Monday, December 30, 2013

A Mean Machine

she has a body ready for action,
long, lean and thin,
with just enough padding
in all the right places,
and a deep sexy voice
which could get a rise
out of a dead man;
a finely tuned Porsche,
with an engine purring
with power,
as it begs to run flat out;
just once;
she is a walking, talking
sex machine,
built for speed,
a stick of dynamite
disguised in little girl charm,
waiting to explode
in the face of some
unsuspecting victim;
there is a real danger
in a woman like her,
you better know what
you’re doing before you climb
into a machine like that,
because if you don’t
you just might find yourself
strewn out along
the pavement;
lying in pieces
you never thought
you had.
.
.


Benched

the hardest part about writing
is getting started,
ideas come and go,
flashing by like out-of-control missiles,
and try as you might,
you just can’t shoot
them down;
some days it feels like
it has all been said before,
so you ask yourself the
age old question;
what is the point?
and the only problem
is that it’s hard to argue
with logic like that;
some of the best stuff
I ever thought of never made it
on a piece of paper,
they’re lying unwritten
on the cutting floor of this
tangled up mind,
never to be seen by the light of day,
they come in the middle of the night,
sometimes only a line or two,
other times the whole thing
complete with title,
but in cases like that,
no matter how great the effort,
by the next day they are gone,
never to be seen again;
in poems written
versus
poems thought of
I’d say I’m batting about .200;
kinda pathetic huh?
with an average like that
I’d say I deserve
to be benched.
.
.


Winter Morning At The Shore

in the morning,
the ocean is calm,
trash trucks canvass
the boardwalk,
preparing receptacles for a
new day’s rush,
the air is cool but not cold,
life ticks on,
gulls fly by and waves dance,
everything as it should be;
everyday;
on TV the talk is about Syria
and new righteous wars,
but the dolphins and gulls
don’t know about these things,
and neither should we;
but still we do;
it is in our nature,
our heritage,
and so we will,
but it is of our own choosing,
for we have options;
alone, I go for a walk
on the boardwalk,
one last time,
Chinese Christians gather
on the beach,
praying to someone or something
to make sense of it all
before it is too late,
I watch from afar,
thinking about my work
and promises made but not kept,
about the predictability of it all
and how sometimes you wish
you were wrong;
just once;
watching the ocean waves
pound slowly on the sandy shore,
realizing that they could care less,
that everyone but me
could care less,
and perhaps I should
care less too;
I think of my father,
and how I wish I could show him
that it doesn't always
have to be his way,
that it is okay to feel good,
that it is okay to simply be;
but I know that I never will;
winter at the shore
is the best time of all,
for some it is a given,
others hold fast to it like a man
drowning in the ocean,
later these thoughts will
mean nothing,
but for the moment they
are everything;
they are
all there is;
perhaps the golden years
won’t be so bad after all,
maybe they will be
just what was needed,
or at least something new;
crawling back into bed,
reaching for her
warm body,
happy to be where I am at;
happy for one more breath.
.
.


Indignity

around 4 am it finally comes,
it seems to take longer now,
slower,
deliberate,
more mindful,
this is how it is
when you get older,
the way it was meant
to be;
recovery is never quite
the same;
I remember many things,
things no one knows,
things about which
no one cares,
hot summer nights,
stars shining in the sky
like newly discovered jewels,
fresh and clean,
your skin,
soft and warm,
your touch;
like a long lost friend;
the end draws closer,
not much longer now,
I am ready,
all the bags are packed,
I have been waiting
for such a very long time,
soon the indignity will stop,
the suffering fade;
soon enough,
soon enough;
a quiet, peaceful sanctuary
amidst the storm,
a final sleep
before the breaking dawn.
.

.

