Purpose eludes the self-made man
The purpose of life understands
elusive tides of living: laying low
while the sun pours bright,
asleep until moonless nights,
when meaning hoards disguise
in invisible shadows of uncast light.
A wise move for treasure, pure
as unknown snow, to remain hidden
from the sort that destroys in creating.
For purpose so pure would certainly
die like the lives of these men, as death
is born through the minds of these men.
Bound by time, not purpose— are the whims
informing the hearts of these men.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Sometimes I feel like a kite
Spiritually High All The Time
Desires in stride ‘longside kites and cloud spills,
prancing, in flight full of dancing and trills,
marks the joy of chasing hard after one will.
Desires in stride ‘longside kites and cloud spills,
prancing, in flight full of dancing and trills,
marks the joy of chasing hard after one will.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
We all know at least one person who will hate my guts for this poem (I'm related to quite a few)
God Bless Us!
God bless our troops for vengeance!
God bless our troops for justice,
God bless our troops for the long haul,
God bless America, land of the free,
God bless our troops for vengeance!
Oh, and thanks for the death that you died,
so we could kill off those bastards,to whom you were offering life.
God bless our troops for justice,
and ignoring the sins that you bore.
We’ll kill the last of those heathens,who’s lives haven’t worth anymore.
God bless our troops for the long haul,
make your will according to our plan.
We know you preached about turning of cheeks,but who are you to place killing on ban?
God bless America, land of the free,
retribution, and glorified gore—
swindlers, gluttons, pornography, and giving of all leftovers.
Here's to YOU Scott Szabo
Aficionado
Aficionado of coffee, films and books,
and quite a few unique facial hair looks,
describes my friend Szabo: he drinks espresso,
and enjoys strutting about in stilettos.
Alright, I admit, the last trait was a lie,
but you'd laugh if you saw those shoes on this guy.
His taste in music, I cannot understand,
In fact, I doubt that any man can,
though he’d be glad to discuss the topic with you,
so long as you were prepared to worship his view.
Again, that last line holds no truth at all,
I just had to incorporate: the kingdom, worship or the fall.
Aside from him being my brother in Christ
(and the fact that I slept in a bed with him twice!),
I’m at a loss for exactly what keeps us so tight
(No—it definitely goes back to one of those nights).
Sophisticated, an intellectual, most the things I am not,
do a damn good job depicting my friend Scott.
Aficionado of coffee, films and books,
and quite a few unique facial hair looks,
describes my friend Szabo: he drinks espresso,
and enjoys strutting about in stilettos.
Alright, I admit, the last trait was a lie,
but you'd laugh if you saw those shoes on this guy.
His taste in music, I cannot understand,
In fact, I doubt that any man can,
though he’d be glad to discuss the topic with you,
so long as you were prepared to worship his view.
Again, that last line holds no truth at all,
I just had to incorporate: the kingdom, worship or the fall.
Aside from him being my brother in Christ
(and the fact that I slept in a bed with him twice!),
I’m at a loss for exactly what keeps us so tight
(No—it definitely goes back to one of those nights).
Sophisticated, an intellectual, most the things I am not,
do a damn good job depicting my friend Scott.
Luke-warm disease
It’s hard to stay focused sometimes, and I realized that reading through the Sermon on the Mount. I remember reading it for the first time (a year or two ago) and agreeing so strongly. Every word that left the page ignited passion within me. I couldn’t believe how so many Christians that I met seemed not to understand what Jesus was saying. Why was there such a large separation between the people Jesus commands us to be and the people we are?
I always assumed I just hadn’t met many real Christians. As I continued in my faith I met people closer to what Jesus called us to be and became excited.
Now reading the same passage a couple of years later, I was ashamed of myself. The passion that rose in me no more than 18 months ago was absent. I identified less with the principles Jesus taught than I did the first time I read them! How does it happen that way? How easy it is to get comfortable, and then fall away!
Pride will eat away from all our growth in Christ. Humility, humility, humility! Never was a prayer of mine answered so quickly as a prayer to be humbled.
I always assumed I just hadn’t met many real Christians. As I continued in my faith I met people closer to what Jesus called us to be and became excited.
Now reading the same passage a couple of years later, I was ashamed of myself. The passion that rose in me no more than 18 months ago was absent. I identified less with the principles Jesus taught than I did the first time I read them! How does it happen that way? How easy it is to get comfortable, and then fall away!
Pride will eat away from all our growth in Christ. Humility, humility, humility! Never was a prayer of mine answered so quickly as a prayer to be humbled.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Winter break night 1 (though this is now day 2)
What happens to the last person up in this house
Dumbstruck by trickles and humming galore
broken loose through the halls, up the walls, in the floor,
his mind seldom rests from the weariless bore
interrupting his thoughts, spouting musical gore!
