Sunday Morning

Smell of coffee.  Sunday morning and the same old cliches.  The Eric looked over at the woman laying beside him.  Who is this?  How long had they known each other?  Or, turning the question around: How long had they not known each other?  Her hands were delicate and her figure beautiful, yet here was a stranger and underneath the familiar features, there was an unknown within.  What did her name mean again?  Eric could no longer remember and the night before had been the same as the night before that.  An argument.  “Are you really going to throw that away?” She would say, with an accusing glance that suggested that he had some sort of malevolent nature bent on natural destruction.  Or there was her with her friends.  What a complete change this rendered on who she was, or at least seemed to be.  No longer principled, she would talk at length about the merits of a reality t.v. character, or a recent season of Sex and the City.  Who was this?  Was this the same person who he had seen Paris with?  They were flat broke then, but happy.  They had ate the cheapest bread and cheese and been complete.  Now they ate fine meals, but were fragmented.  Why didn’t she care about anything besides her superficially happy friends and job anymore?  The man turned over in the bed and began to read the news on his laptop.  He had grown restless again.  This time was suppose to be different than the last, the place was suppose to be different than the last.  Maybe the truth he was facing was himself and there was no way to get away from that.  There are always two sides of a story and he was painfully aware that he had been too hard on her many times.   He wanted to say this how he copped with the profound emptiness he felt on a Sunday morning.  He wanted to say he was sorry and he loved her, but he had to go.  Yet, his language was lacking and his intentions mixed.  He pulled himself up from the bed and walked to the window and stared out into the landscape, fortuneteller like, he read the ridges of hills and bottoms of the valleys, searching for a path or a conclusion.  Coffee was made and he brought it to her.  He held her close again and told her words she wanted to hear, but he knew they were lies.  Lately, he had began to hate himself for this and his visage had become strange even to him.  Disconnect.  “Where are you going?” She asked him, as she propped herself up on one elbow in bed.  Her hair carelessly fell down her cheeks.  In that moment, she was beautiful and it was if he had always known her.  “I’m going to smoke.” He replied with a reassuring smile.  He smoked only because it was the last thing he really had any control over and she hated it.  He kissed her quickly, but passionately, and walked out the door.  The day was cold for spring.  Overcast and snowing.  He was so tired of snow, yet it was  it seemed appropriate for the day.  The downtown was busy for a Sunday.  People were bundled and heading to and from Church and breakfast.  Yet, for all the people, none saw him fall on the crosswalk, as if on purpose, and refuse to get up.  The bus driver was talking on his cell phone and didn’t see him prostrate on the ground before him, as if praying to some prehistoric deity.  A crowd grew to look at the man in horror soon after.  Someone quickly called 911. An ambulance arrived, but no siren or lights announced it’s arrival.  To late for anything but the morgue.  To late for the priest.  The people soon went on their way. They assured each other of the man’s insanity as they left and felt reassured of their on sanity.  And like that, the world moved on a Sunday morning.

The ill opened door

The door that i have opened stands closed not by my own choice but closed by yours

I kindled the fire with my own secret wantings choosing to hide what was not meant to be

Not knowing what to say did not matter as what i didn’t know was what you didn’t wish to aspire

Letting this fire all but die I hid an ember in a corner reserved for such things waiting to see if by time you would fan ash into life

Moving on with life or as i saw it i looked and tried to see the one to take your ember from my heart but found not the water to quench this live coal

I don’t know what to do. I want to let things be but a whisper that wont leave for good says to let things should be as they already seem to be

This bur in my heart seems to stick without prong to tear it free would tear my heavy heart along

To let it stay and smolder breathing my life’s fresh air makes me weary, how I wish not by my choice

This ember wont die because i can’t want it to, it dimly lights my way to where love true waits

County Road

There where two pinholes of light coming down the road.  The evening was hot and damp.  The recent rain shower, which created puddles that refracted the light from the oncoming headlights, had only made it hotter.  No relief from the heat.  The car passed.  The smell of cigar smoke and inexpensive perfume hung heavy in the late summer air.  No relief from the heat.  A man trudged on up the road.  His slacks were wet up to the knees and his shirt clung to him.  The source of the blood that stained his hands and shirt wasn’t apparent.  But it was clear that he had neither showered nor shaved for days.  His hands shook.  There was a desperation in his eyes unmatched in a man since the world’s forming.  Another car passed shortly followed by another.  Dusk was disappearing.  The man sat down, his face covered by his monstrous hands.  No relief from the heat.  The sound of wet, heavy breathing.  No relief from the heat.  The breathing is faster now.  The crickets, that up to that point have drowned out his thoughts, grow silent.  His heart beats faster.  No relief from the heat.  The man looks up, mouth open and tongue wagging like a dog.  No relief from the heat.  He is searching, but none can tell what for.  His iris’s dilate.  The head swings from side to side rapidly, eyeing the timber and the cotton fields.  None is there to answer his gaze.  No relief from the heat.  He rises, only to falter down again.  On his face, he tries to push himself up on his elbows, but folds like a newspaper.  Stillness and Silence.  The beating slows and then stops.  The crickets resume their cadence.  The darkness consumes the valley till the moon rises.  No relief from the heat.

What is my will?

