come with me, in your imagination, to a secret place.
close your eyes, if you shall, and enter into the reality within -
ask the Spirit to arise, and take you into the mysteries of the kingdom.
follow me, into touch and feel.
into hear and beats of a rhythm not yet found by men
music and pictures, moving and swirling and spinning, from a different realm.
mysttterrrrrrry -
for here fascination and exhilaration originate.
dancers dance to a moving, whistling winds of love
& singers sing with melodies and harmonies of holy obsession.
let us peer through the window of our souls -
into the Spirit.
the Spirit.
the Spirit.
which is ours, and His, and mine, and His.
and together we fellowship. we commune.
we journey together into the endless, boundless, depths of God.
the unsearchable waters of this Being. this infinite Being.
this never-ending source of Power, and Wisdom, and Beauty, and Love,
and Passion.
join hands with me as we jump off the rugged cliff of the seen
&
let go and violently abandon all that we know...
free fall, with earth above, and heaven below.
fallllllling. the dark storms brewing above, and the memory of His presence
pushing us down, down, down.
the tune that continues to play over and over and over.
the taste that was left upon our tongue.
pushing us further.
further.
forcing us
down
&
down
&
down
&
here we are: falllllling.
listen to the breakers and the waves and breakers of
the depths. the endlessness of the raging waters of GOD.
the souls of seeking ask the terrifying questions:
Who is this One that causes creation to groan?
Who is this One who holds the world together by the sound of His voice?
Who is this One pulling us dowwwwwn....?
and here we are hitting this
water - being swallowed into the sinking of seeking.
Overtaken
by
mystery
by
mystery
by
mystery
by
the Hidden
by
the cloudy, raging, roaring waters of the deeeeep deeeeep wonders of
Him who came booming over Mount Sinai.
who struck down thousands by the waters of the seas
who burned down fire and sulphur onto wickedness
who threw His wrath, intended for men, upon His very own Son.
yet the only option is to
crash into the horizon of water and sky
the waters of this limitless Being:
the whisperings asking, who is this?
who offered His Spirit.
WHO IS THIS vast being - whose waters we have begun to swim...
yet this is only
the beginning...
this is only the beginning...
this is the refusal to be satisfied with words. words. words.
this is the rejection of only peering from afar.
this is beginning the pursuit that eternity won't even exhaust.
cutting the rope.
holding nothing back.
giving up
everything
and falling.
falling,
falllllling
into the neverending Sea.
and we shall swim straight into Him.
and the screams of the skies will be silenced
and the emancipation of the soul will be found.
LET GO.
11.12.2008
11.10.2008
yet again, there He is.
like a small child on the lap of her father
she rereads the book for the 133rd time
traces her delicate hands over the ragged page
humming the sound she feels would come from the sky
swaying to the beat of the rhyming words
this is her comfort.
growing in an age of the drunken old man
asleep on his pillow of gold.
the earth is his overcoat, and the spirit of the age is
his sleeping pill - drifting him away.
cracked skin and rubbed down knuckles,
he snores to the sound of "comfort, and safety, and pleasure"
and his droning is the fire behind every word being brought forth.
"drink and be merry - for we rule the world"
she didn't choose to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
at night, when the wind rattles the window,
we hide in the closets and talk to Jesus.
the earth rumbles, and when the TV's finally turned down,
and the silence is visited,
we know something is about to happen.
and even so,
she didn't choose to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
rocks cradled in the arms of the earth,
dirt covered and telling stories,
sing His praises.
deep in the oceans, where men know not of,
they groan for His return,
because even they - lacking spirit and soul -
know something is terribly wrong.
like a little girl, dancing to acoustic strumming and
piano banging, asking to know the God who created her...
believing there's a world to explore in the recesses of
her being.
laying down she sees inside, doors upon doors upon doors
where light creeps from gap between floor and frame.
it's the rooms of the stories of the prophets.
it's the halls of the tears of the martyrs.
it's the longing of all those who have came before her.
an ushering.
she didn't ask to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
it's the culmination of the ages.
and the bowls of the cries of the chosen ones burns forth,
and there is such thing as the wrath of the Lamb.
but amidst a scarlet woman on a scarlet beast.
the room where she reads,
the walls to which she sings,
and even the father who raised her up,
flee away.
and
she
hears.
the pages come to life, and the musics volumes shake the floorboards.
she whispers, "HE IS REAL."
this is the
swimming in the dwelling place of God.
He who is a Priest and a Lamb.
He who is slain and rose again.
He who is a servant and a King.
the desire of the nations.
the man of war, drenched in the blood of the wicked.
the Lion of the Tribe of Judah
is roaring.
and the noise rattles her frame,
and she falls to her face - a picture and a sign.
the Bride, so unaware.
the Bride, being called forth.
Oh so distant are the wildernesses in which prophets are born.
