Is it because of my feelings?

Is it because of my feelings for you, you always know what to say? Or is it because you always know what to say, I have feelings?
“I am an emotional wreck!”
You tell me, “No worries, you’re just making sure your emotions still work.”
I ask for advice, you point to Jesus.
I tell you, “I screwed up.”
You say, “Well don’t do that again.”
I tell you, “I cannot accept God’s grace.”
You say, “if you don’t accept it, you don’t get it. You had best get around to accepting his grace.”
I know you are fallible, human,
but your words, sweeten my soul.
Always encouraging, lifting me up, pushing me forward.
How could you always know what to say?
So I imagine its just infatuation.
Because thinking you are exactly what I need and cannot have is too much to accept.


Jazz Concert

Close your eyes and imagine:
Jazz is the
Bum bum bum of the bass
It’s the shrill of the horn,
and the bab bab of the bongos
its the whine of the trumpet
and the ratata of the drums
It’s the hand running down a keyboard
The dada of the guitar
The sweet hum of the saxophone
The silky deep vocalist
It’s the trombone,
the brass, and the gold
It’s the red velvet curtain
And the theatre seats
The inability of stillness
That off beat note
Sounds that get into your shoes
And build past your ears into your chest

Use You Up

When everything is tumbling,
you are my first thought.
When my heart is twisted up,
I want to pour it all out to you.
But I am afraid of using you up.
It only took 3 or 4 times before the others threw in their towel.
How many times do we have?
Abandoned before, I can already see you walk away.
How do I know you’ll stand by me when I am a wobbling mess?
I am certain if you knew,
You’d toss me aside.
And I sit here silently,
Swaddled in my blanket
Hoping it will ease my fears
And catch my tears.
Because I don’t want to use you up.

Found of Libraries

I am fond of libraries.

Rooms of stacks,

hold romance of a thousand candlelight dinners.

Reside my innermost being there.

Pursued me.

Come with me.

We will hide in a book tower,

breathing paper and ink.

Sprawled books beneath chins.

Pages flip past worlds, stars, and galaxies.

Giggling new stories, new thoughts.

Her own worst enemy

She build others up
Because she knows
Being torn down
Her own worst enemy inside
She pours out
Because she knows
Her inner voice pushes them away
She gives everything she has
Because she knows
Having nothing
An isolation created within
She speaks life
Because she knows
The agony of watching death before her
Her soul withers
She loves deeper still
Because she knows
Pain of the unloved
Who could ever want her?
And yet she continues

He Doesn’t:

think I am something special
wonder at my painting on the wall
ask how my day went after work
say you look beautiful in that red dress
touch me in places that mean anything
hold my hand on walks downtown
massage soarness out my shoulders
brag about my degree at dinner parties
compliment the haircut a got a week ago
invite me to go with him to the store
buy me a card just because
remember my drink order at starbucks
celebrate my birthday with cake, candles and presents
clean out the car after an exhausting day
do the dishes after a three-course meal
vaccum when I am sick in bed
try to find out my favorite book or movie of all time
tune into stories of my childhood or family
share his circle of friends
let me into his deepest thoughts
want me to know when he cries
tell me what he needs
bare his secret self, the marrow in his bones
trust I will protect his innermost being
wait to know my hidden pieces
keep company at my side
know me
and he won’t

The Autumn Canvas

“This is Autumn”
God, Jesus and Holy Spirit sit together at an easel.
“Ah, I know what my child will love!”
God turns to the canvas and paints
Oranges, reds, yellows, greens, quivering in the wind.
Small pieces falling off, dancing through the air to land peacefully upon the ground.
They lift up in a bit of wind and flittering across the ground, as though waltzing to some unheard song.
“This is Autumn”
He turns to the other two inquisitively
Jesus takes up the brush and adds
Puffy white and grey clouds.
Bursting with water.
Shaped into memories and characters.
Each holding a story.
Pulled across the sky, by wind.
He slowly adds sun beams cascading downward.
As though little stairs leading to heaven.
“This is Autumn”
Holy Spirit stares intently at the Canvas.
He adds nothing, but states.
“I am the reason the leaves fall, and quiver and dance. I am the reason clouds pull across the sky. I am the force unseen”
“This is Autumn, and my child will love it!”