The course of those wanes, inherently bane,
if they haven’t already, will drive him insane.
As evidence shows— words fell like muddy rain—
STOP! What can man— from such dreadful noise gain?
“Deranged,” one man argues, another, “he’s numb,
numb from the beat of the sickening drum
that bums no rhythm, nor struts no strum,
but repeats over tones of disjointed glum.”
His sinister eyes pried open and pressed,
as the smoldering hate burrowed into his chest,
and the maddening cooing of unwelcome guests
perpetually gnawed him at the devil’s request.
Dumbstruck by trickles and humming galore
broken loose through the halls, up the walls, in the floor,
his mind seldom rests from the weariless bore
interrupting his thoughts, spouting musical gore!
The course of those wanes, inherently bane,
if they haven’t already, will drive him insane.
As evidence shows— words fell like muddy rain—
STOP! What can man— from such dreadful noise gain?
“Deranged,” one man argues, another, “he’s numb,
numb from the beat of the sickening drum
that bums no rhythm, nor struts no strum,
but repeats over tones of disjointed glum.”
His sinister eyes pried open and pressed,
as the smoldering hate burrowed into his chest,
and the maddening cooing of unwelcome guests
perpetually gnawed him at the devil’s request.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Winter break day 1
Countless the fount rhymes abundantly well, swell
heavily, plentifully abounding, impelled
by the rouse of a battle inside of myself.
heavily, plentifully abounding, impelled
by the rouse of a battle inside of myself.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
A poem for the words never made...
The Palm of a Page
The words revolve in the palm of a page
reticent without a voice to engage.
Until the eyes speak, the letters revolve,
drawn into the palm of a page.
Drawn into the palm of a page
in fantastical tactual rage,
the drawing of dawn, such lustrous a state,
are words when stirred in the palm of a page.
When words are stirred in the palm of a page,
pristine in placement and timing and wage,
from the copulation of ink, formed to order
and shape, just a pawn in the palm of a page.
A dying rare breed, once the palm of a page,
now a bleary of beauty held tight in a cage,
just remnants of spawning drawings of song
are the sounds never writ in the palm of a page.
The words revolve in the palm of a page
reticent without a voice to engage.
Until the eyes speak, the letters revolve,
drawn into the palm of a page.
Drawn into the palm of a page
in fantastical tactual rage,
the drawing of dawn, such lustrous a state,
are words when stirred in the palm of a page.
When words are stirred in the palm of a page,
pristine in placement and timing and wage,
from the copulation of ink, formed to order
and shape, just a pawn in the palm of a page.
A dying rare breed, once the palm of a page,
now a bleary of beauty held tight in a cage,
just remnants of spawning drawings of song
are the sounds never writ in the palm of a page.
Friday, December 11, 2009
hmmm... a different kind of poem
Without God
In death who knows to rest?
Who has lied about its peace?
Of morose and lonesome tragedies,
death seems furthest from the least.
From the moment of one’s death,
who can in any way abstain?
Who’s to say forever, there
a man will not remain?
To death won’t every theory
of death seem rather futile?
Won’t life’s wisdom die in death,
Where life’s thoughts are juvenile?
In death who is to speculate
that torture won’t endure,
and depths from every darkest night
won’t reign forevermore?
For Death has never heard of rest,
Nor has Death considered peace,
but in Death one thing is certain,
In Death— the life of man will cease.
In death who knows to rest?
Who has lied about its peace?
Of morose and lonesome tragedies,
death seems furthest from the least.
From the moment of one’s death,
who can in any way abstain?
Who’s to say forever, there
a man will not remain?
To death won’t every theory
of death seem rather futile?
Won’t life’s wisdom die in death,
Where life’s thoughts are juvenile?
In death who is to speculate
that torture won’t endure,
and depths from every darkest night
won’t reign forevermore?
For Death has never heard of rest,
Nor has Death considered peace,
but in Death one thing is certain,
In Death— the life of man will cease.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
I want to write!
I want to write beautiful things to my God. My heart's tied by the agenda of time. It flexes, stretches, strains, and drains every beat towards the yearning: to pour every attention in creating what my Father will love, simply because I'm love struck in making it for Him.
I've seen such a pale reflection of Him in some, and my spirit is frenzied with unimpeded joy, such ravenous excitement that my longings are increased to ten time longer. To even catch a glimpse of the beauty within, between the wind and the air, momentarily bare from the concealment painted on by the world. My heart raptures, thrusts, burns, pounds through every layer without fear, but utterly confident in the Love that wrote such love to know my heart intricately, intimately, to it's deepest core, hidden almost from the heart itself.
