The Irony of Reverse Engineering God's Presence

Not enough yesterday.
For tomorrow, more.
Coaxed and prodded to effort,
somehow to absorb.
Time with the maker
of time 
somehow spent
aside of this interest,
undefined, yet meant?

Directionally challenged,
diverted,...
disposed to noticing trivia.
This way,
no one knows
how invisible focused
the eyes might well be
in a frame to outside
reflections caught
there to see.

Isolated by mystery
and unclaimed intent
while the visible
routine looms
most imminent,
like work and long drives,
the house somehow clean,
children at the pool....
How, then, the unseen?
For when it all ends
with a breath
and a sigh,
to what does the soul
release with a cry?

Always there in the fabric,
present, default threads,
the existence of God,
no life  is without.
Despite attributions
to accident or fate
in attempt to restructure
as if almost too late,
adding in what was not
to design in reverse?
Such ironic endeavors
only make things seem worse.

He is already present
and working
and there.
Just notice,
acknowledge,
rejoice that he cares.

God's Bandage

Raw-cut injuries
ooze treatment
from within
the unnatural flow
by consequence
in natural egress
through the tear,
congealing,
hardening
into a tough crust
of was-not-right.
Scrape away too early
and leave a scar.
Wounds need time
and patience
before a touch.
Cleanse lightly
against rot, but
leave the dark coating
of cautious protection.
Then, by design,
the bandage
falls away,
unexpectedly,
like a gift
to patience,
and we remember
what it is
to live smooth
and un-clotted.

---

It's hard not to touch the wounded, for poking and prodding at wounds is a part of our culture. But so long as there is no bitter root causing gangrene in the soul, it's okay for the hurt to be covered over, protected and distanced from too much touch, too much contact, too much ... Because God designed a natural bandage, after all, and it works better than the ones bought in a store. Healing doesn't need to happen in an instant. God works through time, too. And weeping before God isn't a sin, until one day the weeping flows to a natural end, and there is a story of sustenance and healing to share.

I wish I could heal every hurt heart I know.... But sometimes all I can do is know that God has it under control.

To the Thief

I thought of you again today,
and remembered to pray
for your heart to become
motivated by generosity
and compassion.
You didn't know
when you deceived me,
that you would be held
before a gracious God
until memory fades
or perhaps
forever.
And I learned so much
from the foolish feeling
of having freely given to
an undeserving one,
and now see more clearly
when I try to con God
and He gives gifts to me
anyway.
So, I cannot regret,
knowing I was protected,
seeing more clearly;
and pray for your heart
upon every memory of you
because, after all,
God knew
you would come to my door.

Forward

Sometimes I'm confused
as to what direction I'm going.
There are so many possibilities
tugging at my inclinations,
some not so possible,
others potentially legitimate
with enough invested attention.
But in the end,
they contain the same dream
I've always had,
just wrapped in
different packaging.
And it's okay
to be where I am
along the way
to the future
moving forward
as best I can.
Because it's about
sharing what I've been given.
And what I don't have
isn't really a factor
in that equation.

 As a side note, this is what I've been working on for the past few days. Every moment I spend finding out what it will be becomes a new delight of discovery. It's so beautiful that I can't really claim it. I hope I don't ruin it before I'm done! When it's finished I'll post a good image and tell you the poem of its making.

This is the way that little girl lived...

She was me, or I was her,
either way,
she dreamed of becoming
--not me,
but someone like me--
except,
she wanted to get here
by wandering rose-lined pathways,
and thought
grown-ups don't suffer
or have to let go
of their wishes
and are loved
for what they are
instead of always having to become.

She lived idyllic
in a dreamy way,
wrapped in mists
of wistful hopes
and happier in each moment
than I am now
though I seem to remember
she hurt, too,
as I do 
and for many of the same reasons.

It seems we are the same
she and I
and even after years of changes
our hearts look toward the same sky
and see shapes in the clouds,
realizing the beauty
of a Creator
who made us a part of it all;
and breathe poetry
and pictures
and dreams;
and wish
that everyone could know
how beautiful
life can be.

---

Photo - me as a kid, in a jump-rope contest on field day at the mission boarding school in Bolivia; probably taken by my parents.

The Dream Behind the Theory

 (The initial post for a second blog that I ended up just bringing over to join the main after all.)

I don't plan on advertising this space, it is meant to grow naturally and find its place quietly, without fuss or drama. Or, rather, I plan on pouring excess fuss and drama into these pages, in hopes that they will settle down quietly and behave themselves, as fuss and drama never seem to do, no matter how they are manipulated.

Dreams, by their nature, have a tendency to be impractical, implausible and impossible. Daydreams are just another step along that ladder, though they tend to last longer and develop into story-lines that consume large portions of idle time (and sometimes even times when the mind ought to have been attending other, more important, matters).

Rather than evading, avoiding, and generally pretending my dreams and daydreams don't exist, I'm going to stash them here where like-minded, bored, or vaguely interested readers may eventually encounter them.

Some of these dreams might become valid goals, or even have the potential to become the life-work of some enterprising individual. I shall applaud those who say to me, "I live this dream!" Because, after all, if I can't do it, I'd like to enjoy the knowledge that someone does, and that they actually commented on my site. I think it's partially the desire to find people who live these random dreams, and to touch their cloaks (so to speak) that is part of the impetus toward making this idea into some sort of reality, even though it's virtual ... which is often more real than the term implies.

Some of the coming posts will be pure fantasy. If I post some story about encountering aliens, it will be easy to classify. To be clear, I'm going to classify the dreams I post. I'll make a separate post about the classifications, though, because I intend to link to it so those who don't understand will have a place to research my use of terms and phrases. This is known as grandiose pre-planning. But, one can always be prepared, even for audiences that may not arrive. It's just not generally considered wisdom in such a case, but rather a strong evidence of lunacy. Considering the types of tales I shall soon proceed to pour out, this label will not be surprising. In fact, I'm already planning to pretend not to hear it.

