FIRE

Fire

For too long my heart was a naked ember, out in the open,
clinging to a heat that was waning.

Perhaps just too hot to touch, searing to the flesh,
but with a poking stick: easy and safe to move,
perfectly suitable for a small box.

One ember: what is it but a reminder
of what once burned, and is now dying away?

I feel the Holy flames now, lapping against the walls of my chest.
The world is blurring in the heat, heavy with razor sharp orange,
as my planks of blindness are consumed by God's Holiness.
My fire climbs out, it surrounds me entirely, and it runs
through the harvest field of dormant embers—
lighting the world on fire for Christ!

Father, your glory birthed the sun!

6:11 AM

At night my eyelids force my focus in
to the depths of myself, thick curtains
preventing me from reflecting light.
In my coma of darkness, I lose all strength
of will, spirit, and truth. I am a victim,
unable to lift my hands in defense. I am naked.
It is my internal crucifixion.

Torment locates my terror nerve and does
its job. My spirit, trapped in my dormant skin,
trembles like a puddle-bound worm
in a thunderstorm— just drowning.
My anxiety violently writhes against the inside
of my dead body. Everything but my voice
cries out for God. No Sound.

In fear, I jolt awake, and still,
it’s dark. My chest, wrung tight,
and heart— still feeling fight. I wait—
for a ball of fire in the air
to conquer darkness with every ray of light,
to pave the steps that lead me out of night.
Ah, the song!
I hear and see the promises of dawn.

Father, your glory birthed the sun,
and to the horizon’s gift I’ll run.

Wrestling

As many of you know, I wrestled for a good chunk of my life. The piece below was a creative writing assignment for school. It tells a bit about the last tournament I ever wrestled in. Two weeks after this tournament, my wrestling career ended forever. Here is a glimpse into my mind at the height of my wrestling career, a little more than a year before I accepted Christ.
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Whistles ram shackle the gymnasium, backed by thundering bleachers and bolts of flashes hailing down from the crowd. The stage intensifies as the wrestling tournament nears climax with every passing match. The Newark Academy wrestling tournament showcased twenty-one teams, (I know because I counted), nineteen of which had wrestlers weigh-in at 130 lbs., my weight-class.

I repeatedly thought of Rob Delores, and how I loathed his doofus grin. Rob Delores lived in my neighborhood. I swear that kid was smoking in the bathroom since the 2nd grade. On mischief night, Rob hung out with all the neighborhood punks. I watched them loiter on the street corner from my window. I hated Rob Delores. I hated every bus ride, every day, because of Rob Delores. I don’t remember a single insult (there were plenty), but I’ll never forget that dim-witted head bobbing over the back seat of the bus, laughing at himself. My anger imploded like a backwards grenade. Something evil filled my body at the slightest thought of Rob Delores. I dreamt of my knuckles crushing his nose, and feeling his warm blood quench my rage. My parents sensed a need for me to unleash my anger, and encouraged me to play sports.

Ten years passed and I was a senior at Morristown high school. I was eighteen years old, college bound, and a religious zealot ever since the third grade. My religion was wrestling. I meditated on every move, every nuance, and every moment of ten-years of discipline. My meditation would have shamed Buddhist monks. There was no wrestling season for me. Every season was a season for wrestling, every month a wrestling month, every day a wrestling day. My physical hunger was far out-weighed by my hunger for victory, for glory, to be the Pacific of oceans, the Jupiter of planets, to reign over the realm of wrestlers. I whispered to my wrestling god before every match, help me be the best.

Into the semi-finals, I did not care that it had taken me two six-minute matches to do away with my first two opponents. I failed to pin either of them, and had to gain both victories by points. I cared a little bit more that I could not turn my head left, and that spine shrieking pain—my head must have been internally detached, only held on by the skin of my neck. I told my coach. I might as well have told the gymnasium floor. His straight face did not even react to my plea for attention, or medical assistance, or a miracle from the wrestling gods. He wasn’t sure if I was healthy, but he knew I was wrestling. I knew that I was not healthy; however, I also knew that only my grave would cause me to drop out of the tournament, and the coffin lid had better be bolted shut to make it a sure thing. I was going to be the best, or die trying.

Adrenaline transcended everything physical, and brought me to my first gold medal in high school. My game was flawless. I embarrassed the two seed in the semis, and beat the top seed, state-ranked Dan Butcher, by a good margin of 9-2. I remember watching him squirm; his red flashes of brilliance wither under the strength of my will. I stripped him of his pride, his reason for living, and I cashed in at the awards ceremony.

I went home the best. My neck throbbing felt more like a victory massage from the medal and ribbon resting steady as my crown. I was a king in my world: able to demand my will and have it be done.

