broken open
humbled
in a hole
not at the bottom, but falling
i don't grab for anything
because there's nothing to grab
i'm trying
i'm trying
but trying is never good enough
and i don't know how to stop trying
inherent flaw
i don't know where from
it always has been
gnawing flaw
flaw leading to humility
only shameful humility
do i not know how to love?
or am i just a poor lover?
or do i just make mistakes
wall between us
if you forgive
i cannot accept
because trying isn't good enough
if you don't
i wither and toss and turn
stormy waves inside me
and i'm seasick
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Monday, April 20, 2009
mewithoutYou
an oversized list of some of my favorite lyrics on their new cd:
every thought a thought of You.
every look in search of You.
our darkest nights are days to You.
the trees raise branches high
like arms in church to grateful sky.
every song in praise of You.
no one here to believe but You.
everyone else is bound to leave but You.
when they swear their love is real,
they mean "i like the way you make me feel."
there's no one here to believe but you.
when letting all attachments go,
is the only prayer we know,
may it be so,
may it be so,
may it be so...
the horse's hay beneath his head
our Lord was born to a manger bed
that all whose wells run dry
could drink of his supply.
the donkey whispered in his ear
"child, in 30-some-odd years
you'll ride someone who looks like me-
untriumphantly."
the cardinals warbled a joyful song:
"he'll make right what man made wrong,
bringing low the hills
that the valleys might be filled."
when the rain picks up
and the sun goes down
sinners, come inside
with no money, come and buy.
no clever talk, nor a gift to bring
requires our lowly, lovely king.
come now empty handed, you don't need anything.
and the night was cool
and clear as glass
with the sneaking snake in the garden grass.
deep cried out to deep;
the disciples fast asleep.
and the snake perked up
when he heard You ask,
"if you're willing that
this cup might pass
we could find our way back home
maybe start a family all our own."
"but does not the Father guide the Son?
not my will, but yours be done.
what else here to do?
what else me, but You?"
and the snake who'd held the world
a stick, a carrot and a string,
was crushed beneath the foot
of your not wanting anything.
we all well know
we're gonna reap what we sow.
but grace, we all know
can take the place of all we owe.
so why not, let's forgive everyone everywhere everything...
all the time everyone everywhere everything.
we get split to pieces like an apple core husk to reveal the tree that's been hidden inside.
what a beautiful G-d, what a beautiful G-d, what a beautiful G-d there must be!
what a beautiful G-d, what a beautiful G-d, what a beautiful G-d You must be!
and the father [beetle king] explained, "you've been somewhat deceived,
we've all called me your dad, but your true dad's not me.
i laid next to your mom and your forms were conceived;
your Father's the light within all that you see.
He fills up the ponds as He empties the clouds,
holds without hands, and He speaks without sounds.
provides us with the cow's waste and coconuts to eat
giving one that nice salt taste, and the other is sweet.
sends the black carriage the day death shows its face;
thinning our numbers with kindness and grace.
and just as a flower and its fragrance are one,
so must each of you and your Father become.
now distribute my scepter, my crown, and my throne
and all we've known as wealth to the poor and alone.
without further hesitation, without looking back home,
the king flew headlong into the blazing unknown.
and as the smoke king curled higher and higher
the troops flying loops round the telephone wires
they said, "our beloved's not dead, but his highness instead,
has been utterly changed into fire."
why not be utterly changed into fire?
in everywhere we look
in everywhere we look
Allah, Allah, Allah
in everyone we meet
in everyone we meet
Allah, Allah, Allah
in every blade of grass
in every blade of grass
Allah, Allah, Allah
it doesn't matter what you done-
what effect is without a cause?
it doesn't matter what you done,
now lay your faithless head down.
in necessities cotton hand
there's a love that never changes
no matter what you done.
if you care to sing forgiveness songs
come down and join our band.
we'll cut you like a sword
and sing forgiveness songs.
every thought a thought of You.
every look in search of You.
our darkest nights are days to You.
the trees raise branches high
like arms in church to grateful sky.
every song in praise of You.
no one here to believe but You.
everyone else is bound to leave but You.
when they swear their love is real,
they mean "i like the way you make me feel."
there's no one here to believe but you.
when letting all attachments go,
is the only prayer we know,
may it be so,
may it be so,
may it be so...
the horse's hay beneath his head
our Lord was born to a manger bed
that all whose wells run dry
could drink of his supply.
the donkey whispered in his ear
"child, in 30-some-odd years
you'll ride someone who looks like me-
untriumphantly."
the cardinals warbled a joyful song:
"he'll make right what man made wrong,
bringing low the hills
that the valleys might be filled."
when the rain picks up
and the sun goes down
sinners, come inside
with no money, come and buy.
no clever talk, nor a gift to bring
requires our lowly, lovely king.
come now empty handed, you don't need anything.
and the night was cool
and clear as glass
with the sneaking snake in the garden grass.
deep cried out to deep;
the disciples fast asleep.
and the snake perked up
when he heard You ask,
"if you're willing that
this cup might pass
we could find our way back home
maybe start a family all our own."
