Ripping Scales

Not better yet
But I feel a change
Against my will
(so to speak)
And thank God for that…

Missing That Phone Booth

Does it ever get better?
Does the pain make a way?
Do the dead rise again?
Is anything made right?

I miss the tree by that old house
The one we used to oft pretend
Was a phone booth we could change
Inside of into superman.

But heros just in ink and page
Give us just a little hope
Real life flesh and blood is rare
And we do not believe.

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On Evil

Evil speaks in many tongues
And fire burns from every place
It has touched and left again
That we might see its shadow’s face.

In the alleys back in town
And in the mansions countryside
Its breath is whispered in the places
We would never think to hide.

Is there hope against this tide?
This shifting malice in the night
Who will save us from this mist?
That we cannot yet see to fight.

Paths I Would Not Tread

Another morning comes to call
And with it all the many traps
And this is how the way is made
Through the heat and snow.

In Life

There is a sound a coffee maker makes,
a drip pot that is,
a sound it makes right as it finishes
brewing
I want you to think of that sound.

A Prayer In Ernest Now Beginning

But if I sin
Do ears go deaf?
And if I fail
Do eyes go blind?
Will I ever see the sun
Or feel the things my mind would find?

The heart and head have lost their way
And cannot see the other here
But it is Christ that heals the blind
And it is Christ that I now fear.

Death and pain have kept me close
All these years of my short life
But death to self is something else
A wholly different kind of strife.

The morning comes on far too fast
And sleep eludes my weary heart
And in the night the demons scream
And I don’t know just where to start.

Dark Paths Towards Light

And still a fractured self
That hurts and bleeds and cries
And still is slow to trust
Still afraid to obey
Still afraid of stillness.

Does this story end well?
Do we make it out alive?
Is there hope not just then,
but now?
Is this life worth living at all?

How do you trust this Jesus
This God made man
This one you never saw
And never
felt his skin.

Contact Soul Walker

Since my e-mail provider shut down unexpectedly many of you have tried to contact me and been largely unsuccessful. My apologies for that and thank you for being persistent and letting me know (through comments) that you had been trying to get a hold of me. I have found a new provider. If you wish to contact me please send me an e-mail at:

asoulswalk@openmailbox.org

Yes, I missed you too. If anyone has anything to say (good, bad, critical, or otherwise) please drop me a line. I would love to hear from you. Cheers.

Poetry in Depression

It’s nine am and I am almost awake
No alarm
Just starting my coffee
Been up for hours.

What is going on?

I tried to sleep in
I laid there alone
The fire still crack’ling
The dog still asleep.

But change can be abrupt
Seemingly without flow
Little poetry to it
All story.

I had a rhythm
I had seasons
They have been disrupted.

They were not fun
They were not good
They were not healthy
But they were a rhythm
And now they are cracking.

And there is no poetry to it
It is ugly and abrupt
And so I am almost awake
At nine in the morning.

This is a change

Down

How love came down
And I just let it slip
Like so many of us have
Let it slip away
And though we did not see
Until it was too late
Still a lesson throbs
Waiting
For us to learn.