Oh true God! Won't you endure in my heart to carry me over the time you have set before me. In such weakness I travel, shelled by the world at all angles. The horrifying, chaotic noise abuses my spirit and I lose sight of your goodness. I fall victimized and abused yielding to masters that must forget hearts exist, for their brains have been trained to exchange truth for lies. My heart is wrung, Lord. My heart is wrung.
I've seen such a pale reflection of Him in some, and my spirit is frenzied with unimpeded joy, such ravenous excitement that my longings are increased to ten time longer. To even catch a glimpse of the beauty within, between the wind and the air, momentarily bare from the concealment painted on by the world. My heart raptures, thrusts, burns, pounds through every layer without fear, but utterly confident in the Love that wrote such love to know my heart intricately, intimately, to it's deepest core, hidden almost from the heart itself.
Oh true God! Won't you endure in my heart to carry me over the time you have set before me. In such weakness I travel, shelled by the world at all angles. The horrifying, chaotic noise abuses my spirit and I lose sight of your goodness. I fall victimized and abused yielding to masters that must forget hearts exist, for their brains have been trained to exchange truth for lies. My heart is wrung, Lord. My heart is wrung.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
A POEM!!
Tonight I Cry
At night my lonesome spirit’s cries
pierce silence like no chord,
and tonight in all the silences
I yearn to hear my Lord.
SING to me, Sweet Symphony,
who's sound elicits souls
from swamps flown with sorrow
down the loathsome path to Sheol.
Don’t refuse me, abhorred
by my likeness close to death,
but douse my insufficiency
with life instilling breath.
I long aloud, that I might fight,
with Spirit, shield and sword.
Equip me Lord, so I can stand.
Have in me-- your blood poured.
At night my lonesome spirit’s cries
pierce silence like no chord,
and tonight in all the silences
I yearn to hear my Lord.
SING to me, Sweet Symphony,
who's sound elicits souls
from swamps flown with sorrow
down the loathsome path to Sheol.
Don’t refuse me, abhorred
by my likeness close to death,
but douse my insufficiency
with life instilling breath.
I long aloud, that I might fight,
with Spirit, shield and sword.
Equip me Lord, so I can stand.
Have in me-- your blood poured.
Friday, November 13, 2009
More Incoherent Thoughts.
Analyze every moment of your day. Every thought and every action, and put it before the Living God. Be judged for each and every moment. You will quickly find that you can be your own judge. You saw him alone again today, wasting, fading away. You saw her crushed by worldly glares, but all you did was stare. You see them hiding everywhere, yet what action shows you care? Do you think God sipped wine with the drunkards? Do you think God ate food with the gluttons? Do you think God touched the dirty, stained, unwanted faces?
So go. Go and be Love. Embody it in every moment, every thought, and every action. You did not have the power to do this on your own, but the Spirit has given you this power. So do not make excuses about what you are incapable of, for we already know these things are true. But what is the Spirit of God incapable of? This is the same Spirit that lives in you. So go and live and love and give. Don’t not live a lie, and blame your own inefficiencies for spiritual work that did not get done.
So go. Go and be Love. Embody it in every moment, every thought, and every action. You did not have the power to do this on your own, but the Spirit has given you this power. So do not make excuses about what you are incapable of, for we already know these things are true. But what is the Spirit of God incapable of? This is the same Spirit that lives in you. So go and live and love and give. Don’t not live a lie, and blame your own inefficiencies for spiritual work that did not get done.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
My favorite poems for your viewing pleasure
Procrastination
Sandpaper lenses scrape my trying eyes
with each clasp of lashes.
As my brain opens to yawn, concealed ideas escape
my skull’s dividing bars, segregating me from completion’s
peace. Instead I settle atop
a mound of heaping fails, like an aged fly
on a pile of dung. I’m hardly phased by Dr. Clock’s powerful hand
threatening to color my demise.
Pessimism’s toxins eventually pervade,
causing a lurid note to my lethargic heart.
My body emits a drone, sullen stare.
I tentatively screen the luminescent white board
that blurs with sulking, silenced
air passing through the emptiness engrained
in my pestilent frame.
And such is the product of procrastination.
Larceny
Oh dancing, you steal my heart away.
With such romantic sway in lacing,
And touch so intent on loosing,
oh the ecstasy of dancing
steals my long-wrought heart away.
Night Sky’s Drama
Across the whitecaps of the ocean floor,
emerging from the lamp lit shade of night,
far beyond the sound of shore waves roar,
I watch the pouring out of blood’s moonlight
At first the horrid red can hardly glow,
but patiently the budding circle climbs.
Slow, the ember rises close below
Stars who silently await the time.