Consumption

I am slowly being consumed,
dying a little bit more
everyday;
anger,
bitterness,
hatred,
darkness;
as I wonder
who is listening,
and who is only
pretending;
I have nothing left to say,
everything has been said,
I cannot make people listen,
I have done all I can do,
on my own I can do nothing,
nothing at all;
the past moves on,
quietly becoming no more;
the misery,
the suffering,
the struggling;
everything changes,
everything fades;
even this;
they watch from afar,
waiting for the destruction,
carried on by the wind,
glowing with the anticipation;
there is no beginning,
there is no return;
farther along,
somewhere down the line,
deeper into the divide,
shattered by the consumption,
confusion spreads it’s mighty tongue,
buried deep within the confines
of this burned out refuge,
where even the echoes
become silent,
these lines to nowhere,
these forgotten denizens;
when do you fall?
I have come to a crossroad,
I can no longer find goodness
in people,
I see only hidden agendas,
greed,
self-righteousness;
we are all failed,
we are all ravenous dogs,
we are all hypocrites;
all our noble deeds,
all our false concerns,
simply a show
to make us feel
good about ourselves;
in You I cling to one last hope,
in You I still see the potential,
in You I have been redeemed.
.

.

waiting

with a song it begins,
this incredible sadness,
this bittersweet goodbye,
no matter how far you run,
it always comes back to here;
for everything there is a cost,
for everything there is a loss;
trapped within this wreckage,
hidden among the fading mist,
a price to be paid,
an unanswered question,
an unfulfilled answer;
a beacon for the terminally lost;
this morning,
for the first time in
a long time,
I woke up afraid;
there is an evil lurking here,
floating just below the surface,
an unspoken shadow,
waiting to envelope everything
in its path,
an unseen whisper,
touching depths unknown.
.

.

wasted

deliberately you waste the day,
it slides by like bacon
on a hot griddle grill;
sizzling,
smoking,
sputtering,
shriveling,
until there is nothing left;
and you wonder
how many more?
.

.

soon

I’m tired of trying to determine;
who is right,
who is wrong,
why this happened,
why this didn't,
who’s to blame,
who isn't,
who should apologize,
who shouldn't,
when none of it really matters,
none of it means anything at all;
we’re all wrong,
we’re all right,
we’re all to blame;
it just doesn't matter;
and I am tired,
and I am sick,
and I am dying;
and it just doesn't matter;
I am tired of worrying about tomorrow,
and yesterday,
and last week,
and last month,
and 2 years ago,
and 5 years from now,
and 15 seconds from now;
I’m just tired;
I just want to hold on to
the moment,
I just want to experience
a perpetual orgasm,
I just want to make it all
go away,
I just want to hold on
to everybody and everything
but no one and nothing,
I just want to feel high
forever;
I just want to let go
once;
just once;
soon, soon,
but not soon
enough.
.

.

Walking Through The Valley

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.   Psalm 23:1-6
For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.   Ephesians 6:12
once again,
I enter this dark place,
this cold, empty, deserted place,
this place from which most
never return,
my enemies wait outside,
gloating over the misery,
laughing within at the naivety,
mocking from afar,
standing firm in their ‘moral’
and ‘intellectual’ superiority,
waiting for the fall;
once again,
You stand by my side,
letting me know You
will always be there,
helping me to rise when
so many others would not,
softly reminding me that
I never have anything to fear;
“Don’t be afraid, just believe”
once again,
You prepare me for
a battle most will
never see,
in a war that
rages continuously,
around everyone
and everything,
rescuing me from places
which no man could overcome;
teaching me that through You
I can do all things.
.

.