Speaking of deafness, or pre-planning ... I think I'll accept guest posts also. Consider this fair warning,... or a call to contribute. If you like to dream, you can send me your dream and I will consider posting it ... along with my usual follow-up commentary, or yours should I happen to agree with it. Only do keep in mind that I shan't even consider anything I wouldn't read out loud to a large group of young children and their parents.

Did I mention the commentary? Every dream needs a solid dose of reality. This will show up in a post-script following the written dream. No matter what flights of fancy I may choose to expose to the world (or expose the world to) ... well, you'll see. I think. Or, rather, you'll see if you happen to be around, and if I actually continue to post here, which occurrence is somewhat debatable given my strong urge to merely dream and never do.
---
I am making announcements to empty space.

Certifiably strange, I think.

Deep Current

Amid the flow of common cause
a current, strong enough, gives pause
to strongest will, direction ceased
follows along, conformed, deceased.
Thoughts like fire within the deep
blaze up in tendrils, wave and sweep;
bring new dimensions to inspire
hope, direction and desire.

---

I've discovered my drawings are propelled by the tools implemented. I only purchased orange and yellow markers on Saturday, and already new and surprising forms have taken shape upon the page. I crafted the poem to fit what I invested/discovered* in the image.

*Really, there is no way to know whether I discover or invest to create art. Drawing is like a conversation for me. What is already on the page communicates itself and I find new thoughts in every glance. I pour the concept back into colors and lines, and find new and unexpected directions every time.

Whirlwind

Emerging existence blooms
in the awesome wonder
of a word.
What a whirlwind
grows from such a breath!

---

Colored pencil and sharpies on cardstock.

Autumn Sunset

Time slips its fingers through the sky
wrapping summer memories
with tendrils of light;
gilding radiance
on the edges
of quiet
night.

---

Marker and colored pencil on card stock.

Burn

Coiled within, tension
rises beyond confinement,
an incendiary device
prepared to burn.

---

There will be more in this style coming soon.

Emptying of Emptiness

So much to release
and to hold
in gradual rhythm
like the cool touch
of autumn
colors the leaves
before they drop,
and drift
across landscape
to huddle in furrows
decomposing, nurturing
new growth.
Here, then,
in the frozen chill
my soul awaits
fresh sap,
filling and flowing,
green buds,
and delicate veins
of leaves
and blossoming flowers.
Fruit is promised,
not once,
not twice,
but cycled through life
in a rhythm
of emptying
and filling,
of fullness
and loss.
Clinging to either state
opposes the flow
and process.
Expecting stasis
is blindness.

Threads

The places I want to be

are not

I touch them like clouds

drifting past my fingers

with only the damp remaining

and I dream a tendril, like fiber

clinging to my fingers

making hope of what

is not

and directing the steps of now

into a future of

may be

What I Do... 10 words

I gather experience, refined into impressions of word and art.

---

This thought was prompted by a post by Adam Parsons.

What do you do, in ten words or less?

Knowing True - part 1

This study
in every detail,
tracing the lines
and reflections
of the genuine,
handling the texture
till fingers know
without sight
the meaning
of what they hold,
complete understanding
of make and nature
exposes
any fraud.

Once Upon the Sky

"I should have known,"
Sky said,
gently cradling the rainbow.
"Only moments ago,
I knew
I would never smile again,
and my tears flooded
from shadows
greater than the sun.
Yet now that you're here,
it is as though
I had never wept at all,
as I hold the sun's treasure
and gift of hope."

Midnight Words

Midnight words slip by
and secrets unfold
removing the caution
locked in the light
with gentle erasure.
Reveling beneath the tender glow
of the moon,
whisps of clouds, silver,
and distant stars,
they drip like dew,
exhaled
upon the breath,
an unacknowledged moisture
usually ignored,
now caught
within shadowed silence
upon the spun web
of drifting page.
Wait, now,
for the glistening touch
of dawn.

Unready

Changing from what was
to what is

in the passage of flames,
every breath consumed
by fire
and yet no element
lost
or
missing
when the remnants
gather together anew,
twisting upon vapor
amid the precise rhythm
of shaping hammer
and fire-proof hands
while the chill
of waiting
drips cool water
upon the stone pathway.

These Voices

A whisper of air
presses through lungs
distracted from breath
by the combined voices
of reason and dreams.
...
Look afar
at the broad horizons
and unlimited distances
ready to fly.
Ah, no
see here the well-trod trail,
markers fixed deep into the earth.
Listen now
to the uplifting call
of a voice too near
to hear without silence.
Yet words
long-written define
the boundaries of wisdom.
And yet
anchor possibility
and all that might be
and will be good;
for the wind blows wide
and the air nourishes
through any breath
whether stifled or deep.
But look
to the surrounding walls
and be satisfied
with what you may reach.
And here
in stale air, recycled,
plant pale flowers
amid the wilting trellises
of good enough?
But danger 
lies beyond the crumbling walls;
and paths less traveled
wear cloaks of treachery
beneath the mighty trees.
Yet still
the wind sings softly
among the branches,
and the mystery of flight
comes with the light of day
and guilds the wings
entrusted alongside faith.
Does pride
redefine a protecting cloak
as wings ready to unfurl?
Beckoning hope
resurrects with every taste
of truth and light,
for the desire remains
to reach the distance
and fly the height
of good works prepared
from the foundation
of the world.
Then open
this gate of hope
and cup feathers
around the wind
and we shall see
whether there is
flight or falling.
...
And the night stills
in anticipation
of the dawn.