Oh so terrible is the sun.
Oh so troubling is the loneliness.
Oh so terrifying is the hour.
Oh so great is our God.
all the aching of all the hearts
is found in the Fountain.
all the aching of all the hearts
is found in the Light.
and she is found drinking deeply,
and she is found swimming in the heat of the glory.
as she bellows "I want to be with You where you are"
and as soon as the song is sung, the tenor overtakes
from the depths of His being, the same song,
"I want to be with You where you are."
she didn't ask to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
but He is asking for friends.
for His rod of iron shall dash them,
and His wife will be clean.
His glory shall arise in Zion,
and the darkened skies will break,
and nothing will ever be the same.
and so the chorus arises, for those who love His appearing,
"Even so, Come Lord Jesus."
Even so, Come.
Jesus, we want You to come back.
she rereads the book for the 133rd time
traces her delicate hands over the ragged page
humming the sound she feels would come from the sky
swaying to the beat of the rhyming words
this is her comfort.
growing in an age of the drunken old man
asleep on his pillow of gold.
the earth is his overcoat, and the spirit of the age is
his sleeping pill - drifting him away.
cracked skin and rubbed down knuckles,
he snores to the sound of "comfort, and safety, and pleasure"
and his droning is the fire behind every word being brought forth.
"drink and be merry - for we rule the world"
she didn't choose to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
at night, when the wind rattles the window,
we hide in the closets and talk to Jesus.
the earth rumbles, and when the TV's finally turned down,
and the silence is visited,
we know something is about to happen.
and even so,
she didn't choose to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
rocks cradled in the arms of the earth,
dirt covered and telling stories,
sing His praises.
deep in the oceans, where men know not of,
they groan for His return,
because even they - lacking spirit and soul -
know something is terribly wrong.
like a little girl, dancing to acoustic strumming and
piano banging, asking to know the God who created her...
believing there's a world to explore in the recesses of
her being.
laying down she sees inside, doors upon doors upon doors
where light creeps from gap between floor and frame.
it's the rooms of the stories of the prophets.
it's the halls of the tears of the martyrs.
it's the longing of all those who have came before her.
an ushering.
she didn't ask to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
it's the culmination of the ages.
and the bowls of the cries of the chosen ones burns forth,
and there is such thing as the wrath of the Lamb.
but amidst a scarlet woman on a scarlet beast.
the room where she reads,
the walls to which she sings,
and even the father who raised her up,
flee away.
and
she
hears.
the pages come to life, and the musics volumes shake the floorboards.
she whispers, "HE IS REAL."
this is the
swimming in the dwelling place of God.
He who is a Priest and a Lamb.
He who is slain and rose again.
He who is a servant and a King.
the desire of the nations.
the man of war, drenched in the blood of the wicked.
the Lion of the Tribe of Judah
is roaring.
and the noise rattles her frame,
and she falls to her face - a picture and a sign.
the Bride, so unaware.
the Bride, being called forth.
Oh so distant are the wildernesses in which prophets are born.
Oh so terrible is the sun.
Oh so troubling is the loneliness.
Oh so terrifying is the hour.
Oh so great is our God.
all the aching of all the hearts
is found in the Fountain.
all the aching of all the hearts
is found in the Light.
and she is found drinking deeply,
and she is found swimming in the heat of the glory.
as she bellows "I want to be with You where you are"
and as soon as the song is sung, the tenor overtakes
from the depths of His being, the same song,
"I want to be with You where you are."
she didn't ask to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
but He is asking for friends.
for His rod of iron shall dash them,
and His wife will be clean.
His glory shall arise in Zion,
and the darkened skies will break,
and nothing will ever be the same.
and so the chorus arises, for those who love His appearing,
"Even so, Come Lord Jesus."
Even so, Come.
Jesus, we want You to come back.
9.12.2008
running in the spirit
words. words. words.
how they tire me so.
letters embracing each other into syllables, syntax, sentences...
silent, voiceless little characters.
colorless and lifeless mirages.
you can stare into them, yet they remain
lines perched upon a white sheet.
like grave stones.
like grave stones.
above the dead man.
a hollowed one, a box full of bones
they are only a little, worn out postcard with scribbled ink
soaked up into a photograph
of a distant land
a whirlwind of emotion.
yet in these moments its my only means,
as weak as it seems
to yank out the roaring waters within and push them into an understanding
other than just my own.
for behind these lonely eyes is a circus of reds and yellows
shrieks and swirling MOTTTTIOOOOONNNNN
of hands that have touched, or held, or touched
melodies. backed by symphonies.
strings swelling as my heart, dressed up as a simple, blonde girl
flings herself to and fro like a rag doll
liberated because something within caught a
GLIMPSE of a man named Invisible
a lion roaring in the darkness, and the resounding
sound of passion splatters light
into a once blind heart.
