last. 

With whom and what do you exchange?

It hurts to stretch, stretch, stretch

My soul

In places I don’t want to admit exist.

 I don’t want to acknowledge

The hole

That is still there

When I’m making money hand over fist,

or when I’m on top of the world
thinking I'm the one in control.
In essence,

when I have my way

I plan the day

and throw it away,

and then

I get up

and do it again

without thinking about my story’s end.

But it isn’t as far off as it would seem,

and I don’t have as much power as I would deem.
It's all pretend.

Every little thing I do

is the serving of a greater cause

whether it’s the fueling of a fruitless feud

or furthering the work of God.

Get a handle on your dreams,

make your priorities the ones that last.

no matter how busy life seems,

don’t forget the bigger picture

because you’re kind of in it.

You’ve been appointed an eternal life:

wake up, shake off the dust,

begin it.

Fall Poems

Here are two poems I wrote last Fall on two sequential mornings. 

Trees are turning, geese call,

heralding winter, this is Fall.

Cool air, bird's sound,

cricket's chirp, wet ground.

Gurgling trickle, soft grass,

moving water, squirrels pass.

Pent-up storm, looming trees,

tense yet frantic, gentle breeze.

Colder now, squawk and flutter,

air-born chase, wind mutters.

Whispering distance, gray sky,

silence warns, birds fly.

------------------------

Today--not like yesterday!

Still cold, I grant

But the birds, they chant,

"The sun will be warm, it shines bright!"

The deck was glazed with droplets,

I slipped across.

A tiny piece of water in this world

'twould soon be lost.

The grass is soft

and glassy with silver beads.

My bare feet slip by in fine, liquid mists

through the gentle reeds.

Then, back! The birds, they sing!

My feet take wing--

dance across cold stone

on toes alone.

Then, I smile behind.

Half foot-marks I find:

They lack their heels.

Silent laughter peels. 

Autumn

The Fall,

It's not quite here yet,

Visibly,

Vividly,

Oh, how I love it!

Even my moist and tickled nose

Cannot dampen the striking affect

Of bright orange

And red

And yellow

And yes, some clinging green

Against the bright blue of the sky.

Fresh clouds float by,

Or swiftly fly.

In the springtime

There is a chill yet clinging to the earth,

Like a frozen blanket.

Then, it slowly warms,

Like numb fingers

Held to a fire,

and joyfully blossoms

into sunlight.

Is then Fall the opposite?

As the spring comes after the cold,

Is the Autumn then a chill prelude to Winter?

"Nay!" Says the flaming world.

Are not the first timid frosts that come too early

Chased back by the burning leaves of Autumn?

“Go back!” they cry, with voices warm and crackling with laughter,

“It is not yet your time! Go back to the frozen wastes, your turn has not yet come!

“Do you not know that first must come cheeks flushed like the ripe apple, and wild romps with a merry crunching underfoot? Do you not know that first comes the Harvest, and rolling down leaf covered hills and flashlight-lit games in the dark before the weather turns 

too chill?

“Do you not know that this is the time for bonfires and fingers sticky with warm marshmallow? For clear voices ringing in the crisp air and light feet not yet sucked down into the close, snowbound world?

“This is the time to fly for all those who know how, with sweater half off,

hair streaming behind,

and feet that do not seem to touch the ground.”

“Go back, chill frosts, go back! Go back! It is not get your time!”

The cool Fall air is not the breath of Winter!

Rather it is part of the vigorous song

of Autumn:

playful,

perky

and full of cheer.

Hear the Fall birds singing in 

trees still dressed in their splendor!

Hear the rake scraping

warm, dry ground,

and the rustling explosion in yonder towering pile. 

What went flying upwards

now comes fluttering down again.

Out of the leaves pops

a child’s head.

Up he springs and runs

back to his starting point

to charge back

and dive

into the pile once more.

The dazzling colors

celebrate

the birth of a new season

rather

then the funeral of the old.

This joyful tune does not change

Until the world becomes

Bare and gray

And the wind is a fierce

Icy whisper.

*But even winter has its beauty.*

God: Praise Him!!!

          God: a series about our Lord meant to encourage.

             God,

                                            You made everything--
                                                                                                    You need nothing
                                                                                                                                                  I can give...
                     
                                             nothing
                                                                                         at all.




        If I were to praise You
                                                   
                                    every moment
                                                         
                                                                                                in every minute
                                                                                                         in every hour
 
                                                                                                                                                                   of every day

     
   For the rest of my life,

                         

       It could never be enough!

And yet,You care,

Though I fall short of the mark.

You chose to suffer

and to pay

for me.

Marvelous Grace!! 

Live I Only?
 Live I only to serve You?

Live I only to praise?

Live I only to adore You,

And so sing for the rest of my days? 

Yes, for this end did You make me;

Yes, for this only was I made:

And those who are to be with You for eternity

Have all their joys and their hopes on You stayed.

You Were Made To Serve The Lord!

To the seeking child

She said to me

"I wanna be

like you,

you always seem to know

just what to do.

"I wanna way

of expression,

I wanna make

an impression,

I wanna way

for me to say

well, this is me-

what I'm s'posed to be!

"Only I can't see--

I feel restless,

nestless,

like I'm the only one

 who's on my own...

all alone.

Cause I don't know

who I am."

And the more I think of what she said to me, 
of how she didn't know who she was made to be.... 
although I don't quite know how, 
I feel I need to tell her now:
 cause I have this burden of grief 
that she can't find relief.

You were made

to serve the Lord!

And all You gotta do 

to start to know Him

is pick up His Word.

And I know you've heard this before,

cause He's thrown open the door

so many times!

And I know that this thought

can seem really far

from who and what we think we are,

but what you gotta do

is think little thoughts about you

and bigger thoughts about God.

That's what you were made for,

that is who you are!

You are here to serve a God

who is nearby and never far!

And though He doesn't need us,

(you just keep that in your mind!)

He still loves us deeply,

 for He's wonderfully kind!

That's what you were made for,

it is who you are!

You were made to praise Him,

and to serve Him.

And though we will never deserve Him,

that's just one more reason why

we'll lift His praise on high

and fill the sky

as much as it can hold:

for His justice,

and His compassion, 

for a grace that fills the world.

We praise Him for His righteous passion--

that He gave us this great gift of love.

And we praise Him 

for His mercy untold.

That is who you are.


~Bird's eye view~
Better perspective

The mighty birds,
the kings of the air--
the hawks, the eagles, and the falcons---
they soar up high,
pierce through blue sky;
then they streak down low
with their own winds blow.

Could creatures such as this
have come from nothing?
No!

I watch them:they fascinate me;
their majesty amazes me.
Awe and inspiration;
for the beauty, admiration.

They reflect their Creator.
He made them for His own pleasure,
and he shares it with us.

Man is the only (mortal) creature who can appreciate God's handiwork and glorify Him because of it.
And is that not what is intended?
Is that not what we were made for?