"but does not the Father guide the Son?
not my will, but yours be done.
what else here to do?
what else me, but You?"
and the snake who'd held the world
a stick, a carrot and a string,
was crushed beneath the foot
of your not wanting anything.
we all well know
we're gonna reap what we sow.
but grace, we all know
can take the place of all we owe.
so why not, let's forgive everyone everywhere everything...
all the time everyone everywhere everything.
we get split to pieces like an apple core husk to reveal the tree that's been hidden inside.
what a beautiful G-d, what a beautiful G-d, what a beautiful G-d there must be!
what a beautiful G-d, what a beautiful G-d, what a beautiful G-d You must be!
and the father [beetle king] explained, "you've been somewhat deceived,
we've all called me your dad, but your true dad's not me.
i laid next to your mom and your forms were conceived;
your Father's the light within all that you see.
He fills up the ponds as He empties the clouds,
holds without hands, and He speaks without sounds.
provides us with the cow's waste and coconuts to eat
giving one that nice salt taste, and the other is sweet.
sends the black carriage the day death shows its face;
thinning our numbers with kindness and grace.
and just as a flower and its fragrance are one,
so must each of you and your Father become.
now distribute my scepter, my crown, and my throne
and all we've known as wealth to the poor and alone.
without further hesitation, without looking back home,
the king flew headlong into the blazing unknown.
and as the smoke king curled higher and higher
the troops flying loops round the telephone wires
they said, "our beloved's not dead, but his highness instead,
has been utterly changed into fire."
why not be utterly changed into fire?
in everywhere we look
in everywhere we look
Allah, Allah, Allah
in everyone we meet
in everyone we meet
Allah, Allah, Allah
in every blade of grass
in every blade of grass
Allah, Allah, Allah
it doesn't matter what you done-
what effect is without a cause?
it doesn't matter what you done,
now lay your faithless head down.
in necessities cotton hand
there's a love that never changes
no matter what you done.
if you care to sing forgiveness songs
come down and join our band.
we'll cut you like a sword
and sing forgiveness songs.
Friday, February 27, 2009
the first step
| بِسْمِ اللَّهِ الرَّحْمَٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ | |
| الْحَمْدُ لِلَّهِ رَبِّ الْعَالَمِينَ | |
| الرَّحْمَٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ | |
| مَالِكِ يَوْمِ الدِّينِ | |
| إِيَّاكَ نَعْبُدُ وَإِيَّاكَ نَسْتَعِينُ | |
| اهْدِنَا الصِّرَاطَ الْمُسْتَقِيمَ | |
| صِرَاطَ الَّذِينَ أَنْعَمْتَ عَلَيْهِمْ غَيْرِ الْمَغْضُوبِ عَلَيْهِمْ وَلَا الضَّالِّينَ |
In the name of God,
the Compassionate, the Merciful.
Praise be to God, Lord of the Universe,
The Compassionate, the Merciful,
Sovereign of the Day of Judgment.
You alone we worship,
and to You alone we turn for help.
Guide us to the straight path,
The path of those whom You have favored,
Not of those who have incurred Your wrath,
Nor of those who have gone astray.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Free
I am free to love.
Free
to be
and to become.
Though I may reach for the stars,
You have placed them at my elbows and feet.
Take joy my Father
in what you see.
Me!
Beauty.
Bravery. Boldness.
Because I'm not just anyone,
but I'm Your son!
You give me peace and rest when I have none.
Wonderful Peace.
Free.
So that You might be glorified in me.
Free
to be
and to become.
Though I may reach for the stars,
You have placed them at my elbows and feet.
Take joy my Father
in what you see.
Me!
Beauty.
Bravery. Boldness.
Because I'm not just anyone,
but I'm Your son!
You give me peace and rest when I have none.
Wonderful Peace.