The sun is but a dim lit light that shines only to illuminate this hazy room. It gives light to what I think His will brings as I pray for it to be mine. I search for what this should be but again I find that this misty room depicts what isn’t there. As I pray, “Your will be done” I feel like what I think I want slips away, like it always seems to.  As i realize my will’s not mine but His, the two to be one, I see her leave or did she stay as she never arrived at all. I saw her through that dusty cloud as what we said I might mean to her . To say I didn’t want her would be a dark lie, I would have lain down my eyes for it, but that is why my will can not be mine. An idol would I have made of her and left myself in this world do dine, discarding the feast promised by my Father. To hold her was my hearts desire, as no silver or gold coin could have been. I would have traded these treasures for that chance and that is why my will can be no longer mine.

.

.

I open the screen to see what I need to see, I open my heart to no one else by me.  I close my life to all that want to see; love, live, laugh, and learn what is this life of ours if it ends in an urn?  As I see it I don’t, a coward am I, my eyes are blind yet I dream of the sky. What is the sky but a height to fall from? Day in and out I leap and don’t fly, my wings have no love, I am bound to this lie. Why can’t I just say what my heart means to be? My fear is so great I can’t fly, I’m not free.

The blows to my heart are as hammer on steel, to find my worst enemy is my hearts most appeal. I trust Him as my guide and see what is not there. To trust hope and His judgement are my only affair. The times come hard and pass worse the irony behind is my hardest curse. My Father above gives the strength to feel and what I now know is I am hammer and steel.

where is tomorrow

A glass of wine has become my best friend. Seeing that this road I walk has but two ends.Left and right both alive and alone, this life I live a load creaking my bones.To share this burden my heart is crying. I see your love but my eyes aren’t finding, the hands to hold mine as forever and binding.Sweets and whisky both tantalizing and strong have dragged my love flailing complacent along.Like the honeyed and burning this love lives, but it I can hold no better then water by civ.Slipping away is always its path as my lonely love embraces this wine’s wine-less glass…

temple or tent?

If our body is a temple then surly we are trapped  in a doomed temple. I shall be destroyed and rebuilt in due time to find that this temple is only a tent once perfect, solid, and beautiful. Built to glorify the builder, only to be cast aside by the creation. Glorious communion for the shambles of moth consumed mortality self deceived by turning our eyes into Narcissus and our mind into our own. To think I am a singularity, one in my own oneness but really four by your divinity. It seems tent and temple are one as strong as four strands woven into one wire. Faith and hope and love and life as strong as cord hanging pavilion or veil. Four in one and one in the same though separate as sinner and saint, light and dark, and where light is there no darkness can dwell, purified by fire sin is no more and with the absence of death life is eternal. Through purifying fire my deepest desire realized in our own fear, a tent that stands through storm and rain by one in three deity.

Not Just the Beaches

On a cool summer morning I walked down a road and by chance found two gems as blue as the sky when the sun has just risen. As I gazed into them searching for what made them beautiful I could feel them staring back into me as if to see my soul. My eyes longed to stay and search them but even as they did I noticed a field of golden wheat just beyond these two treasures. These blazing stalks were as smooth as silk to the touch and my fingers longed to stay and caress this beautiful silk. But even as they did I noticed a beach of pure white sand just beyond the golden field and my skin longed to feel its smooth warmth. True to its appearance the fine sand warmed my skin and held me. I longed to stay and embrace this comfort I had been without, but even as I did I noticed something just a stones throw away, standing and waiting for me. She embodied all the wonders I had only moments before beheld. Her eyes were blue like the sky just after the sun had risen, her hair was golden and smooth as silk, and her skin was was purer and more fine than the rarest beach. But even as I wanted to stay admire her I came upon something I had not seen this day, lips as pink as the finest flower and sweeter than honey. Hy lips longed to kiss those that they had not kissed before. Truer than imagination could fathom these were sweeter and softer and more inviting than any flower could ever dream to become. And it was there that I  did stay.

an open field

This evening I lay in my living room watching a movie and realized that Josh is going to look almost just like Bill Murray some day. It was hot and the beer I had was cold and wasn’t really that great, for something brewed in Missoula Montana I expected more. As I turned the air conditioning on and off with the mood of the show I realized how good the cool air felt on my skin. I thought about the plans that I had made for the next day and what else I needed to do to make it good. I thought back on the things that I had done, where I had grown up, and how I had grown up. I thought about the things that I had yet to do and about the beautiful, smart, funny, woman I was going to see the next day. I took a drink of the cool and only somewhat good tasting beer and thought to myself, “I am starting to become the man with the glass sitting in his study looking at the things I have stored up for myself on the mantle.” I don’t want to be this man, I want to live as Thoreau did, I want to live wildly like  Samson did, I want to love as the husband did in the Songs of Songs, I want to be a man after God’s own heart as David was. Here I am, what do I need to do? People talk about life being a road full of turns when it is really an open field. We choose to turn right or left or back the way we came, life is open and if we choose the way less traveled that makes all the difference as Thoreau says. My life is a canvas that I am hanging in this field what fills this canvas is only what chooses to be in my life, I only have to paint what I see.

June 9791

If my life is a cup of sugar what then am I to become? some cake baked by the Divine in time to be served to whom it may concern? Why not move to life and pass by the bakery where you and she are being bought? Press past ingredients and become the mouth that speaks to them that need to hear what should be said what needs to speak and hear.  If we live out life in a sinking ship what becomes of us tomorrow? to see and hear what never should be moves us to our own oblivion. a sullen mire of deepest sorrow never to see love again. What fire lives inside the soul to move life that fuels our minds insight.