Just Believe

Ignoring what they said, Jesus told the synagogue ruler “Don’t be afraid; just believe.”    -   Mark 5:36

In the middle of the night I awake,
gripped with fear,
overcome by the immensity,
afraid of the unknown road ahead,
thinking of all the possible dangers,
unable to control even the smallest detail,
completely inadequate and out of control;

heading on a collision course with disaster.

Then I remember the places
from where I have come,
all the doors that have been opened,
all the chains which have been removed,
the love and grace
that has brought me to this place,
and I hear His soft, cool voice,
gently whispering in the nighttime darkness:

“Don’t be afraid, just believe.”

The fear fades away,
the doubt dissolves into nothing,
the darkness turns to light,
there is only love,
there is only Him;

and that is all that matters.

In the deepest depths,
on the highest heights,
He is there
guiding my path,
showing the way,
the Friend who stands by my side
closer than a brother,
the King who laid down His life
that I might live;

the One who I will love
forever.
.
.

Know One Knows/now I know

...................................

No One Knows

Everyone walks and talks
like they know what’s going on,
like they discovered the answers
long ago;

it took me many years
to figure out,
that no one knows
what’s going on,
that it’s all just
one big act;

all the well tanned,
perfect haircut,
confident looking,
smug faced cock-suckers,
don’t have any more answers
than some junkie
lying out cold
in a stinking alleyway,
and perhaps
they have even less,
or they might be lying
in that alleyway also;

still;

we have to go on pretending,
otherwise
there’s just no point,
so we get our hair cut,
we get up and go to our jobs,
we smile and try to look unconcerned,
all the time fighting the fear
building in our guts,
all the time thinking;

everyone knows
but us.
____________________

now I know

now I know,
why junkies stick needles
in their arms
and lie dying
in back street alleys.

now I know,
why death comes
before the body
actually dies.

now I know
what Christ felt.

now I know,
where people go
when there is
nothing left.

now I know,
just how black
the darkness of the night
can be.

now I know,
just how deep
the bottom
really is.

now I know,
and the needle,
and the powder,
and the shots of whiskey,
and death,
only make it

legitimate.

now I know;

and have lived
to tell about it.
.
.

These Words

I sometimes wonder why I continue
writing these words down on paper,
I’ve never earned a dime from them,
never had any notoriety or fame
as a result of them,
never had a clue where they come from
or when they will come,
what they will say or why they say it,
it’s as if they have a life of their own,
an ancient mystery complete with their
own laws and consequences.

There is a price to be paid for these words,
a burning sadness that never quits,
a deep, lonely emptiness,
quietly devouring everything in its path,
bringing you to the edge
of a dark bottomless chasm
where untold millions of words
flow like liquid truth into the oblivion below
without return;

they have almost destroyed me
more than once.

You have to be ready,
they come and go like ghosts,
rising from unimaginable depths,
crystal clear like glass,
bobbing and floating,
creating or destroying,
slowly sinking back into
the night without any advance
warning or consideration;

you have to be ready.

These words wait for no one,
they survive beyond this lump
of flesh we call home,
they breathe long after
we take our last breath;

these words are forever.
.
.

Another Day in the Valley

The sky turns grey with
fiery streaks of red,
wood stoves fire up,
smoke rises from chimneys,
a new day dawns.

A train rumbles through the valley,
while the James flows swiftly alongside,
they come more frequently now,
pulling miles of coal cars packed to the brim,
on their way eastward,
replenishing stockpiles in
Richmond and Washington,
preparing for the winter cold,
just as they have
for a hundred years;

it makes you wonder
how much can be left.

In the distance a hawk
soars above Gunter Ridge,
standing naked, bare and exposed,
glistening in the early morning sun,
leaves, three times the size of a mans hand,
cover the nearby ground,
forming a blanket through which the squirrels
scamper to and fro,
deer hunters scour the surrounding forest,
searching for fresh meat and trophies,
hanging the morning kills upside down,
as the blood drips to the ground below;

talking about the ten pointers
that got away.

Everything remains the same,
just as it has for generations,
and you silently think;

why would anybody want it
any other way?
.
.

Rejection

Rejection (again),
I’m beginning to think it’s a rigged game;

it’s always the same,
an apologetic form letter:

Dear (fill in the blank),
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 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.
.
.

Storybooks

It has been a long time,
and many changes in between,
so many worn out words
that we really didn’t mean,
there have been others,
some that I loved more,
but I never gave up hope,
that someday you would
come knocking on my door;

and you may say
I’m not the person
I once used to be,
but I am who I always was,
this is just the person
you could never see.

Sometimes I think of how things
could have been,
but we never could’ve gone very far,
you travel the roads of this world,
while I was born to ride a star,
and for now you may laugh
at these words you don’t understand,
but in time will be revealed
the rock lying beneath this sand,
think of me then and know,
that if I could, our lives would be changed,
but like two actors up on a stage
the roles we play were already pre-arranged.

You and I were nothing but storybooks
from which we both could learn,
going our separate ways
when there were no more pages
left to turn.
.
.

November 12th

Come,
let us talk of laughter and love,
lovers and lost youth,
kisses,
warm and moist,
on the back of a
long forgotten porch,
beneath cool crisp
autumn skies;

I can still taste it
to this day.

I have not forgotten,
only learned to hide away
that which could never be,
and that which never was,
sometimes I wonder
if there has ever been another,
somehow it always
comes back to you,
still it does not matter;

and perhaps
It never did.

Occasionally,
when least expected,
the fire flares up,
raging wildly out of control,
but I have learned
to let it burn itself out,
then it will die down;

as it always does.
.
.