Instead, with height, illumination comes
The saving moonlight settles high above
The stars who once were fearful now become
Adornment for his ardent light of love
In awe I see creation’s majesty
Enthralled by One who gave his Son for me.
Glasses
Faded smoked frames encompass
two round-edged, barren glass panes
linked by the narrow bridge arching
over the emptiness that ensues between.
At either end of the bridge’s lean,
elevated roads surround the symmetrical lakes
like a black tire hugs fine silver rims.
The paths converge at the bulging, hinged armpit,
that protrudes from the outside of either edge.
At last the tracks make a final climb, inclining
slowly forward until achieving the peak,
and suddenly tapering off into the same solitude
that lies under the bridge, and beneath the lakes.
Mexican roses
My stomach of thorns churned, hustled and blew.
I flew high, lava rupture, propelled to the moon.
And out came a sun burning through smoggy fumes.
Oh the scent of Mexican roses in bloom.
Sandpaper lenses scrape my trying eyes
with each clasp of lashes.
As my brain opens to yawn, concealed ideas escape
my skull’s dividing bars, segregating me from completion’s
peace. Instead I settle atop
a mound of heaping fails, like an aged fly
on a pile of dung. I’m hardly phased by Dr. Clock’s powerful hand
threatening to color my demise.
Pessimism’s toxins eventually pervade,
causing a lurid note to my lethargic heart.
My body emits a drone, sullen stare.
I tentatively screen the luminescent white board
that blurs with sulking, silenced
air passing through the emptiness engrained
in my pestilent frame.
And such is the product of procrastination.
Larceny
Oh dancing, you steal my heart away.
With such romantic sway in lacing,
And touch so intent on loosing,
oh the ecstasy of dancing
steals my long-wrought heart away.
Night Sky’s Drama
Across the whitecaps of the ocean floor,
emerging from the lamp lit shade of night,
far beyond the sound of shore waves roar,
I watch the pouring out of blood’s moonlight
At first the horrid red can hardly glow,
but patiently the budding circle climbs.
Slow, the ember rises close below
Stars who silently await the time.
Instead, with height, illumination comes
The saving moonlight settles high above
The stars who once were fearful now become
Adornment for his ardent light of love
In awe I see creation’s majesty
Enthralled by One who gave his Son for me.
Glasses
Faded smoked frames encompass
two round-edged, barren glass panes
linked by the narrow bridge arching
over the emptiness that ensues between.
At either end of the bridge’s lean,
elevated roads surround the symmetrical lakes
like a black tire hugs fine silver rims.
The paths converge at the bulging, hinged armpit,
that protrudes from the outside of either edge.
At last the tracks make a final climb, inclining
slowly forward until achieving the peak,
and suddenly tapering off into the same solitude
that lies under the bridge, and beneath the lakes.
Mexican roses
My stomach of thorns churned, hustled and blew.
I flew high, lava rupture, propelled to the moon.
And out came a sun burning through smoggy fumes.
Oh the scent of Mexican roses in bloom.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Busy
I am enjoying the sanity that business (that's a busy business) brings to my life. Less time to think about myself and more time to act on the truths God has revealed to me, praise be to Him. Wellness fair tomorrow, babysitting tomorrow, speaking tomorrow night about changing for Jesus, a couple classes tomorrow, and if I'm lucky maybe a chance to grab a meal. Yes, yes, this is about as good as it gets.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Months Go By
Depression has a hard time keeping a distance from me. An irony exists, being filled with a spirit that longs for something it does not have. I'm confident that the world is not something that we were sent to fix. It seems the existence of man has done nothing but destroy the world on an exponential scale. Is there any reasoning to believe a change in pattern?
Perhaps we should be more in tune with exactly what God is yearning for our ears to hear through his Word. This world is temporal. That means it will end. In fact, Jesus also tells us a lot of the people in this world will also come to an end, a death both physically and spiritually, hell. We should recognize that our efforts to improve this world are a mere reflection of what is to come. Our motivation is to reflect the character of the Living God, who someday will come and restore completely and perfectly.
So don't only go half way. Don't just go out to change and fix the world. Let your motives be known, so others can have a relationship with the living God. For the world we live in will never compare to the one to come.
Perhaps we should be more in tune with exactly what God is yearning for our ears to hear through his Word. This world is temporal. That means it will end. In fact, Jesus also tells us a lot of the people in this world will also come to an end, a death both physically and spiritually, hell. We should recognize that our efforts to improve this world are a mere reflection of what is to come. Our motivation is to reflect the character of the Living God, who someday will come and restore completely and perfectly.
So don't only go half way. Don't just go out to change and fix the world. Let your motives be known, so others can have a relationship with the living God. For the world we live in will never compare to the one to come.
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