Words are a Holy Fire
Words surged from the pen
staining, soaking everything like spilled paint.
Wood pulp thirsty in a state
of mad-eyed hunger.
Paper ravenous for a glorious taste,
elated to gobble up and digest
the things that time can't erase.
Don't you know?
Words are a Holy Fire,
spread from the Word himself.
Infused with the power of desire
to transform, to turn over the world upon itself.
To burn away the dead timber,
embers eager to make way for the new.
On its charred remains,
plant shoots come bursting through.
Oh, yes listen; I tell it true!
Words are a Holy Fire
with more power than the doers who do.
For they are not forgotten by the fragility of memory
but cling to time like glue.
My first chapbook of collected poems is available now! I hope you find encouragement in the poems but also a validation that the spiritual life is not all sunshine and rainbows. We all struggle. We all have periods of questions and/or doubt. But it is the yearning that keeps us coming back for more and allows us to experience joy. You can purchase either on Amazon or on my own bookstore (it is cheaper and has free shipping on my store) and is available on the Kindle and in paperback. Amazon: KindlePaperback Inkspiration Books (my bookstore): Paperback Thank you for your support!
Climbing MountainsA Poem About Living Out Your Dreams and Believing in Yourself
The road rose in the distance
insistent on wrapping around
the towering mountain like twine.
At its feet stood a shrine
dedicated to the drowsy dreamer,
the tired thinker, the sleepy schemer
who had journeyed all this way
only to have disbelief poison the mind.
And yet doubt wasn't left behind
in even the faithful and courageous traveler
who had begun the climb.
For the apex stood painfully high;
the road wound for miles
surrounded by ledges where dreams fall and die.
Victory is only tasted
by the dreamer who doesn't look back
and doesn't get offtrack
by looking too far forward.
But who is purposeful in their impact
right here, right now
perfectly content in the present moment.
One step after another
feeling the ground beneath their feet,
faithfully carrying their dream on their shoulders
until their vision is realized and complete.
The future is only actualized
by those who realized eons ago
that the future is bound by
the way we carry ourselves in the present.
It's what we learn during the ascent
that makes the climb worth doing;
never in the need for recognition and achievement.
Wake up, you drowsy dreamer!
Rouse yourself from your delusions!
Shake yourself from the critics illusions
and the conclusion that you'll never find your way!
For the journey begins and ends
the way we begin and close each day.
Planting is a Prayer
Planting is a prayer.
If you do it right.
If you take delight in the present
but keep future possibility in sight.
For God doesn't need words.
With each heart beat
you lay at his feet
a million complaints, hopes, fears,
doubts, joys, and defeats.
A creator knows its creation
better than the creation itself.
Your ink filled his pen.
He outlines your story, your end
before it evens begins
but allows you freewill
over the final edits.
Planting is a prayer.
If you do it right.
If you're aware you've been given oversight
in a chapter of a story
that's been continually expanding
since the Word first spoke to the void:
"Let there be light".
Let you delight
in the blessing you've been given -
partial control over the story of life.
Pure art is fragile,
stitched together and held
by our dreams, joys, and struggles.
It is not perfect
for life is not perfect
and the truest art
reflects life as it is -
yet full of possibility.
It is the imperfection that speaks
to our imperfect hearts,
assuring us that we too are beautiful
despite our flaws.
The artist knows that
the harder perfection is sought after
the farther out of reach it becomes.
For the artist is human
and so should their work -
not messy. not sloppy.
But real, raw, and pure.
Usually, the harder we try to perfect our art
the more harsh, cold, and lifeless it becomes.
Because pure art
invites us to embrace and love
ourselves and others
as the imperfect characters we are.
And that's why we love them.
Hello, everyone! I have recently published my first chapbook of Christian poems titled “A Voice in the Wilderness – A Chapbook of Poems about God”. This has been developed and polished over the past six months or so. I am happy with the final product and hope you find encouragement in the poems but also a validation that the spiritual life is not all sunshine and rainbows. We all struggle. We all have periods of questions and/or doubt. But it is the yearning that keeps us coming back for more and allows us to experience joy. You can purchase either on Amazon or on my own bookstore (it is cheaper and has free shipping on my store) and is available on the Kindle and in paperback. Amazon: KindlePaperback Inkspiration Books (my bookstore): Paperback Thank you for your support!
The seams of my dreams are unraveling –
Thread stretched out in heaps,
Ensnaring my feet, tripping me, sending me falling
Into jaded existence.
Innocence, where is my resistance to your demise?
This cloak once kept me warm in the night,
but is now tattered, holes allow the howling wind
To chill the depths of my soul.
No longer whole, but unable to pinpoint what’s been lost.
Unable to retrieve a feeling that once was.
Dreams that used to woo me with their tales
Now stir up nothing but bitterness.
They are cold like unearthed stone
And seem better left buried than dug up –
Too hard, too massive, too rigid to be molded into beauty.
I miss lofty ideals and carnival lights
With roller coaster life.
I miss uncertainty and belief in the unknown.
I miss the magic of weaving this cloak of dreams,
Of sewing seams across endless skies.
But the fire in my eyes has died.
Somewhere the flames went out, and I no longer cared.
I no longer dared to see beyond the realm of mundane reality.
And now by and by
I have betrayed my own soul.
I have yielded to the world’s cold mentality.
Beaten upon my breath in my chest until it no longer moved
And resorted to conformity.
I am left with only a ragged, dirty cloak
That use to be radiant,
That sparkled with the swirling of dreams
But they have long ceased to move me.
I yearn to fix the canvas, but don’t know where to start.
I long to believe once more in the magic of art,
But find myself a seamstress without needle and thread
To sew up these holes that life has chewed up and swallowed;
With no way to sweep out the darkness that life has let in.
Beneath a pale, July moon
An ancient manuscript sits
Illuminated by candlelight,
Its pages gently rustling in the breeze
Blowing behind the curtains of the nearby window.
The ink is faded beneath
Layers of time and age,
But the wisdom remains
Scribbled in rhymes,
Written eons ago by some old sage.
But tonight it’s voice has a reader –
A man of sandy, blond hair
Ponders over your verses
And reflects on the meaning of your lines.
And like magic, the grime vanishes,
the words sparkle, and come to life.
Your cold, decomposed, long lifeless corpse
May only be fertilizer to the tongues of roots,
But your blood still flows and pulses
Through the pages you stained black with blood from your pen.
The body may have an expiration date,
But thoughts, words, and ideas have no end.
We live on through the pages we inhabit –
Awake to the reader’s touch,
Soar the skies once more, high
On some incomprehensible magic like pixie dust.
I deposit my heart of pains, joys, loves, and flames
Into the safe guard of your keeping.
My receipt is a word count
That compounds with the interest of each reader’s heart.