there are visionsssss put on display behind eyelids, that have the
power to burn into a soul
harder, faster, gentler than any embrace found on the outside.
it is wonder.
and it's more than a w-o-n-d-e-r.
it's REALITY because this is touching the hem of LOVE.
which never fades away - when the avalanche of the throne of God
collides into this black abyss we call life.
love shall remain.
and this love that haunts the screen of my spirit is a
rushing waterfall of divinity and fire and screams of
all the abandonments that were worth it, all the trades of petty trinkets for strings and strings and strings of gold,
this is more than i knew i was stepping into
this is more than i was ready for
this is more than this weak one can handle
barred by time, time, time.
skin, skin, skin.
this unglorified being
that rattles the cage of now.
longing plagues this prisoner of hope
for then. when i will see the eyes of flaming fire.
and all this overwhelming beauty that has wounded me and left me mourning for
His coming.
when all of these rhythms and beats dancing to the colors of morning fading into night, night, darkness of waiting. waiting. waiting, the great epic drama locked in by my skin and bones,
singing to me from within... will be set free.
that is when i can do away with these WORDS. words. words.
and paint the harmonies of what i see, feel, live in...
hidden from the outside.
far away.
far away.
far away.
far away from any others.
but for now this postcard of letters is all i have. all i have. all i have to threaten the accusations before my eyes. to throw rejections at the luxurious invitation of self-pity. to keep the chains of despair from crawling back up to my neck.
and so words will be my drug to appease this season of
tension.
and to that the choruses sing, "amen&amen."
how they tire me so.
letters embracing each other into syllables, syntax, sentences...
silent, voiceless little characters.
colorless and lifeless mirages.
you can stare into them, yet they remain
lines perched upon a white sheet.
like grave stones.
like grave stones.
above the dead man.
a hollowed one, a box full of bones
they are only a little, worn out postcard with scribbled ink
soaked up into a photograph
of a distant land
a whirlwind of emotion.
yet in these moments its my only means,
as weak as it seems
to yank out the roaring waters within and push them into an understanding
other than just my own.
for behind these lonely eyes is a circus of reds and yellows
shrieks and swirling MOTTTTIOOOOONNNNN
of hands that have touched, or held, or touched
melodies. backed by symphonies.
strings swelling as my heart, dressed up as a simple, blonde girl
flings herself to and fro like a rag doll
liberated because something within caught a
GLIMPSE of a man named Invisible
a lion roaring in the darkness, and the resounding
sound of passion splatters light
into a once blind heart.
there are visionsssss put on display behind eyelids, that have the
power to burn into a soul
harder, faster, gentler than any embrace found on the outside.
it is wonder.
and it's more than a w-o-n-d-e-r.
it's REALITY because this is touching the hem of LOVE.
which never fades away - when the avalanche of the throne of God
collides into this black abyss we call life.
love shall remain.
and this love that haunts the screen of my spirit is a
rushing waterfall of divinity and fire and screams of
all the abandonments that were worth it, all the trades of petty trinkets for strings and strings and strings of gold,
this is more than i knew i was stepping into
this is more than i was ready for
this is more than this weak one can handle
barred by time, time, time.
skin, skin, skin.
this unglorified being
that rattles the cage of now.
longing plagues this prisoner of hope
for then. when i will see the eyes of flaming fire.
and all this overwhelming beauty that has wounded me and left me mourning for
His coming.
when all of these rhythms and beats dancing to the colors of morning fading into night, night, darkness of waiting. waiting. waiting, the great epic drama locked in by my skin and bones,
singing to me from within... will be set free.
that is when i can do away with these WORDS. words. words.
and paint the harmonies of what i see, feel, live in...
hidden from the outside.
far away.
far away.
far away.
far away from any others.
but for now this postcard of letters is all i have. all i have. all i have to threaten the accusations before my eyes. to throw rejections at the luxurious invitation of self-pity. to keep the chains of despair from crawling back up to my neck.
and so words will be my drug to appease this season of
tension.
and to that the choruses sing, "amen&amen."
7.01.2008
kiss my ears and let them hear
i heard this tale once, tall and towering,
yet somehow true...
and for its borrowing
i am here to let it out,
break the seams,
let rushing water overwhelm
this
infamous drought.
listen all ears
hungry for
emerald
and gold.
galatic fairytales
parables of old
hidden enigmas
never been told.
what
could
this be.
the great feeding
the mystery breeding
the beautiful shes
and the powerful hes
all in need.
for they are the broken.
they are the maimed.
and out of the heart shaped cavern of
hunger.
the calvary speaks,
"whisper Oh Man of the Desert
dusty feet
a wellspring of waters
tall oak Tree.
bury my bones in the
depths of your belly.
count back down from three.
let me grow
out of your skin
and speak to these roots,
say to these anchors like lead -
that hollow evenings are about to be fed
with cement
and there we shall sink deeep deeep
covered
in
the unbreakable.
unshakeable.
make us beautiful."
and there He stands.
mighty Man of war -
the jewel of the desert
sparkling against the Saharan sun
He vies for frail affection
like a hungry village for the burnt batch of rice.
dusty frames have no delight to offer
but still He withholds, only to entice.
this King, a jar filled with blood,
is Wisdom
rushing
roaring
soaking
the alluring Flood.
sparkle.
shine.
glitter.
sweet red wine.
