Where Are You?

Blistering morning come to find
A place of peace from my own mind
That let’s me ward the harshest chill
And keeps me from the growing ill.

Torn to find the pieces whole
Lost to find the wand’ring soul
Left behind to fight or die
Always wanting to ask why.

Least in numbers here we wait
At the fore behind the gate
Never do we seem to see
All the blessings found in Thee.

But He Can Always Speak

From here
on the floor
with the grains of the wood
and the stains of blood
and whiskey
from here is where I rise.

Splinters in the wood
and scratches all around
become the grain of life
and so we find a path
and pattern
in the most unlikeliest of places–
on this floor.

There are lines that speak of order
even down so low as this
and it is God’s sweet grace
to open our eyes that we might see
the lines beneath the whiskey
and dirt
and blood.

Understanding Heaven

I don’t understand heaven at all.

I have never been there.

I’m sure I could give you all sorts of answers from books
and tell with sophisticated terms of art what is and isn’t described
in one particular book.

But I have never been there
and don’t know that it stays the same
and couldn’t tell you much at all
of all the beasts both wild and tame.

And people with their anger shout
And cry and scream and shake their fists
And claim that it could never be
And rail against the thought of lists.

And so the world continues on
spinning with no heart to feel.

Are there streets so paved with gold?
Are there gates beset with pearls?
Do the agèd not grow old?
I could not tell you, not at all.

For I have never been.

And this is how I understand heaven:

If God sends me to hell forever
I will bend my knee and praise Him still.

I’m Sorry You Had to Go My Friend

Three days ago
you killed yourself
and now as I sit here
It occurs to me,
it occurs to me that Jesus sweated blood.
It occurs to me that He asked if there was another way.
There wasn’t.

So if I try and drown my agony out
with some sort of sin or foolishness
it just won’t work.

I cannot escape the agony.

No one escapes the agaony.

Jesus did not escape the agony.

So as I sit here not sleeping
Feeling my pain
I guess it just has to hurt right now
and maybe it has to hurt often
but I guess right now anyways
I just have to feel
and that feeling is pain.

It goes beyond my understanding
and I have tried to run from it
but that (so it would seem)
is just not the way.

There is peace
and even joy
but so this life brings other things
and suffering was promised to
every son of man.

And to the children
so elect
by the wisdom of our God
was also promised suffering.

And so in agony I sit
And pray you found your way back home
the days just got a little longer
now that you are gone.

What is beautiful?

What is beautiful?
Is it an aesthetic ideal?
Is it a certain shape or colour?
Can we tell it from another?
Do we pass it every day?
In the streets we never see?
Do we miss what lies beneath?
Do we see what shows up front?
Can we tell if we touch?
Is it something to compare?

What is beautiful?
When Eve was first upon his eye?
Did he think to ask for more?
Or different?
First of women she was there
But surely beauty isn’t this:
“better than a goat.”

But what is beautiful?
I’ve seen a baby make me cry
Just because of beauty
But some are fat and some are thin
and some are round and some so small
And some are sick and some are well
but everyone I ever saw touched me in my soul
with their beauty.

What is this beautiful?
It makes you want to cry out
and sometimes cry
it cannot be denied
and does not care for explanation
and somehow seems connected
to Truth.

But what is beautiful?
Am I tuned to see it here?
Could I sift it from the pain?
Could I even say a word,
That made it clear to see again?

It is here but I can’t speak
It is there but I can’t say
I know it when I see it near
As I pass it every day.

Brown Beauty

This is not a poem about a black girl
This is about a horse.

Have you ever seen a wild horse galloping across a field?
Have you ever felt the presence of the beauty of God’s creation?
Have you ever looked into her eye and felt a peace you could not explain?

We people like labels
Or at least we seem to–
given the amount we use them.

We pigeon-hole and judge
and stereotype and then prejudge–
all before lunch.

We act as though political correctness
(so we call it)
has something to do with love, understanding, and respect.

Of course,
it does not.

But a horse has majesty
It does not need our words
It does not need my words
does not need these words.

She does not concern herself with race
She is beautiful.
She does not concern herself with names
She is beautiful.
She does not concern herself with groups
except her band.

She is beautiful and her dignity is beyond what we with our pride usually can see.

When she runs it is as though the whole of creation rejoices
But we care about names
We care about colour
We care about money
We care about power
We care about ourselves and we pay so little attention to our band.

I have seen the brown beauty in the wild and she is wonderful.
We have thin skins and selfish hearts and we do not see each other hardly at all.
We care about fat and thin
We do not see.
We care about tall and short
We do not see.
We care about black and white
We are blind and we run away from the things that would heal us.

Brown beauty,
Who gallops across the plains
Is a gift that we should cherish,
And from her learn.