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
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
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 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
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


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
infamous drought.

listen all ears
hungry for
and gold.
galatic fairytales
parables of old
hidden enigmas
never been told.

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
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
the unbreakable.

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
the alluring Flood.

sweet red wine.

"lets drink from your cup.
garnished veneer
golden studded handle
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.

"in His river of fire,
we are illuminated."

no one is being consumed.
like moses and His bush.
forever blazing
this is the hour.

squint into the Sun.

He breathes.