"lets drink from your cup.
garnished veneer
golden studded handle
bubbles
and water
and red
and tears."
this is a pining for light.
liquid illumination.
He sets people on fire.
the people's come bounding.
it's the Burning Man in the desert.
His call is resounding.
and the great eagles of the sky
peer with their one seeing eye
down into the great bowl of sand
the seemingly barren barren barren land.
and the great God of the flame
is surrounded by rusty and weathered lampstands
the shattered and lame.
but they too
are burning.
burning.
burning.
"in His river of fire,
we are illuminated."
no one is being consumed.
like moses and His bush.
forever blazing
this is the hour.
watch.
squint into the Sun.
He breathes.
yet somehow true...
and for its borrowing
i am here to let it out,
break the seams,
let rushing water overwhelm
this
infamous drought.
listen all ears
hungry for
emerald
and gold.
galatic fairytales
parables of old
hidden enigmas
never been told.
what
could
this be.
the great feeding
the mystery breeding
the beautiful shes
and the powerful hes
all in need.
for they are the broken.
they are the maimed.
and out of the heart shaped cavern of
hunger.
the calvary speaks,
"whisper Oh Man of the Desert
dusty feet
a wellspring of waters
tall oak Tree.
bury my bones in the
depths of your belly.
count back down from three.
let me grow
out of your skin
and speak to these roots,
say to these anchors like lead -
that hollow evenings are about to be fed
with cement
and there we shall sink deeep deeep
covered
in
the unbreakable.
unshakeable.
make us beautiful."
and there He stands.
mighty Man of war -
the jewel of the desert
sparkling against the Saharan sun
He vies for frail affection
like a hungry village for the burnt batch of rice.
dusty frames have no delight to offer
but still He withholds, only to entice.
this King, a jar filled with blood,
is Wisdom
rushing
roaring
soaking
the alluring Flood.
sparkle.
shine.
glitter.
sweet red wine.
"lets drink from your cup.
garnished veneer
golden studded handle
bubbles
and water
and red
and tears."
this is a pining for light.
liquid illumination.
He sets people on fire.
the people's come bounding.
it's the Burning Man in the desert.
His call is resounding.
and the great eagles of the sky
peer with their one seeing eye
down into the great bowl of sand
the seemingly barren barren barren land.
and the great God of the flame
is surrounded by rusty and weathered lampstands
the shattered and lame.
but they too
are burning.
burning.
burning.
"in His river of fire,
we are illuminated."
no one is being consumed.
like moses and His bush.
forever blazing
this is the hour.
watch.
squint into the Sun.
He breathes.
6.28.2008
john 17
There is something about sitting in a circle man to my left
woman to my right,
chairs, couches, flooooor, legs crossed
leaned back & eyes closed.
feel the leather bible upon your exposed knee as
you tuck the skirt underneath
and pull out the INK pin to write
the feelings, words, longing that dances across the
back of your eyelids
as
someone, one of some, pulls out the wooden and the strings
to strike the chords of
want want want within each little one, little child,
unborn kings and queens - still resting in the wombs of
the prophecies yet fulfilled
and some sing, harmony, good bad...
whispers... tongues of angels weave in and
out of this little body, church, family, little baby trinity
being one, as they are one...
or so we step into
even for a mere moment, a whisper of the unheard but still quite there
shout of Where This is Going
as the acoustics resound
a wild tempest rages on within and behind and inside
each muscle and skin
for
these are the moments when the tongues of fire
reach the doorrrrrr
but say, "my time has not yet come."
and we love, and long for love, and are love.
as LOVE steps into the room Himself, unmasked,
untamed, and very good
good
good
good to us.
but onlllllly to remind us of the Desire
as the music trails off like the light of a firefly
on a June evening,
and it's time for bed, or reality, or normalcy, or
8am... when really
we, the you's and i's just wishes
to keep it
stay
reach further
cry harder
touch IT and stay THERE perhaps
to continue in this great game of corporate, yet
quite alone hide and Seek.
letting our hands reach further into the Great Jar
of Mystery and
pull back
HE
WHO
HAS
PROMISED
TO
RETURN.
woman to my right,
chairs, couches, flooooor, legs crossed
leaned back & eyes closed.