NO NAP

Dedicated to my friend Sam Slusser.. THIS IS FOR YOU SAM!! If you are not Sam, do not expect this to make any sense, you wouldn't understand...

No Nap

In the dark alley way of good and plenty
I walked slow like coal on the railway.
I opened wide to the white and purple sky
AND- No nap, Oh Snap! No nap...

Candy crane droppings on my parade,
hand stuck in the gutter, but I can't complain
cause it could be hailing kidney stones,
but instead I GOT MONEY IN THE RED ZONE!
No Nap, WHAT? No Nap
OHH SNAP YO...
NO NAP-

The over-arching clash of things

There is a lot going on in this poem, and I was unable to create a title I was satisfied with. However, it is kind of fun to hear what other people think, so please make title suggestions!


I fall asleep, a ladle into seas,
the heavy ‘tween dreams the steam
inspiring my delusions.

And all the building, twisted towers
mounting to gifts of the world’s elite:
recognition, wealth, and death.

But dreams are not but devastations
of all these worldly aspirations,
distracting my spirit from home.

So I’ve restated my claim to
amputate my Self from the mainland
reign, and to balance so unreasonably

on the vein of one leaf
at the highest tree’s peak, and risk
falling for flight.

Another Gorgeous Day

Isn't This The World We Live In?

Aren’t the evils and demons in the world like
flies: in the sweating sun, near the still pond,
and algae stained air smell buzzing?

And isn’t the God who loves the world like
Wind: exercising His sovereignty just breathing,
cleaning the air with every whoosh He wills?

Beauty

Can words even describe this weather? I know that weather.com is not doing it justice. Some days just transcend the abilities of the weathermen, the same way abstractions, such as beauty, cannot quite be captured by the poets. Well, the weathermen still attempt to talk weather, and apparently the poets still attempt to describe beauty.

Beauty

The twilight air seduced
my skin tight spirit, as my cares
befuddled at the red-orange red nectar
of my first ripe sunset.
I couldn’t help but whisper awe:
That’s my favorite color,
as the sky’s paramount beauty
prances my heart’s pant.

SPRINT

I was reborn a sprinter. Out of the gates running, I did not anticipate the first bend, and I smashed into the side pretty bad. I shook myself back up, and kept sprinting. I did not anticipate the bumps, roots, holes, and other obstacles. In full sprint, I took my eyes off the road and went thud into walls, face planted dirt, and taxed my body physically, spiritually, emotionally, and I kept sprinting. I did not really go the training wheels route, decked out with helmet, knee pads, and wrist guards. I chose the crotch-rocket blazing down the highway at 130 mph (never bothered learning whether or not the thing had breaks). I forgot to watch where I was going sometimes, but I never forgot where I was headed: all out toward Jesus.

So, you see, my lifestyle is dangerous, reckless, and quite painful really. Most certainly foolishness by many standards… I’m fine by that. No doubt when I crash, it is no fender bender— but I’m relying on God-strength, so why slow down?

By God’s great grace, I am still spiritually alive and fervent for Christ! Somehow, He has even improved my style of sprinting. It’s not that it’s safer; I’m still a blind man running in many ways. The difference is that very occasionally I’ll be listening enough to hear God whisper, there’s a hole, jump…Now! I still have to jump, and I never really see the hole. In fact, I only ever really see holes once I’ve already fallen into them. But perhaps that’s why I am able to listen now. And maybe, that’s why I’m willing to listen a bit harder. Because it is true, those crashes are brutal. It is no matter though, they are not slowing down my sprint. I will just listen really hard, and keep on keepin’ on. I am sprinting home!

Remember crucifying Christ?

A year ago I cried. I did not just cry, I wept, and I helplessly wailed for hours. I could not cope with the unfathomable amount of pain and suffering in the world (I will not list them, you will not have to look hard to discover there are too many). For about a week I was depressed. The tragedy of my state wasn't that I doubted in Jesus. I believed in my salvation, but too many people didn't have it, and their suffering seemed in vain. They did not know Jesus, and no matter what effort I put forth, I could not save the world. Then something happened. In my misery I saw Jesus, and He was crying too. He was suffering, bearing the pain caused by every sin. I remembered that I too was a sinner, and that I contributed to the suffering of Jesus. I was just another sinner standing in the crowd mocking Him up on the cross—and yet, He still loved me, He still saved me.


I Scorned

My soul hides in my wincing guts
from the hourglass of the heartbeat.
My eyes taunt His defeated droop
like the caw of a black crow.
My wrists tingle at the—
tedious teething of my abuse
leading Him to the cross.
Hail the King of the Jews, I said,
and I spit on Him.

The Son mourns
weeping willows into the ground,
and bleeds the soaking bank into form,
and offers refuge.
And the torrent of tormenting death drains,
deaf to the cry of God’s plea.

In His forsaken thirst
He breathed His last.