The More I Get to Know People

Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” And they divided up his clothes by casting lots. Luke 23:34
While they were stoning him, Stephen prayed, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” Then he fell on his knees and cried out, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” When he had said this, he fell asleep. Acts 7:59-60
Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?” Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times. Matthew 18:21-22
For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins. Matthew 6:14-15
It really is amazing how much hypocrisy you see practiced on social media. People liking someone or something that they put down and make fun of in private. People who want the world to believe one thing about themselves but show something entirely different in real life. I guess it really doesn't come as a surprise, or at least it shouldn't.
the more I get to know people,
the more I understand just how messed up
they truly are,
the truth is most people are
hypocrites and fakes,
hiding behind self-righteous walls
and smoking mirrors,
pretending to be kind and gracious,
when inside they are ravenous dogs,
concerned only with themselves
and their own agendas,
talking about being positive
or being quiet,
when all they are really concerned with
is political correctness and making
themselves look magnanimous;
the more I get to know people,
the more I begin to understand just how
great God is;
loving unconditionally,
forgiving completely;
the more I get to know people,
the more I know that I could never
truly forgive and love others
on my own,
that it requires something much
bigger than myself,
a power much greater than what I possess;
a power that is righteous,
a power that is perfect,
a power that is holy.
.

.

A Good Poem

a good poem
is like a seductive woman,
with long, lean, legs
and sparkling bedroom eyes,
showing only enough
to imagine the possibilities
without losing the mystery,
soft and tender,
gently caressing,
arousing the body
while exciting the soul
with thoughts of going places
it has never before been;
a good poem
should make you feel
like smoking a cigarette.
.
.


Saturday Morning Cartoons

I remember
Saturday morning cartoons,
unreturned kisses,
unfulfilled love,
imaginary dances danced
under imaginary moons,
lovers who never knew,
futures planned
without a chance,
messages sent
but never received,
even now,
I still remember
cold city streets,
dark and empty,
calling out,
I go there sometimes
on nighttime journeys,
traveling among the living
and the dead,
always waiting,
never knowing,
forever seeing,
I hear their anger,
I touch their fear,
I see their rage,
like trapped animals
with no escape,
slashing out
with the only power
they possess,
the only pleasure
they know,
the cold steel blade
sliding in to the bone,
the warm sweet liquid
flowing out onto the
concrete world.
.

.

Filling Time

I started telling her
about this Bukowski poem
I had read,
but then I remembered
she could care less,
so I didn't,
that’s the way it is
a lot of times with us;
makes the whole process
so much easier;
sometimes I forget the rules,
and she pretends to listen,
but most of the time
we just remain silent;
there is one thing
we do really good together,
and I suppose from
a practical point of view,
that is the only thing that matters,
because when we do that one thing;
I don’t really care
about a Bukowski poem
either;
and I realize
that everything else
is just filling time,
until we can do that one thing
again.
.
.


Double Whopper

“You really need to take better care of yourself”
she said;
“I've been looking at cookbooks,
trying to make up a grocery list”
she said;
“I am hungry”
I said;
“Not now!
You know, chicken, asparagus, stuff like that”
she said;
“I was thinking more like a double whopper
with cheese”
I said;
“Why didn't you come out and tell me goodnight
after your shower?”
she asked;
“Because I knew
if I waited long enough,
you’d come in here and ask me that,
and I knew you’d start rubbing my chest
and we’d end up having great sex.
We go through this every time,
I just eliminated the middle step”
I said;
“You think so huh?”
she replied;
as she began rubbing my chest;
I still want that
double whopper
with cheese.
.

.

Heaven

I dreamed of heaven
last night;
it was music;
loud, beating, circus music,
hidden in the back
of a broken down carnival,
with flashing lights
and gaudy clowns;
the music took away the anger,
the music calmed the fears;
we sat together
while calliopes omba’d away
and cymbals crashed down,
with a cool breeze blowing
in our faces,
angry people entered,
those of us who knew better
looked around smiling
with knowing looks,
until the music took them over;
then they understood too.
.
.