feel the leather bible upon your exposed knee as
you tuck the skirt underneath
and pull out the INK pin to write
the feelings, words, longing that dances across the
back of your eyelids
as
someone, one of some, pulls out the wooden and the strings
to strike the chords of
want want want within each little one, little child,
unborn kings and queens - still resting in the wombs of
the prophecies yet fulfilled
and some sing, harmony, good bad...
whispers... tongues of angels weave in and
out of this little body, church, family, little baby trinity
being one, as they are one...
or so we step into
even for a mere moment, a whisper of the unheard but still quite there
shout of Where This is Going
as the acoustics resound
a wild tempest rages on within and behind and inside
each muscle and skin
for
these are the moments when the tongues of fire
reach the doorrrrrr
but say, "my time has not yet come."
and we love, and long for love, and are love.
as LOVE steps into the room Himself, unmasked,
untamed, and very good
good
good
good to us.
but onlllllly to remind us of the Desire
as the music trails off like the light of a firefly
on a June evening,
and it's time for bed, or reality, or normalcy, or
8am... when really
we, the you's and i's just wishes
to keep it
stay
reach further
cry harder
touch IT and stay THERE perhaps
to continue in this great game of corporate, yet
quite alone hide and Seek.
letting our hands reach further into the Great Jar
of Mystery and
pull back
HE
WHO
HAS
PROMISED
TO
RETURN.
6.14.2008
it's the end of the world as we know it.
i heard this tale once, tall and towering,
yet somehow true...
and for its borrowing
i am here to let it out,
break the seams,
let rushing water overwhelm
this
infamous drought.
listen all ears
hungry for
emerald
and gold.
galatic fairytales
parables of old
hidden enigmas
never been told.
what
could
this be.
the great feeding
the mystery breeding
the beautiful shes
and the powerful hes
all in need.
for they are the broken.
they are the maimed.
and out of the heart shaped cavern of
hunger.
the calvary speaks,
"whisper Oh Man of the Desert
dusty feet
a wellspring of waters
tall oak Tree.
bury my bones in the
depths of your belly.
count back down from three.
let me grow
out of your skin
and speak to these roots,
say to these anchors like lead -
that hollow evenings are about to be fed
with cement
and there we shall sink deeep deeep
covered
in
the unbreakable.
unshakeable.
make us beautiful."
and there He stands.
mighty Man of war -
the jewel of the desert
sparkling against the Saharan sun
He vies for frail affection
like a hungry village for the burnt batch of rice.
dusty frames have no delight to offer
but still He withholds, only to entice.
this King, a jar filled with blood,
is Wisdom
rushing
roaring
soaking
the alluring Flood.
sparkle.
shine.
glitter.
sweet red wine.
"lets drink from your cup.
garnished veneer
golden studded handle
bubbles
and water
and red
and tears."
this is a pining for light.
liquid illumination.
He sets people on fire.
the people's come bounding.
it's the Burning Man in the desert.
His call is resounding.
and the great eagles of the sky
peer with their one seeing eye
down into the great bowl of sand
the seemingly barren barren barren land.
and the great God of the flame
is surrounded by rusty and weathered lampstands
the shattered and lame.
but they too
are burning.
burning.
burning.
"in His river of fire,
we are illuminated."
no one is being consumed.
like moses and His bush.
forever blazing
this is the hour.
watch.
squint into the Sun.
He breathes.
yet somehow true...
and for its borrowing
i am here to let it out,
break the seams,
let rushing water overwhelm
this
infamous drought.
listen all ears
hungry for
emerald
and gold.
galatic fairytales
parables of old
hidden enigmas
never been told.
what
could
this be.
the great feeding
the mystery breeding
the beautiful shes
and the powerful hes
all in need.
for they are the broken.
they are the maimed.
and out of the heart shaped cavern of
hunger.
the calvary speaks,
"whisper Oh Man of the Desert
dusty feet
a wellspring of waters
tall oak Tree.
bury my bones in the
depths of your belly.
count back down from three.
let me grow
out of your skin
and speak to these roots,
say to these anchors like lead -
that hollow evenings are about to be fed
with cement
and there we shall sink deeep deeep
covered
in
the unbreakable.
unshakeable.
make us beautiful."
and there He stands.
mighty Man of war -
the jewel of the desert
sparkling against the Saharan sun
He vies for frail affection
like a hungry village for the burnt batch of rice.
dusty frames have no delight to offer
but still He withholds, only to entice.
this King, a jar filled with blood,
is Wisdom
rushing
roaring
soaking
the alluring Flood.
sparkle.
shine.
glitter.
sweet red wine.
"lets drink from your cup.
garnished veneer
golden studded handle
bubbles
and water
and red
and tears."
this is a pining for light.
liquid illumination.
He sets people on fire.
the people's come bounding.
it's the Burning Man in the desert.
