Inside

Inside

It like a whirling funnel of wind

being sucked down the drain

racing through pipes of flesh

winding deeper and deeper into the earth

finally spiraling out into the universe saturated with thoughts and ideas and

permeated with awareness and fear.

You forget you're breathing,

forget your heart beats

forget you can feel pain

or love.

You dwell.

And on the outside you look ‘normal’

Mostly.

But inside your head, your body,

there's whole universes of thought,

emotion, confliction,

desire, obsession

Exploding.

And you feel it, and you know it

and that silver strand of reason

shimmers in the whirlwind

that keeps it always out of reach.

Always vulnerable, every minute

to every whim,

eating every idea,

wanting to try them all

heedless of the real world around them,

that can be broken.

That's what they don't see.

That, and so much more.

Blind

Blind

I am blind

Trapped within a broken mind.

I am standing on a sinking iceberg,

the cold is eating into my skin,

my bones, my soul.

I turn my head

hoping to feel some tiny ray of sun,

anything warm at all.

But only ice cold gritty wind

rakes across my face

freezing my already sightless eyes

open, only the pain receptors in them still functional.

Searing freezing fire runs through my fingers and up my arms.

My feet are blocks of agony,

they can go no further.

I can hear the frigid death knell of the water coming closer and closer.

Backed up against an icy wall there is no where for me to go.

It's coming now,

my final moments.

I mourn the fact that I am not yet cold enough to be numb when I drown,

but settle instead on relief that the end of this suffering is near.

This used to be a beach, I remember.

Warm, and calm, and utterly beautiful.

Blue green water and thousands of shells as far as you could see.

High flowing blowing bluffs of every color, full of birds and flowers and green green green.

I was never cold. I was never afraid.

But then the bluffs began to frighten me, to bring me insurmountable sorrow and loss so I climbed them no more.

But the real betrayal was the storm.

The storm came upon my safe and perfect beach,

And destroyed it.

It was dark, and cold, wet,

And lost.

And I ran from my fear into the forest

and in a golden glade there was a cabin.

Just as I pictured it, it was lovely, lights in the windows, deer and birds surrounded by a rustling spectacular

array of leaves in every color.

And I ran to the door to join the happiness and welcome inside,

but no one came, and no one let me in.

The fantasy of safety I had dreamed was empty.

So now here I am,

sinking into an arctic sea.

Perhaps there is a boat nearby,

or a bridge, or a warming house at least, flares maybe?

Maybe I could have built a giant fire,

but I am blind.

In every way,

and the water is over my shoulders now and I am gasping and sinking

into a grey black Sea.

I Am

I Am

Because I have a right to it.

I am beautiful

Intelligent

Adventurous

Alluring

Flirtatious

Beaten

Broken

And brilliant.

And you have never known anyone

Quite like me.

I am a challenge

A frustration,

A desire

And a need.

Not a mystery

But every day,

Something new.

Surprising.

I am consuming.

I can hold your secrets.

You want mine.

Under these old jeans

I am exquisite.

Exceptional

Twisted

Talented

And satisfying.

I am pleasure

I am poetry

Slim

Lithe

Luscious

And sure.

I am danger

And delight

Thrilling.

I am tenacious

Vivacious,

Decidedly desirable,

And frightening.

I am temptation

Elation

And expectation.

I am not deception

I am perfection.

I am every warning in your head,

Everything that tells you to run

But never which direction.

I am rash

And unrestrained,

Risky

And real

And that is every bit the reason

That you feel the way you feel.

February Fantasies

February Fantasies

Its cold but sunny,

tempting to think of spring.

Clouds and sunshine

overhead vie for space

up above my head and

lovely ripples of water

dance around snow islands.

Nothing touches the air

except the breath that from its

very origin has longed for

escape from every form of

reality.

Beating soft within my breast

every desire for spring.

Just as certainty hides quiet

under the surface,

so desire for secluded spaces

to disappear into obscurity.

Only the cold holds me back,

no will to leave a path that

certainly would become my

earthy haven in the spring.
.

Garden Grown inspired by Genesis and Bill Cosby

Garden grown

For Bill Cosby and Adam, who, like all of us, made some serious mistakes.

There were no chicken bones.

Get yourself a thick bible,

with no words missing.

Nothin but green garden,

blue sky,

brand new sun.

There were no paper cups.

Read Genesis

and check for yourself.