Sunday, December 29, 2013

Oh Poet

innocent blood running softly
across the ground,
pouring out the sad sweetness
which makes you all that
you are;
the cell grows smaller,
the chains pull tighter;
solitary;
it is all that you deserve;
everything that was
asked for,
in the end
became reality,
only distant memories
are left;
the ultimate denial,
the absolute illusion,
the final humiliation;
let it flow,
feel its implicit texture,
round and rough,
bubbling up like some
forgotten brew,
bitter with vile,
forsaken by death,
floating in timeless gel;
I don’t know
if I can ever return
to this place
called home,
in this land of love
it all comes out wrong,
it all seems so ridiculous,
like it never really was;
oh poet,
deny thy craft,
speak not,
lest someone hears
your voice.
.
.


Bukowski Rules

“come on kid,”
he said to me one day;
“I’m gonna teach you the ropes;”
“the first rule is,
there are no rules,
so don’t fucking worry about
breaking them;”
“the second rule is,
if you can’t break the rules,
then you gotta live with them,
and that really sucks,
so break them
every chance you get;”
“okay;”
“end of lesson;”
“now get your ass out there
and start breaking
those rules;”
“so I can get the hell
out of here”
.
.


This Guy at Work

there is this guy at work,
his wife is dying from cancer,
everyday his face becomes more distant,
the strain more evident as she gets
closer to the edge,
the fear in his eyes so thick
you wonder if he sees anything at all;
he has a daughter,
she is a sophomore in high school (I think),
once I talked with him about her,
as we walked to our cars after work,
but I didn't know what to say,
so I stayed quiet,
like everybody else in the office,
because no one wants to face the terrible
reality of it all,
no one wants to admit,
that when it comes right down to it,
we have no control over our lives
or the people in them,
and that if the truth be told
we’re just puppets,
moving in whatever direction the
puppet master moves us in,
and that with just a little tug
on the string,
one way or the other,
it could be us sitting at our desk
in the corner,
with a blank look on our face,
as we think about our dying wife,
and the daughter who won’t have a mother,
wondering what everyone else is thinking,
not really sure if we want their pity,
not really sure of anything at all,
wanting to be left alone,
yet at the same time;
so afraid by the thought of it.
.
.


Portable CD Players

out on the front line,
(nights are the worst),
the sentinels stand watch,
waiting for the next attack to begin,
knowing it could be the last,
fighting to the very end,
ready to kill or be killed,
thinking about the girl back home,
or the wife,
the two kids,
the car, and the house
with the white picket fence,
then realizing that none
of that much matters now;
dead or alive;
for the first time
I understand portable CD players
and headphones.
.

.

A Long Way

if I could still feel the wind,
you know that I would,
the voices come slowly now,
like strangers in the night,
never quite sure
when or if they will return,
as mystery gives way
to bright white illumination,
hot and searing,
seeking inner truths,
but finding only minor revelations
and hidden indecision;
you and I (old friend)
have come a long way,
on a journey with no beginning
and without end,
you have shown me a tomorrow
while taking the yesterdays;
and for this
I shall love you forever.
.

.

The Only Places That Matters

soft spoken and demure,
a fierce and hungry tiger
ready to pounce,
a dark and raging tempest
waiting to be unleashed;
in the morning
she enters my mind
like a fresh springtime breeze,
long, luscious and lean,
lips sensuous and full,
eyes of cold blue steel;
who could resist?
who would even try?
I imagine her thighs,
slim and firm,
wrapped snugly around my waist,
our lips pressed tightly together,
joined forever
in some ancient
Chinese death grip;
making love with our souls,
touching the only places
that matter.
.

.

Nothing Touched

time,
like all things,
slowly runs out,
until even the moment
seems lost and far away;
holding on,
the only way you know how,
which is never quite good enough,
but it gets you through
until tomorrow;
in the morning she comes alive,
her taste and smell
filling your senses
until there is nothing left;
but her;
then the sun comes
shining through,
announcing the beginning,
as you lie waiting
for the end,
and you put her away,
buried deep with all the other
hidden treasures within
this empty world;
where everything is held
and nothing touched.
.
.