His call is resounding.
and the great eagles of the sky
peer with their one seeing eye
down into the great bowl of sand
the seemingly barren barren barren land.
and the great God of the flame
is surrounded by rusty and weathered lampstands
the shattered and lame.
but they too
are burning.
burning.
burning.
"in His river of fire,
we are illuminated."
no one is being consumed.
like moses and His bush.
forever blazing
this is the hour.
watch.
squint into the Sun.
He breathes.
5.21.2008
replace the plastic chairs.
lola don't know what happened.
she really don't.
but you can peer through her gloriously, glorious bay window and find her
and her paper dolls
barely seen amidst a mountain of browned maps
rolled up over and over with all her plans.
lists and places and trinkets and things
her little life inside this mansion of a cabin - built with woooooooden beams,
ceilings low to the ground,
has
been
interrupted.
watch the terribly divine inter•jection.
it must be
the great pause/reversal on the ancient tape player.
hear it sssskip skip, change. the blood in the atrium beating to a new, ethereal rhythm.
the silver record, switches to something of divine nature.
and she tastes it all crashing down, as rubble and rust cover
her little life of dreaming -
and ceiling dusts rest upon her tongue.
listen
as she whispers to herself, in the squeaky voice behind her mother's
red lipstick, "He tends to do this to me..."
invisible movements.
missing bed frames.
the great reform.
FOR WE HAD IT ALL FIGURED OUT.
ya, she's a dreamer. a seer. a fairy in a make-believe world.
ya, she's an architect. a lover. a terrified child in need of deconstruction.
lola's one of those with chipped white nail polish, and gaudy diamond rings, and dancing fingers upon the bottom of her
hair.
ya. she's a daughter. a dancer. a safe-havened sojourner looking for a home.
and there she was: mapping out all the bold-fonted tomorrows,
with colors and numbers
and connecting dot.dot.dots,
all perfectly in line,
lining up.
cake. and horses. and oceans. and fire from heaven.
babies. and 17 stringed harps. and foggy fruit gardens.
all perfectly one after the other
etched in her expectation well,
going deep within her soul.
columns and rows like pebbles in the walls of castles.
deep dark waters like the kiddy pool in the back yard.
(stones captured from a greater, rock mountain?
waters stolen from deeper seas - stretching beyond those blufffs like mighty knights on the backdrop of sand, sand, shell, and sand.
it must be only the outlines of her coloring books.
ever and only.)
but THEN.
click one, twenty, thirteen, ten.
He comes -
that stranger of a man,
light, and Life, and mystery, and power..
it's either this way
or that...
he arrives on a horse painted yellow
out of the abyss of her inner frame
can you see him
knock
the
house
down?
smell shreds of map and paper and color
all over the ground.
mounds of piles, and piles of mound.
and lola remembers, even through blurred vision within
the waterfall of wondering.
in a whisper she recites those classical words,
"I love it when He does this.
yes, I am sure."
for there is something delightfully fascinating about
swallowing the soup He serves.
she's been at the banquet before -
and what sings to her from the table of glass
sounds better to her stomach than all
the potions of concoctions of adventures she's
written out before.
being blanketed, anyway, by sinking, submerging sands of time.
his offering exceeds her faction-ing.
his diamonds are the fat beat that
make the song worthy of a dance.
she knows she's not a good artist.
her play-games bore
the atmosphere.
lola longs to live -
and so she's remembering.
his redefinition is her reality.
for the title of his book is still,
"i know your desires."
watch him reprogram the time machine.
this is glorious.
and lola breathes.
selah unto living.
and living unto
LIFE.
she really don't.
but you can peer through her gloriously, glorious bay window and find her
and her paper dolls
barely seen amidst a mountain of browned maps
rolled up over and over with all her plans.
lists and places and trinkets and things
her little life inside this mansion of a cabin - built with woooooooden beams,
ceilings low to the ground,
has
been
interrupted.
watch the terribly divine inter•jection.
it must be
the great pause/reversal on the ancient tape player.
hear it sssskip skip, change. the blood in the atrium beating to a new, ethereal rhythm.
the silver record, switches to something of divine nature.
and she tastes it all crashing down, as rubble and rust cover
her little life of dreaming -
and ceiling dusts rest upon her tongue.
listen
as she whispers to herself, in the squeaky voice behind her mother's
red lipstick, "He tends to do this to me..."
invisible movements.
missing bed frames.
the great reform.
FOR WE HAD IT ALL FIGURED OUT.
ya, she's a dreamer. a seer. a fairy in a make-believe world.
ya, she's an architect. a lover. a terrified child in need of deconstruction.
lola's one of those with chipped white nail polish, and gaudy diamond rings, and dancing fingers upon the bottom of her
hair.
ya. she's a daughter. a dancer. a safe-havened sojourner looking for a home.
and there she was: mapping out all the bold-fonted tomorrows,
with colors and numbers
and connecting dot.dot.dots,
all perfectly in line,
lining up.
cake. and horses. and oceans. and fire from heaven.
babies. and 17 stringed harps. and foggy fruit gardens.
all perfectly one after the other
etched in her expectation well,
going deep within her soul.
columns and rows like pebbles in the walls of castles.
deep dark waters like the kiddy pool in the back yard.
