P.P.S.

These apparitional jaunts, haunt

these halls, taunt

these tall

tales

I tell myself.

 

Face the facts:

 

Paul Bunyan swung his axe

still failed to fell the trees.

Paul Sheldon, tied up on his back

fumbled at the keys.

Saul was on the learning track

till the light brought him to his knees.

 

Humbled, bumbling fumble:

 

If it causes you to stumble

cut it off.

Do not let your left hand

know

what the right

is doing.

 

Some day

I’ll write that letter.

 

Blinded by the thought

as light is shed

on another

path.

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Rebel without a God

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Shuffling, shambling

down the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.

 

The glitz and the glamour

and the people passing by

as quickly as my days

upon this earth.

 

I’ve been down these streets, before

beckoning, begging me

to come back.

A taste, a try…

a titillation?

 

And somehow

I get lost along the way,

the world

has tugged at my heartstrings

stringing me along

making me think

that I want more.

 

Stars in the sidewalk

losing their shine

as the sun sets,

hides behind the clouds

from me

the things He wants me to see.

 

Pitted and cracked–

watch your step!

–you’re skating on thin ice.

Deeper and deeper

into the maze of the city

walls mugging up around me,

beating me up,

closing me in.

I run

even if not sure

why it is that I do so,

nothing of the sort

that the big black empty

can hold.

Driving down dark alleyways

losing my way

time, direction…

stumbling, falling,

crying, puling

in a corner.

 

God knows

where I’m meant to be.

A Christian Man Tries His Hand at Parenting (NaPoWriMo17 6/30)

I think I tried this

last year. Struggling

through the day:

amid laundry, dinner,

dishes piled high.

 

Bathtub, filling up, just enough

the rest upon the floor,

now, your eyes

taken out too early

off to bed too late.

 

“Take my hand, oh fisher of men.”

The waters as they

rise, course above my head

upended by the waves

capsized, baptized

looking for the light, found,

saved,

by the side of the road, in a

puddle, muddy, muddle, shallow,

reflecting me.

 

 

Veil

Do prayers truly reach Your throne room

being half-asleep, much like the glass

half-empty / half-full

chosen wisely

the cup, overflowing

with water turned to wine.

 

The miracle of Your grace

saving the choicest fruits of the vine

wedding guest handiwork

in this undeserved union

meeting You at the altar anyway

with all that we’ve got

clothed in rags, thinking we’re dressed

in our Sunday best.

Defrocked of our self-importance

to truth

and shedding our snaky old wineskins

for new.