Bigger Plan

She meant no disrespect.

There was only pain of loss.

“Where were you?”

                           she cried.

“If you had been here…”

His eyes took in everything.

Earth.  Sky.  Death.

The last was not meant for

for the brother she lost.  or anyone else.

                           He cried.

She knew who he was.

Had seen and heard the signs.

She had called.  He did not come.

Not soon enough.

“Your brother will rise again.”

Death was never meant to be the final answer.

Its icy fingers would be broken, she knew.

Someday.

Messiah?  Of course He is. 

Such word carries ramifications beyond imagination.

He says:

“I am the Resurrection and the Life.”

Who talks like this?

What could it mean?

She had loved Him so.

Her sister had too.

“The Teacher is here.”

Mary came running.  She loved being near Him.

Even when grieving.

How wonderful a miracle it would have been

to remove the disease, cure the hurts, restore health.

He had done so before, for strangers

         but now…  dashed hope

It is too much to bear to see the stone moved.

Leave him to his rest.

Then a voice,

the same voice

that set planets to spinning, suns to burn, oceans to gather

spoke again:

“Lazarus!  Come Out!”

LOL

LOL

God must be busy.

I tried calling several times

                  -  straight to voicemail.

Maybe he is screening his calls.

He does have a universe to run.

Maybe my hurts, pains, and worries

are trivial and mundane.

Why won’t he call me back?

Waiting.

Waiting.

I picked up that leather book in order to

pass the time.

What is this?

The longest text message ever!

How did I miss that?

More Than a Tree

More Than a Tree

I tried to write a poem about a tree one day

Even though I knew it was cliché.

I wanted to talk about roots that run deep

Beside a river that never sleeps.

About storms that come to rage and blow,

And broken branches under heavy snow.

I wanted to write with intricate rhymes

About beautiful days and difficult times.

And how through drought and floods it still firmly stands

Still catching the sunlight with leafy hands.

Bent, but not broken, day after day

Refusing to stop lifting arms to pray.

I wanted to write about a tree,

Turns out, I was writing about me.

The Gate

The Gate

Many hundreds walking shoulder to shoulder

passed through the illuminated, gold-colored gate.

They wore the same smile and gleam in the eye

that comes from being captain of one’s own fate.

But off to the side of the road stood a boy

watching the crowds like sheep walk by.

He imagined there was nothing of value

and the gate was naught but a pretty lie.

Not sure where to go, he turned and saw

a man in the trees heading his way.

His steps were steady, his steps were light,

though two crossed beams on his shoulders lay.

The man said, “I know of a gate that is different

and much smaller than the one that you see.

And I know the owner who welcomes the weary,

And there is none who is greater than He.

The boy did follow and never looked back

nor did he worry about what it might have cost.

He listened closely and knew it was the truth

the things told him by the man with the cross.

The Gate was narrow.  Only one at a time

could go through, and the Master welcomed him home.

Then the boy was instructed to go and find more

and was then given a cross of his own.

That cross, it was heavy though he didn’t complain

for his footsteps and heart gladly took the weight.

And his mission in life was to carry that cross

and show other travelers the Way to The Gate.

Walking

Walking

Walk by my side

I will not be looking back

As we follow the iron rails

On the wood between the tracks.

We had tried to love,

The city left behind,

But the words rang hollow

In their locked-down minds.

So we carry these belongings

(what few that remains us)

With a Story to tell

And a Faith that sustains us.

Somewhere up ahead

Is a whole different place

Where they love a good story

And won’t spit in our face.

For I’m weary of people

Who share the same Name

Fighting each other;

They should be ashamed.

So I go to a place

With a Story to tell,

To make family from strangers,

Drinking Life from the Well.

Empty

Empty

The lamp was only bright enough

to illuminate her and the letter.

A surrounding orb – its own universe.

The paper, ink, and tears mingled and

wrinkled

blotted

warped the words.

Hated words, loving words.

Eventually –

         no more words

         tears run dry

         love goes cold

         and the lamp turns off.

Big Fish

Big Fish

Well, aren’t you the righteous one?

Gave the bum a dollar

How impressive

Go to that big church on the hill

That’s a nice suit you’re wearing

Drop that fat check in the plate

Don’t that make you feel all good inside?

No one is fooled

You slanderer

You murder with your forked tongue

Your fake god is so impressed

But the real God knows what you are

And so do I

Big fish

Little pond

The ocean doesn’t care about you

A Walk Through My Mind

A Walk Through My Mind

Going around the block.

This street used to be inviting -

now it is run down, dilapidated. 

Crumbling walls and cracked sidewalks.

Time was when I could walk through here

and feel safe

enjoying the scenery.

It isn’t safe nowadays. 

Easy to get lost.

What a shame – that house used to have love in it.

And over there, one could always go to relax.

The respectable neighbors moved away a long time ago –

Joy, Reason, Beauty, Faith.

It started when Heartbreak moved in down the street.

There goes the neighborhood

Next thing you know, Doubt and Anger

were yelling at the little kids

“Keep off the grass!”

Keep out-

you might get hurt

Destruction, Resconstruction

Destruction, Reconstruction

Idols always break the hearts of

                  those worshipping them.

And though I know this to be true,

I find myself bowing again,

                  and not before You.

Then I dare to feel surprised – though not for long

For soon comes shame.

It is the type of shame that comes when you

                  knew all along what would happen.

Shame of the foolish – the most bitter.

I smashed the idols again, though deep inside

                  I know, I know.

They will be rebuilt by my hands.

And I will bow.

And know shame again.

Love and Matches

Love and Matches

I built myself a fireproof house

with fireproof walls.

Just in case, I had fire exits

installed.  Extinguishers.

Detectors with alarms.

Useless.

I was more than happy

to swim in her gasoline

and hand her my matches.