(stones captured from a greater, rock mountain?
waters stolen from deeper seas - stretching beyond those blufffs like mighty knights on the backdrop of sand, sand, shell, and sand.
it must be only the outlines of her coloring books.
ever and only.)
but THEN.
click one, twenty, thirteen, ten.
He comes -
that stranger of a man,
light, and Life, and mystery, and power..
it's either this way
or that...
he arrives on a horse painted yellow
out of the abyss of her inner frame
can you see him
knock
the
house
down?
smell shreds of map and paper and color
all over the ground.
mounds of piles, and piles of mound.
and lola remembers, even through blurred vision within
the waterfall of wondering.
in a whisper she recites those classical words,
"I love it when He does this.
yes, I am sure."
for there is something delightfully fascinating about
swallowing the soup He serves.
she's been at the banquet before -
and what sings to her from the table of glass
sounds better to her stomach than all
the potions of concoctions of adventures she's
written out before.
being blanketed, anyway, by sinking, submerging sands of time.
his offering exceeds her faction-ing.
his diamonds are the fat beat that
make the song worthy of a dance.
she knows she's not a good artist.
her play-games bore
the atmosphere.
lola longs to live -
and so she's remembering.
his redefinition is her reality.
for the title of his book is still,
"i know your desires."
watch him reprogram the time machine.
this is glorious.
and lola breathes.
selah unto living.
and living unto
LIFE.
2.06.2008
the Day of His beckoning
She came home from a long, weary day with an invitation awaiting her -
perched upon her pillowcase - the letters weaved in with gold and silver,
written in a language her mind comprehends, but the words formed more
than mere syllables - something of their message caused her spirit to sing
a melody ancient yet fresh to her heart.
"To Beloved Rose..." it began, and even the mere mention of her name caused her soul to leap.
It was Him.
She had been waiting for Him to call her up, invite her in... to remove Himself
once again from the cloud of unknowing He had been dwelling in that she had grown familiar with but refused to call finality.
She had been waiting... longing...
desiring His coming...
With a trembling heart of expectation, she hurriedly prepared and crawled under her white woolen blanket to rest and wait until the hands on her clock reached the time entitled, "The Hour Of Her Visitation".
For there was nothing much she could do but wait. but rest. but trust He'd come.
And as she lied there, she began to recount Him from all the times before. She began to remember His love and the moments she had heard Him speak. These times had ruined her for all sun-scorched delights her simple life offered - for the transcendent tastes left upon her tongue, heavenly melodies stuck in her head, pleasing fragrance lingering upon her dress had driven her to what some would call madness. Since then she had been consumed with one thing, which confused many of her companions, for little Rose had become a new woman walking upon earth but living from some other place.
And it was true, all she wanted was to be with Him again - to gaze upon His glorious face one more time. She knew, with all her being, that with Him there was life and through Him love was originated.
As her mind traveled through the moments of yesterday her eyes became heavy...
---
Suddenly, she was awakened from her unexpected slumber. Feeling somewhat ashamed for falling asleep in the hour she was to watch, she gasped in fear of having missed Him. Picking up her clock on her bedside she peered into the face as the hands whirled and twirled in madness, and instantly her heart began to whirl and twirl along with the time. "What is happening?" she whispered to herself.
Before she could finish the thought, her heavy, wooden door flung open and banged loudly against her bedroom wall. Still a little muffled from just awakening, Rose was easily startled by the sudden sound. Throwing the clock upon her bed, she arose to see what had caused the commotion. Instead of her normal hallway with it's normal wallpaper and normal doors - she found herself gazing upon a humble little path leading into a dense, wooded forest. At the beginning sat a little wooden sign with the words, "The Pursuit of the Knowledge of Him Whom You Seek."
Within her belly traveling up to her heart, where His voice so often echoed, she heard Him say, "Follow."
And so small and eager Rose began to move forward, one step at a time...
perched upon her pillowcase - the letters weaved in with gold and silver,
written in a language her mind comprehends, but the words formed more
than mere syllables - something of their message caused her spirit to sing
a melody ancient yet fresh to her heart.
"To Beloved Rose..." it began, and even the mere mention of her name caused her soul to leap.
It was Him.
She had been waiting for Him to call her up, invite her in... to remove Himself
once again from the cloud of unknowing He had been dwelling in that she had grown familiar with but refused to call finality.
She had been waiting... longing...
desiring His coming...