Friday, December 27, 2013

Thanks Hank

the squirrels become playful in September,
running to and fro,
chasing each other up and down trees
and telephone poles,
it makes me wonder what they know
that I don’t,
they drive Petey,
my Jack Russell terrier bonkers,
he whines and pulls at his leash,
dying to sink his sharp little teeth
into fresh killed squirrel hide;
life is easy in September;
I have been recovering from spinal surgery
for almost two months now,
I’ve learned if I sit very still
the pain running down my leg isn’t so bad,
I thought the pain would be gone by now
but I guess it is not to be,
sometimes I think it is for the best,
we need a little pain in life
to keep it all in perspective,
a gentle reminder,
a little thorn in the flesh
as the apostle Paul would say;
I picked up another Bukowski book the other day,
it was the first time in years,
I read one called ’35 seconds’ in the store
and it made me laugh out loud,
so I bought it,
“and that’s how
I hurt my
arm” – 35 Seconds, Charles Bukowski
I guess you had to be there
to really get it,
he truly was a literary genius,
despite what the main stream
poetry world might think,
you have to read him very closely
to understand the depth of his pain,
and you have to read him even closer
to grasp the inner humor
that carried him through it;
most never get that close;
for most it is more
than they can bear,
they want their poetry
just like they want their life,
clean and sterile,
full of fantasy and fluff,
fresh from the minds
of those who never venture
outside their keyboards,
with freshly printed MFA degrees
hanging on the ‘studio’ wall,
minimizing and dismissing
anything that is uncomfortable
or real, calling it sloppy,
searching for technical and grammatical
correctness within words that are
empty and dead,
of course they don’t see it this way,
they would tell you just the opposite,
but their words give them away;
thank goodness he lived it for us,
so we wouldn’t have to;
as I read him,
I wondered if he ever got the chance
to know the Lord,
not the one pushed by religion
or other man-made institutions,
but the real One,
the One who heals,
the One who saves,
the One who forgives,
the One who softly whispers
in the middle of the night:
“Don’t be afraid, just believe.”
the friend who sticks closer
than a brother,
my King,
my Everything;
I feel I know him well enough,
Bukowski that is,
that if he ever had the opportunity
like I did,
he would have seen the truth,
he would have understood the message,
his eyes would have been blind no more;
but I guess I’ll never know;
I think about how nice it would be
when I finally do enter the world
prepared for those who belong to the Lord
if I saw him there,
his dead pan, unassuming face,
quietly watching,
silently observing,
finally at peace;
completely healed;
how great it would be
if I could thank him
for exploring the parts
of the darkness I never could,
the parts that I probably never would
have survived,
the parts that would have destroyed me
forever,
then for writing it all down
so I didn’t have to;
for helping me along this journey
when no one else could;
“Thanks Hank.”
.
.


They Always Know

somehow,
the experts always know,
they know the when,
they know the how,
they know the why,
they make knowing their
life ambition;
they know why Sylvia put
her head in the oven,
they know better
than friends and family,
they know long after
knowing has ceased to matter;
like egotistical bags of pus,
charlatans of the deep,
keepers of destructive dust,
purveyors of lost lust,
grubby little cock roaches
grasping at forgotten fables,
they know it all;
they know nothing;
just one clear breath,
sensitive and deep,
truth beyond the
know-it-alls and
self-imposed experts,
just a small glimpse
past the illusion,
no reasoning without honor,
no philosophical babble
rising from the decay,
no self-righteous,
self-serving,
bullshit,
no how,
no why,
no when,
no knowing;
only cool, quiet thought
within the madness.
.

.

Shit Bags

they are all like bad jokes,
soggy, misplaced stereotypes,
without humor,
pretentious, overbearing bags of shit,
stuck on words,
trapped in meaning and purpose,
lost in their own rhythm,
full of bullshit and nonsense,
enamored by their own brilliance,
in love with the breath of their existence,
sad, pathetic little cock roaches
hiding beneath the kitchen sink,
waiting for the night,
crawling around in the dark,
scurrying back into their holes
when the lights come on;
I despise them,
I detest them,
I fear them,
but most of all;
I hate
being one of them;
in our own way
we’re all shit bags,
paying homage to egos
that never end,
seeking fulfillment
of hungers which go beyond
the soul,
stroking cocks and finger
fucking pussies that have
minds of their own;
yes, I despise them,
but most of all
I despise myself,
so do not give me
anymore of your shit;
cause my bag is full.
.

