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2012
The Storm is come
Red leaves fleeing trouble before the gust:
like children playing tag.
Tumbling to shelter under,
or it is to the brick wall.
Tears from heaven
hit cheeks from the side,
and lash down to toe:
and the whole becomes a sea.
I am swept away in it's fury:
each wave crest seeks shores,
and pours itself away; to abandon.
Cherishing that kiss with earth.
Fury must find it's rock;
be diminished in ecstasy,
and sink into nothing.
Before turning into life.
Hiking with a heavy rucksack
Rocks are heavy to carry in your rucksack over any distance. I recently found this when i went hunting for gravel to use as drainage in the bottom of plant pots. I laboured home questioning the ill treatment I am subjecting my body to knowing that I will be home in a bit and my back is stronger than it has been for years. This happened a couple of days after I said to myself that I will not carry around the pebbles of unmet expectation in my head anymore. I will lay down rocks of disappointment, and boulders of shame whenever I sense their burdensome presence. I have been and am going to counselling (also I'm studying it), and am also in conversation with myself, and my creator. A rucksack, it turns out, is for carrying heavy objects only a short distance, and even then you wake up with sore shoulders and that old pain to the left of the spine back for a few days.
From a young age I have walked around with stooped shoulders, not knowing that I suffered from a continuously tired heart, not any form of physical malady. I would interpret all the bad moods, haunted looks, angry outbursts done in my presence by those around me as meaning that I had done something wrong, or at least not all the right that I could have been doing. I grew up with a frustrated and often rageful father, as you can imagine my interpretations became problematic. I would carry around these leaden weights of impossible and often fictitious expectation in a rucksack and wouldn't lay them down, not knowing that there was a place to. God finding me; me finding him, started a process of finding that place to lay those memories and feelings down. And allowing my metaphorical back to recover, strengthen and grow straight. Today I found myself weighted to an extent again. I was carrying those damned expectation pebbles and was not placing them in the plant pots He provides where they will do some good. I think this might be real prayer. Placing the boulders of burden of others, and your own at a safe place where you know they will not lose their weight, but you learn it's not for you to hike them around with you. What can you do whilst barely being able to walk and talk? How much more life can you offer if you can skip, and jump, and dance, and sing
Can it?
Why do I chase the atom?
when the universe has always been mine
can love evolve from red giant
into a galaxy?
dust and stone
become skin and bone
born; fall and rise again.
I love the black holes
of your eyes
for they radiate
much more light
than they could ever take.
White hot coals made to rake
caked surface of my lungs.
How I long to see your breath
steam up the silence in my soul.
droplets, turn into rapids
and rush my question away.
I tripped; stumbling
my spirit crumbling
hold; release those fingers.
Strength born of sugar
does not last, and it feeds fear
I need complex and organic
Can rotten become fresh?
Carry the inner babe
Cain and brother abe
Save: heal the tether.
when the universe has always been mine
can love evolve from red giant
into a galaxy?
dust and stone
become skin and bone
born; fall and rise again.
I love the black holes
of your eyes
for they radiate
much more light
than they could ever take.
White hot coals made to rake
caked surface of my lungs.
How I long to see your breath
steam up the silence in my soul.
droplets, turn into rapids
and rush my question away.
I tripped; stumbling
my spirit crumbling
hold; release those fingers.
Strength born of sugar
does not last, and it feeds fear
I need complex and organic
Can rotten become fresh?
Carry the inner babe
Cain and brother abe
Save: heal the tether.
I believe in you
I wont believe in those words of greed,
not until I've seen the truth of your heart in deed
You're not dead: you're a star I believe.... in you.
A You: that is free; from the slander of enemies
and the twisted wounds; of good intentions broke
and promises forgotten.
Loser is not the truth of you.
Love! I will shout till turning blue.
You my precious one, my lover...my child,
can not allow the dark to win.
it is light, life, and liberty from evil
that I intended and desire.
I would not have you give up liberty
for the desire of safety; from my will
You are beauty defined, refined by fire yes,
but made for all of me; my best.
Waste not want not my love,
yet there is plenty to go around.
Look and I will show; behold and receive
Me: us, together our mission: be bold and believe
You are my plan; to redeem and glorify,
show me to the world, a standard unfurled
invade territory held by fear,
take back those bound to the lie.
