Schedule

receiving one's work schedule
brings validation to the hands
but ache to the heart.
it is creative endeavor
riddled with thistle and thorn.
provision's boon
and Adam's curse;
a galling mixture
of plenty and want.

The Procession

We traveled in close procession,

our heavy footsteps plodding through the moss and bracken,

over rotten logs til the stream welled before us

running swift and clear.

We lay our rods down on the soft grass, 

lowering ourselves into the cool water up to our thighs.

The current swirled in tiny eddies around our legs.

We said nothing but retrieved our rods and silently

selected our directions.

I turned downstream with deliberate intent

feeling the waters pressing in upon each footfall.

Before rounding the bend to a deep, shadowy run I looked back

and saw him adeptly flip out his line;

saw the fine spray reflecting in the morning's sun

like a thousand raindrops as the line curved back

then flicked effortlessly forward.

I watched only for a moment 

as he stripped the line fluidly

with hands born from a thousand such mornings

and a thousand such streams.

He took a measured step forward,

behind a toppled cedar still green with spring's growth,

and I saw him no more.

Yet lapping still against the soft undercut banks

were the reverberations

of his movements unseen 

through those rich, tannic waters.

The Blood, The Cross, The Spirit Leads

Come, come by the way of the blood.

Come to the throne of God,

by it alone are we welcomed,

by it alone redeemed.

By naught else are our souls reckoned.

By naught else are we received.

No act of will may gain purchase

no deed save surrender.

Reconciliation bought by

the precious blood of Christ.

May we rest in our position

as elect children of God.

The old man gathers round to mourn

the death of all he knew

for in the shadow of the cross

is our bright freedom found.

No effort born of strongest will

could right the barest part

for the fertile seed of sin

resides yet in our heart.

The cross has done what might could not;

has finished Adam's curse

for on it the old self has died

a new one finds its birth.

Though now in Christ we often try

to change ourselves for God

yet fruitless our efforts shall be

if we fail to yield to thee.

Lest we dwell in miserable state

of futility yet

us in humility repent

and surrender daily.

Let us admit our complete weakness

and let the Spirit lead

sublimating ourselves to this

only hope of vict'ry.

The blood, the cross, the Spirit leads

now and eternally,

in Christ alone our hope is found

from this earth to the next.

The Hex

The hex is an ignoble insect,

burdened as it were with an ill-proportioned body,

fragile, venous wings with a grotesquely elongated thorax.

Born of muck and marl,

succored on filth and deterius.

They rise only as an adults

into an orgy of genetic propagation

before falling, as spent spinners

back to their watery origin in droves

to float away in great caravans of lifelessness, 

or to be crushed underfoot,

or smashed along roadsides.

Be not too swift though to condemn this humble creature

for which of us, as consummate as we may be

inspires such devotion as they 

among the slick-sided trout who gulp greedily for an emerging morsel?

Or who at their most self-indulgent can claim admiration more zealous

than that of the dragonfly or kingbird

who wait even unto the fading light

to pay their respects?

Who, but they, inspires the indefatigable pilgrimage of fly-fishers

with rod and reel in hand

to await their penultimate flight

late on a June eve?

Is not the rosy glow of the waning sun

an audience to their perseverance and homely charm?

Is not the rising moon theirs, by rights?

And which of us can with certainty

hope for a grander memorial than they,

filled not with perfunctory recitations and pleasantries

but rather the unfeigned celebration

of their divinely appointed purpose?

In the dreary bosom of winter

when the embers of the hearth grow cold

and the Herculean flight a mere instinctive glimmer, 

may we pull the covers closer still,

listen close for the ubiquitous gurgle of distant water,

and sing our praise 

for the bounty yet to come.

Who We Are in the Dark

A flash, a whisper, a spark, a star,

echoes and gossamer chains.

Of dreams that entice

the sleeper's delight,

we know nothing but

the patter of raindrops on glass.

A slow-kindled flame

atop long-simmering embers;

spectral desires eluding love's grasp.

A mist, a veil,

a well-festooned face

primped and predictably fashioned.

Though with the light of the day

all pretense fades away,

our lies belied,

our tepid souls revealed.

Bloodied knees covered in scars

of a reprobate heart

bowed to its gods of provision,

of ease, and allure.

We cast prayers before

in the light of the wavering moon.

O Watchman, look not,

or, we pray, willfully conceal

our lives of casual condescension.

Achingly, the hours prolonged,

cast their torturous tendrils among us

to lash and ensnare,

to wither and subdue,

while we await the light,

the dawn, the incarnation.

Grant to us this consolation and draw near,

for we are burdened and weary,

and from your horizon break finally.

End of Man

What is the end of man?

To acknowledge and honor,

To worship and serve

the Lord (YHWH) made known

through Scripture and fully

incarnated in Christ,

by whom was our admittance

purchased, our futures secured,

and our desires realized most completely.

This isn't really a poem, per se, but rather I was trying to define what it meant to follow the Lord (since it isn't defined solely by what acts we do, where we go, what we read, or what we intellectually assent to.) I figured I'd forget what I had written if I didn't make it stand out in some way. So, I changed a few words and set it to a modified poetic meter.

Humbled are We of Lowly Birth

Humbled, we are of lowly birth

conceived of Divine breath and earth,

cannot entreat our hearts to trust

are destined to return to dust,

but You, El Roi, O God who sees

we, creatures, low with dignity,

for in Your image we were made

in Your likeness on that sixth day.

Virtue, Your Divine eyes demand

though we appear more beast than man.

While we deserve only just wrath

Your grace speaks ever on our behalf.

Hagar's dire plight did not escape

Your piercing gaze, O God who waits.

Nor will our daily cares elude

He who works all things for our good. 

Two kinds apart in majesty

yet bound togeth'r in mystery

expressed most fully in Christ who

changed the old man into the new;

who obeyed the Father's will while

among us sinners came to dwell

that all with breath on the earth must

adore the great God who sees us.