.

Rejection

rejection (again),
I’m beginning to think it’s a rigged game;
it’s always the same,
an apologetic form letter:
“Thank you for your submission and interest in our upcoming
anthology/monthly ezine/periodical/(fill in the blank):
Under the Yellow Brick Road Beside the Fallen Bridge’
however due to the tremendous volume of material submitted
we are simply unable to include them all (of course this
doesn't mean they are not worthy of printing), we do hope
you will remember us in the future, and oh by the way,
Under the Yellow Brick Road will be available for
the low purchase price of $9.99 in February;”
it would almost be beyond bearing
if it wasn't so comical,
coming from editors of obscure presses
that no one has ever heard of (or ever will);
I always imagine some pathetic little man (or woman),
sitting in a cramped, seedy apartment,
with wet underwear drying on a clothes line,
signing form letters and feeling important
because they were able to scrape up enough cash
to buy a laptop and create a web page,
and now they’re an ‘EDITOR’,
putting together chap books and monthly
broadsides with the help of Staples or Kinkos,
along with a few dozen of their closest friends,
presiding over the monthly readings
and critique sessions at the local library
or Barnes & Nobles,
passing judgment on everyone and everything
which does not fit their preconceived
ideas or molds;
yes, it is very comical and pathetic,
although ‘EDITOR’ does have a nice
kind of ring to it,
and I have been thinking about
building a webpage,
and there is a Staples right
down the street;
if you can’t beat em,
might as well join em;
I sure wish that underwear
would hurry up and dry.
.
.


Parole

Within the conquering depths
of this cold black cell,
You bring hope and life,
from the empty solitude
of this perpetual dungeon,
You fill me with your light,
Trapped in the endless despair
of this eternal bondage,
You bring freedom and peace;
this prison,
holding me captive all my life,
no longer decides
who or what I shall be;
this depraved fortress of iniquity,
filled with unending suffering and pain,
where so much has been lost,
no longer shackles me
in the binding chains
of anger and fear;
the master of eternal night,
whose darkness and lies
deceive the whole world,
no longer blinds my eyes;
freed from this prison
at a cost beyond compare,
paroled by Your sacrifice and love
through Your amazing mercy and grace;
PRAISE YOUR NAME FOREVER!!!
.
.


This Prison

In the dead
of the hot summer night,
the breeze finally comes,
as the heat floats gently away,
like the breath of a slowly
dying man,
his soul crying out to be free
from this prison where it has been held
for so long,
never allowed to become all that it
was meant to be,
praying for survival
within the destruction of these
decaying prison walls;
returning to a home
it has never known;
sleep comes hard
in this lonely land of pain,
as thoughts of words already said
echo through the silence of the mind,
remembering places nearly forgotten
by this clever disguise called life;
the still, small voice softly calls out,
offering a refuge of hope and light
amidst the cold and barren darkness
of this forgotten, forsaken cell.;
I wish I could walk out
of this prison,
discard it like old clothes,
free at last,
no restrictions,
no fear or rage,
only quiet,
simple thought;
this prison which holds me to the earth,
this prison that makes me crave depravity,
this prison in which I was born,
this prison which has grown with me;
but has never let me grow.
.

.

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Yeshua

what words have I
to honor a king?
what gift can be given
worthy of his name?
He who overcame,
He who defeated death forever,
He who reigns eternally,
He who is our master;
mocked and mistreated,
spit upon and reviled,
beaten and scourged,
led like a lamb to the slaughter,
sacrificed upon a tree
for our iniquities and transgressions,
resurrected from the grave,
that through faith in him
none should perish,
but all might have life;
through him are all things possible,
through him are all things made new,
to him does all praise belong,
to him is all glory given,
lift up his name
before all others;
Yeshua,
the Holy One of God.
.