Believe that you were made for me
The soul craves the bigger picture,
the heart slakes its thirst on the small things,
and the mind tries to figure it all out.
Living in the now and forever
I haven't written a journal like post for quite some time. I feel a bit lost as to how to do it, but I shall give it go. I've been feeling flat and tired in my spirit recently. This is on the back of finding somewhere lovely new to live and starting a new job that I find challenging but life giving. I've not really understood the flatness.
I had a chat with my lovely wife this eve and discovered in trying to explain where this might of being coming from that I have been trying so hard to live in the present, the now. It seems that my mind, heart, soul craves a bigger picture. I need to know that my lie and what I do isn't all a fleeting nothing in a vacuum going nowhere. I need to contemplate that my life is a part of a tapestry, a thread in the weave of master creation. I need to know this and feel this in order to appreciate beauty. My mental health is tied to this knowing.
As a support worker working one on one with a client I can feel quite isolated. My mind numbs and my thoughts become sluggish and limp. I have to be present but often present to what seems to me to be banal normality. I feel guilty labelling it as such for it reflects the opposite to how I feel about my client and his family. I still have this role but I now have a second job in which I am a learner support for an entire class in college. The challenges and stimulation are quite different. Living in the moment is more necessary as they are rambunctious group and need an eye keeping on them.
And then in the evenings and on my weekends I feel like I have to be present for my lovely wife. And that would be unfair for her if I used all my ability to be present in the moment on my work. I feel that I still do that sometimes. I have learned to be better at being present in the now and to the immediate surroundings. But I have being noticing a cost to my ability to see and feel that big picture and to have awareness of the bigger story enfolding about, and through me. I miss writing poetry, and taking photos. I miss seemingly pointless walks; walks just to be with myself. I miss reading poetry by un-knowns that is raw and unapologetic. I miss reading Khalil Gibran and Jonathon Safran Foer and feeling that ache and weight.
I can't heedlessly abandon the ability to be in the here and now but I need to find a way to do it that does not shut down the important parts of me that occupy the big and wide and deep, the parts that live in the ethereal but weighty unknown and other. I feel another trip about to begin within myself, a journey into a more rounded fullness of who I am and was created to be.
I am a questioner by nature. Even my earliest memories of my inner life are characterised by the asking of why and how. If I don't ask these questions verbally internally or externally; my mind fills with doubt and uneasiness with no apparent source or solution. I must ask. I have almost always asked out of wonder and awe, or dread and loathing, not often lightly do I voice these queries. I want to have ongoing conversations with my Father and with my wife and with my friends and even with those I know not so well. I want to share and give. I want a rich inner life, that my outer life mirrors that richness and rewards those that receive from me.
So in a long-winded way I am saying I want to write and take pictures again, and read beautiful books and prose that isn't self-aware, and poetry that gushes out of the fingertips like the monsoon rains. I want to be able to spend 45 mins gazing at an old oak tree, enjoying its beauty and contemplating the God that made such a thing.
I had a chat with my lovely wife this eve and discovered in trying to explain where this might of being coming from that I have been trying so hard to live in the present, the now. It seems that my mind, heart, soul craves a bigger picture. I need to know that my lie and what I do isn't all a fleeting nothing in a vacuum going nowhere. I need to contemplate that my life is a part of a tapestry, a thread in the weave of master creation. I need to know this and feel this in order to appreciate beauty. My mental health is tied to this knowing.
As a support worker working one on one with a client I can feel quite isolated. My mind numbs and my thoughts become sluggish and limp. I have to be present but often present to what seems to me to be banal normality. I feel guilty labelling it as such for it reflects the opposite to how I feel about my client and his family. I still have this role but I now have a second job in which I am a learner support for an entire class in college. The challenges and stimulation are quite different. Living in the moment is more necessary as they are rambunctious group and need an eye keeping on them.
And then in the evenings and on my weekends I feel like I have to be present for my lovely wife. And that would be unfair for her if I used all my ability to be present in the moment on my work. I feel that I still do that sometimes. I have learned to be better at being present in the now and to the immediate surroundings. But I have being noticing a cost to my ability to see and feel that big picture and to have awareness of the bigger story enfolding about, and through me. I miss writing poetry, and taking photos. I miss seemingly pointless walks; walks just to be with myself. I miss reading poetry by un-knowns that is raw and unapologetic. I miss reading Khalil Gibran and Jonathon Safran Foer and feeling that ache and weight.
