Dwindling Scenes

Where does history go—yours
and mine? Those days when we tangled
limbs and lives. No one told me, love
is a bleeding dream: as we recklessly
whispered forever into the night.
Where does history go—with
your one-line jokes and sideway smiles?
I’m afraid I’ll find it, in this crowded room,
fading from your coffee-stained eyes.

 

Featured in Germ Magazine February 2016.

Vanity’s Shroud

What a strange old world,
where I’ve got one heart
but a thousand faces,
I’ve got a hundred friends
but one ticket to Vegas.

What a sad old world,
where we wear smiles
and our words are sweet,
but all we do, all we do
is love and leave.

It’s the American Dream
and it keeps beckoning,
but what will it cost me?
‘Cause my Mama said:
don’t chase what’s empty,
and my Daddy said:
honey, no dream is free.

What a cruel old world,
where we all die
and even though we know,
we still buy our drinks
and sell our souls.

If I have a son one day,
I’ll always tell him
just one more time:
if you chase anything,
chase the truth
in a world of lies.

It’s the American Dream
and it keeps beckoning,
but what will it cost me?
‘Cause my Mama said:
don’t chase what’s empty,
and my Daddy said:
honey, no dream is free.

 

Featured in Germ Magazine December 2015.

Candlelight Gasps

In the darkness, eternities flicker,
flaring, fading, in candlelight gasps,
until You breathed our dust to life
and bent infinity into the cords of time.

In the silence, every clock thunders,
the taunt of mortality’s countdown,
breaking our marriage to earthly things
and making alike the beggars and kings.

In the judgment, empty treasures burn
before the face of a holy blaze,
so teach us, o God, to number our days
for all that’s worthless will be swept away.

A brief meditation on Psalm 90. 

Home, Sweet Home

A grateful reflection.

Where good things linger,
like soap scents and long laughs,
and sad thoughts flee.
Where kindness warms the winter,
and love never quits on me.
There’s a shelter from my storms,
a shoulder for my tears,
and a lesson on the longing
for the Home I’ll come to
at the end of my pilgrim years.

 

The Age of Innocence

How do we grow out of our childhood? I wonder if it’s a gradual wearing off, or if most people can point to an event that shed their young, bright innocence like a knife put to sheepskin. Where all of a sudden, the safe bubble you’re in begins to peel back and reveal the ugliness of the world outside.

This was a brief reflection that came to me in poetry form when I was home for the holidays.

The Age of Innocence

Beige walls curve around me
and though I’m not bigger
they’re too safe, and too small.
‘Cause the years are turning
and I know how it feels
to fly, only to fall.
‘Cause the world is burning
and I know how it feels
to love, then lose it all.

I miss the memories
that fill these spaces here.
I’m scared that’s all they’ll be:
old clothes, old toys, old dreams.