.

The Gospel (good news) of Isaiah 52-53

Awake, awake, Zion, clothe yourself with strength! Put on your garments of splendor, Jerusalem, the holy city. The uncircumcised and defiled will not enter you again. Shake off your dust; rise up, sit enthroned, Jerusalem. Free yourself from the chains on your neck, Daughter Zion, now a captive. For this is what the LORD says: “You were sold for nothing, and without money you will be redeemed.” For this is what the Sovereign LORD says: “At first my people went down to Egypt to live; lately, Assyria has oppressed them. “And now what do I have here?” declares the LORD. “For my people have been taken away for nothing, and those who rule them mock,” declares the LORD. “And all day long my name is constantly blasphemed. Therefore my people will know my name; therefore in that day they will know that it is I who foretold it. Yes, it is I.” How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation, who say to Zion, “Your God reigns!” Listen! Your watchmen lift up their voices; together they shout for joy. When the LORD returns to Zion, they will see it with their own eyes. Burst into songs of joy together, you ruins of Jerusalem, for the LORD has comforted his people, he has redeemed Jerusalem. The LORD will lay bare his holy arm in the sight of all the nations, and all the ends of the earth will see the salvation of our God. Depart, depart, go out from there! Touch no unclean thing! Come out from it and be pure, you who carry the articles of the LORD’s house. But you will not leave in haste or go in flight; for the LORD will go before you, the God of Israel will be your rear guard. See, my servant will act wisely; he will be raised and lifted up and highly exalted. Just as there were many who were appalled at him— his appearance was so disfigured beyond that of any human being and his form marred beyond human likeness— so he will sprinkle many nations, and kings will shut their mouths because of him. For what they were not told, they will see, and what they have not heard, they will understand.

          Who has believed our message and to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed? He grew up before him like a tender shoot, and like a root out of dry ground. He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him. He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem. Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered him punished by God, stricken by him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed. We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to our own way; and the LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all. He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth; he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth. By oppression and judgment he was taken away. Yet who of his generation protested? For he was cut off from the land of the living; for the transgression of my people he was punished. He was assigned a grave with the wicked, and with the rich in his death, though he had done no violence, nor was any deceit in his mouth. Yet it was the LORD’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer, and though the LORD makes his life an offering for sin, he will see his offspring and prolong his days, and the will of the LORD will prosper in his hand. After he has suffered, he will see the light of life and be satisfied; by his knowledge my righteous servant will justify many, and he will bear their iniquities. Therefore I will give him a portion among the great, and he will divide the spoils with the strong, because he poured out his life unto death, and was numbered with the transgressors. For he bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

What We Have Become

This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come. For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy. Without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good. Traitors, heady, high-minded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God; Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away.   II Timothy 3:1-5
It’s easy to mock now,
no more barriers,
no more inhibitions,
godlessness the avant-garde,
cool, hip, chic;
truth irrelevant;
poetry has become an abstraction,
a train wrecked shambles,
a self-indulgent journey into
self-imposed decadence,
the only purpose
masturbation of the mind;
without rhyme,
but more importantly,
without reason;
snotty, excitable little twits,
so full of themselves they can barely walk,
let alone write about things they understand
even less;
fluffy little balls of bullshit,
stuck in the diarrhea of their words,
political correction and self-satisfaction
going hand in hand;
a religion for the masses;
everyone is a poet today,
everyone a self-made god,
everyone is okay and getting better,
everyone is capable of greatness,
everyone is master of their own fate;
it is our culture,
it is our society,
it is our psychology,
it is our national anthem;
it is what we have become.
.

.