With a trembling heart of expectation, she hurriedly prepared and crawled under her white woolen blanket to rest and wait until the hands on her clock reached the time entitled, "The Hour Of Her Visitation".
For there was nothing much she could do but wait. but rest. but trust He'd come.
And as she lied there, she began to recount Him from all the times before. She began to remember His love and the moments she had heard Him speak. These times had ruined her for all sun-scorched delights her simple life offered - for the transcendent tastes left upon her tongue, heavenly melodies stuck in her head, pleasing fragrance lingering upon her dress had driven her to what some would call madness. Since then she had been consumed with one thing, which confused many of her companions, for little Rose had become a new woman walking upon earth but living from some other place.
And it was true, all she wanted was to be with Him again - to gaze upon His glorious face one more time. She knew, with all her being, that with Him there was life and through Him love was originated.
As her mind traveled through the moments of yesterday her eyes became heavy...
---
Suddenly, she was awakened from her unexpected slumber. Feeling somewhat ashamed for falling asleep in the hour she was to watch, she gasped in fear of having missed Him. Picking up her clock on her bedside she peered into the face as the hands whirled and twirled in madness, and instantly her heart began to whirl and twirl along with the time. "What is happening?" she whispered to herself.
Before she could finish the thought, her heavy, wooden door flung open and banged loudly against her bedroom wall. Still a little muffled from just awakening, Rose was easily startled by the sudden sound. Throwing the clock upon her bed, she arose to see what had caused the commotion. Instead of her normal hallway with it's normal wallpaper and normal doors - she found herself gazing upon a humble little path leading into a dense, wooded forest. At the beginning sat a little wooden sign with the words, "The Pursuit of the Knowledge of Him Whom You Seek."
Within her belly traveling up to her heart, where His voice so often echoed, she heard Him say, "Follow."
And so small and eager Rose began to move forward, one step at a time...
1.22.2008
i am
i am...
a little child awakening from slumber. eight hours, three hours, ten. all curled up in cotton - lying upon the mattress which is lying upon the floor. soaked in sun rays kissing upon skin. knowing not what today holds. a blank letter in a viBRANT envelope. imagining and playing along. this is that. this is there.
i am...
a dancer who dances, mostly alone, through carpeted hallways and kitchen tiles. silent rooms like a silent film, scratch it back, back, back in time. or ribbons and bows of harmony to melodies that tied themselves around my heart, around my feet, to stir up love. sway to the right to the rhythm and bend to the left to the beat.
i am...
a lover. loving. longing to be loved. to taste love or feel it rustle the leaves of my heart. to eat love up like one would swallow the sweetest of candies down into the belly. than breathe out the scent of sugary goodness upon it's partaker. fragrant eating fragrance being its own delight, being your delight, delighting in you delighting in me.
i am...
a writer who houses words within a carcass. a tent of a being that's made of skin and bones where words and sentence and description dwell. the a's and b's are indians chanting in their teepees, burning a fire. but this smoke that arises is pale, pathetic narration's of the hurricane within. rushin' round and round.
i am...
a musician, if only in dreams, for melodies are heard and tinkering of keys within a record player that is playing my vinyl. but there is no megaphone to let the tunes free - singing, singing, singing chained down. the rhapsodies of heaven. the lyrics of prophecies. the braided do, ray, me's of another world.
i am...
an artist of sorts. making that which is like a pressed flower between the pages of the book. hidden from anyone, folded between story and word. it is poor & starving. starving & poor. it is letting this little string of the tapestry hide for another day when it has the hands and dollars and dimes to weave it back together.
i am...
a dreamer. a seer. a participant and viewer of a great, and even grander, theater. watch the heavy, velvet curtain be pulled back upon angel's wings. in the day. in the night. seeing things from other places. other worlds. other times. waiting. wanting. waiting to let them fly free from the cage of the rough pages of the diaries of unknown into the blistered hands of the hungry and upon the parched tongue.
i am...
21 in a world that is but 1-80, yet bought by a God who extends past the numeric line of time. an Infinite where beginning resides and ending finds its home. that which beats within is made up of the same blood type titled eternity - where the zeros never stop nor does the ticking and circling of the hands of the clock.
i am...
a woman. a woman. a woman. a responder. a creator. a connecter. a mother. wanting to feel the contrast. wanting to hold the tomorrow's in the womb of her today and breathe life and beauty onto the coming fields of darkness, little puffs of air from lungs that create lilies hidden in thorns. adorned with buttons of an inner-sanctuary and lace of gentle waves crashhhing upon the rocky shore.
i am...
a nomad, whose unemployed, yet fully alive. letting life live, living life. a wanderer in an unknown land, riding in the carriage of refusal - denying this is home, resisting the roots wanting to go down, down deep into the crumblin' earth, commanding a heart to look towards the time when that Desirous One takes the scroll and makes all things new.
i am...
what i am that i am.
1.01.2008
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