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.
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