I can't heedlessly abandon the ability to be in the here and now but I need to find a way to do it that does not shut down the important parts of me that occupy the big and wide and deep, the parts that live in the ethereal but weighty unknown and other. I feel another trip about to begin within myself, a journey into a more rounded fullness of who I am and was created to be.
I am a questioner by nature. Even my earliest memories of my inner life are characterised by the asking of why and how. If I don't ask these questions verbally internally or externally; my mind fills with doubt and uneasiness with no apparent source or solution. I must ask. I have almost always asked out of wonder and awe, or dread and loathing, not often lightly do I voice these queries. I want to have ongoing conversations with my Father and with my wife and with my friends and even with those I know not so well. I want to share and give. I want a rich inner life, that my outer life mirrors that richness and rewards those that receive from me.
So in a long-winded way I am saying I want to write and take pictures again, and read beautiful books and prose that isn't self-aware, and poetry that gushes out of the fingertips like the monsoon rains. I want to be able to spend 45 mins gazing at an old oak tree, enjoying its beauty and contemplating the God that made such a thing.
Be and be
Be the first to lead
First to land and last to leave
Give forth fruit and seed
At night you doubt; now you believe
Morning came, and you were freed.
Be the lost to the world
Last to wound and first to breathe
Tugged, drawn and hurled
At junction you ask: answer with you
Healing came, now you stand tall.
Be the mighty,
Never in arms and answer the call
Listening for the plea, look... it is done
At silence you baulk; stillness now
Stillness in which to know.
First to land and last to leave
Give forth fruit and seed
At night you doubt; now you believe
Morning came, and you were freed.
Be the lost to the world
Last to wound and first to breathe
Tugged, drawn and hurled
At junction you ask: answer with you
Healing came, now you stand tall.
Be the mighty,
Never in arms and answer the call
Listening for the plea, look... it is done
At silence you baulk; stillness now
Stillness in which to know.
Life, a battle
Come and meet my life my friend. I am losing battles daily.
I have forgotten how to ask for bread.
I've been feeding on rotten meat and vegetation.
Gorging on that which makes my belly ache, and later I see it all again,
paraded before my eyes as evidence exhibits,
condemning me in my inner disease.
My very skin crawls as if I am covered in scarab beetles.
There is always a storm cloud gathering, and the sun burns, and rains freeze my soul.
Even the wind stirs up only the fetid air and the current pulls silt from the bed, polluting my equanimity.
This far in I know there is still hope.
You hate that I feel this way toward myself: a son and brother rescued and in restoration.
Mayhap the sun can gently warm?
The rains cleanse and feed?
Winds blow away the cobwebs with their insect carcasses?
And the currents of life wash me to your shore.
I have forgotten how to ask for bread.
I've been feeding on rotten meat and vegetation.
Gorging on that which makes my belly ache, and later I see it all again,
paraded before my eyes as evidence exhibits,
condemning me in my inner disease.
My very skin crawls as if I am covered in scarab beetles.
There is always a storm cloud gathering, and the sun burns, and rains freeze my soul.
Even the wind stirs up only the fetid air and the current pulls silt from the bed, polluting my equanimity.
This far in I know there is still hope.
You hate that I feel this way toward myself: a son and brother rescued and in restoration.
Mayhap the sun can gently warm?
The rains cleanse and feed?
Winds blow away the cobwebs with their insect carcasses?
And the currents of life wash me to your shore.
The sun rise
It wasn't so much a riot of colour,
more a peaceful demonstration of the epic intricacy of creation
painted upon the inside of my fragile rib cage.
Then marching out of my iris's
carrying a flag of joy,
into the world,
shamelessly hopeful
and unfettered from fear and doubt.
more a peaceful demonstration of the epic intricacy of creation
painted upon the inside of my fragile rib cage.
Then marching out of my iris's
carrying a flag of joy,
into the world,
shamelessly hopeful
and unfettered from fear and doubt.
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