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Memories of a King (or god)

I remember that day in August 1961
as if it were yesterday,
waiting outside Comiskey Park,
the Yankee’s team bus nearby,
holding on to my aunt’s hand
while the reporters and others
buzzed and milled about,
all of us waiting to catch
a glimpse of a man,
who I thought at the very least
must be a king or perhaps
even a god,
although at the time
I really didn't understand why;
I remember the commotion
as this king (or god)
emerged from the stadium darkness,
reporters rushing forward,
camera bulbs flashing,
my aunt pushing me to the front
with pencil and paper in hand;
to my six year old mind
he was everything
a king (or god) should be,
tall, blonde and crew-cut,
hard as a rock with a jaw
that looked like it was
chiseled from stone,
and eyes of steel
that flashed with anger
as he pushed his way
through the reporters,
ignoring their questions,
the pant leg of his thigh
brushing my hand as he went by,
bounding up the bus steps then
angrily throwing his duffel bag
against the window;
today I understand the pressure and stress
he must have been going through,
trying to break the record
of an even greater king (or god),
but when you’re six you don’t understand
that even kings (or gods)
have bad days at the plate,
when you’re six you only know
something’s upset the king (or god);
and you cry.
.

.

One Pitch

went to a baseball game last night,
what a deceiving game it is,
on the surface it seems so slow,
almost boring,
but then without even realizing it,
you find yourself caught up
in a moment,
that for a few seconds
stands out so crystal clear
and sharp,
it seems as if life itself
has ceased to matter,
time has no meaning,
like last night,
top of the ninth,
home team on top
3 to 2,
bases loaded,
two outs,
three balls,
two strikes,
and for one pitch
it didn't matter
that the home team
was 45 and 72,
or that it was late August
and they were 32 games
out of first,
for that one pitch
the crowd was on its
feet chanting as if it was
the last pitch of the
world series,
time was frozen,
women screamed,
men yelled,
waiting for that one pitch,
it was as if the entire world
was holding its breath
waiting for that one pitch,
the pitcher stared into the catcher,
trying to make the moment
last forever,
then with a kick of his leg
he delivered,
the crowd gasped,
the batter swung;
FOUL BALL!!!!!!
with a moan,
and a quick sucking in of air,
everyone got ready
to do it one more time;
it was then that it
occurred to me,
the greatness about baseball
isn't in its fast pace,
but rather
in its lack of it,
in its ability
to make time
stand still;
even if for a
moment.
.

.

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Through It All

Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really know me, you will know my Father as well. From now on, you do know him and have seen him.”   John 14:6-7
I have been on both sides of the fence,
and everywhere in-between;
physically,
emotionally,
spiritually,
financially;
I have worked for hundreds
of thousands of dollars,
I have worked for minimum wage,
I have tasted a life of privilege,
I have seen the emptiness
of poverty,
I have witnessed first hand
the devastation of losing
everything,
I have worked at a desk,
using only my mind and fingers,
I have worked back-breaking jobs
that no one should have to do,
I have seen people at their best,
I have seen them at their worst,
I have entered dark places that
very few enter and survive,
I have stood on the edge of cliffs
as the master of this world
quietly whispered to take
just one more step;
I have seen demons,
dark and evil,
drive by in a car as I rode a bike
down the road;
laughing,
mocking;
I have talked to angels while
they held my hand,
as I lay in a hospital bed
having a heart attack;
I have seen people destroyed
by the very things from which
I was saved;
through it all,
You have been there
for as long as I can
remember,
quietly watching,
softly calling,
patiently waiting,
through it all You have
lifted me up when I could not
stand on my own,
saving me when no one
else could,
protecting me when no one
else would,
through it all You have
given me an education
that no college could provide,
no amount of money
could buy,
teaching me humility
and compassion,
helping me to stand,
allowing me to fall,
showing me the illusion
surrounding this world,
the lies that trap so many
who do not even know
they are trapped,
no one makes it out of this life
without You;
no one comes to the Father
but though You,
.

.

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