Nothin but gentle rain,

dripping leaves,

and brand new sun.

There were no newspapers.

Just butterflys, bees, ants,

and brand new sun.

There were no hoses.

No need for rakes and shovels.

Just brand new sun.

And dirt.

Soft, wet, rich,

smelling like life, new beginnings,

bated breath just waiting,

to be sculpted.

Big good hands

lifting from the perfect place

the thing that was missing.

Surrounded by soft green sprouts,

unfurling fronds and petals,

thin green blades bursting up eagerly towards that brand new sun,

one more thing came into shape.

A reflection of the love that created perfection in a spectacular array of colors and textures and shapes,

each more fascinating than the last:

Stood for the very first time, and took his very first breath.

The very first caretaker.

And under the firmament of Gods protection the caretakers were born.

Born of the rain and the soil and the One.

Born of beauty and perfection,

rising clean and free in the warmth of the very first sun.

And in those first, still sinless moments

of sunrise and hope and tentative new life, when the garden was clean and perfect, and the caretaker had nothing to do quite yet, he saw paradise.

And he passed his vision to every living being that has ever been,

so that each and every caretaker

would lift his face to the sun that rises brand new every single morning,

and know that from the garden he came and to that garden he will return.

Something Something the Prayers of our hearts.

Reflect on the Prayers of my Heart

(Because I  want to, but I can't.)

The prayers of our hearts:

and 95 things fly into my head.

Dear god,

bring peace on earth,

food to everyone,

clean water, shelter,

kindness.

You know, I want those things but even your bible can tell you they're not coming. Try again.

Dear god,

Watch over our missionary friends and family, our child in Africa, those who are trying to teach the world about you.

And that's okay, but it's huge, and general. Try again.

Dear God,

Help Anna relax about her homework, Noah be less relaxed about his homework, Lexi to keep doing exactly what she's doing. Also good and right, but still not what I wanted to say. Try again.

There's this knot in my throat, in my stomach. That resists. So I go here instead….

Dear God,

Please help Amy and Nicole to get pregnant, Chris and Shannon to find peace and security, Steve and Molly to have comfort in the loss of their son.

Watch over my friends and keep them safe, well, and happy. Again, all worth praying for, but not what I need.

The words threaten to burst up through my brain but I slam them down again. Try again.

Dear God,

Provide me enough money to give my children the opportunities to utilize the gifts you've given them, and still leave me a grocery budget. Important obviously, but not really God's problem. My choices. Try again.

But I can't.

Millions of prayers, thoughts, desires, hopes, dreams, fears, go whipping around in my head. And I can't choose, and I can't organise, and I can't admit, even in silence, the thing I want to pray for out loud.

I don't like to pray for myself. It seems selfish to me. That's the truth. But in this particular matter, that's a ruse, a cover, a dodge.

Try Again.

If you can't say it in silence you'll never meet your goal, never be able to say it out loud. Never be able to pray for the thing that really really matters to you  now, in front of anyone else.

Every Sunday since I heard that I tell myself i’m going to. I almost raise my hand. I almost do the impossible. But I can't even do it in my own head.

I can actually touch the fear, not just in my head, in my folded hands.

Because if I admit it here, right here, in this place at this time, with a shepherd not 10 feet from me,

it ceases to be just between me and Jesus. Where I feel comforted and safe.

Try again. Offer it to God this time. I know, the difference is subtle, but real for you. If you can't offer it to the community, offer it to God. One step at a time.

Please. One step at a time.

Dear God,

I can't, I won't.

Or I can, I will?

Dear God,

Thank you for sending your Son to cover me…..

Scratch that.

One more cover. One more cop-out.

Last chance.

Because you can't smack it back down again can you?

Can you?

Answer me.

I'm telling you right now. I forgave you. Tell my dad I forgive you, tell him you're clean, and tell him what all of this was for. Say it. Say it and come CLEAN.

Dear God,

Please help me to deal with my bipolar illness. Help me to have drugs that work, friends that support me, safe places to be. Help me avoid stupid decisions and remember that you have claimed me and that I am yours.

Dear God,

I pray that today will be a good day.

Good. Much better. Now, find it in your terrified mind and rebellious body, to resist the panic attack, and just speak.

I know what you're feeling. I know you think you can't.

I also know you can.

Because I can.

Let's do it together.

Trust me. Really trust me. And find the peace, and the reassurance you need.

Find what you're searching for, because you and I both know what it is.