Free.
So that You might be glorified in me.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
attitude
i took this from something written in The Vision & the Vow (which of course was inspired by Philippians 2). made some changes though...
Your attitude should be the same as the Church:
Who, being in very nature Christ's beloved,
did not consider her beauty & glory
something to be grasped,
but made herself nothing
a servant
utterly human
nothing special.
And being found in appearance as a nobody
she humbled herself further
and became obedient
through success, failure, persecution, temptation,
and ultimately death- death on a cross.
Until
God swapped her torn, bloody, grimy overalls
for the most beautiful bridal gown of all time.
He placed a ring upon her calloused finger
and gave her His name- the one above all others-
that when she walks down the aisle
her bridal procession should number thousands upon thousands
from every tribe and tongue
their hearts overflowing with joy
as the trumpet sounds
and the wedding feast begins
forever.
Your attitude should be the same as the Church:
Who, being in very nature Christ's beloved,
did not consider her beauty & glory
something to be grasped,
but made herself nothing
a servant
utterly human
nothing special.
And being found in appearance as a nobody
she humbled herself further
and became obedient
through success, failure, persecution, temptation,
and ultimately death- death on a cross.
Until
God swapped her torn, bloody, grimy overalls
for the most beautiful bridal gown of all time.
He placed a ring upon her calloused finger
and gave her His name- the one above all others-
that when she walks down the aisle
her bridal procession should number thousands upon thousands
from every tribe and tongue
their hearts overflowing with joy
as the trumpet sounds
and the wedding feast begins
forever.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
the vision
never lose sight of the vision you God gave you.
Nehemiah 6:3
So this guy comes up to me and says "what's the vision? What's the big idea?" I open my mouth and words come out like this…
The vision?
The vision is JESUS – obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus.
The vision is an army of young people.
You see bones? I see an army. And they are FREE from materialism.
They laugh at 9-5 little prisons.
They could eat caviar on Monday and crusts on Tuesday.
They wouldn't even notice.
They know the meaning of the Matrix, the way the west was won.
They are mobile like the wind, they belong to the nations. They need no passport.. People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at their strange existence.
They are free yet they are slaves of the hurting and dirty and dying.
What is the vision ?
The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes. It makes children laugh and adults angry. It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago to reach for the stars. It scorns the good and strains for the best. It is dangerously pure.
Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation.
It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their Satan games.
This is an army that will lay down its life for the cause.
A million times a day its soldiers
choose to loose
that they might one day win
the great 'Well done' of faithful sons and daughters.
Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as Sunday night. They don't need fame from names. Instead they grin quietly upwards and hear the crowds chanting again and again: "COME ON!"
And this is the sound of the underground
The whisper of history in the making
Foundations shaking
Revolutionaries dreaming once again
Mystery is scheming in whispers
Conspiracy is breathing…
This is the sound of the underground
And the army is discipl(in)ed.
Young people who beat their bodies into submission.
Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms.
The tattoo on their back boasts "for me to live is Christ and to die is gain".
Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes. Winners. Martyrs. Who can stop them ?
Can hormones hold them back?
Can failure succeed? Can fear scare them or death kill them ?
And the generation prays
like a dying man
with groans beyond talking,
with warrior cries, sulphuric tears and
with great barrow loads of laughter!
Waiting. Watching: 24 – 7 – 365.
Whatever it takes they will give: Breaking the rules. Shaking mediocrity from its cosy little hide. Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs, laughing at labels, fasting essentials. The advertisers cannot mold them. Hollywood cannot hold them. Peer-pressure is powerless to shake their resolve at late night parties before the cockerel cries.
They are incredibly cool, dangerously attractive
inside.
On the outside? They hardly care. They wear clothes like costumes to communicate and celebrate but never to hide.
Would they surrender their image or their popularity?
They would lay down their very lives - swap seats with the man on death row - guilty as hell. A throne for an electric chair.
With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights and fruitless days,
they pray as if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them.
Their DNA chooses JESUS. (He breathes out, they breathe in.)
Their subconscious sings. They had a blood transfusion with Jesus.
Their words make demons scream in shopping centers.
Don't you hear them coming?
Herald the weirdo's! Summon the losers and the freaks. Here come the frightened and forgotten with fire in their eyes. They walk tall and trees applaud, skyscrapers bow, mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension. Their prayers summon the hounds of heaven and invoke the ancient dream of Eden.
And this vision will be. It will come to pass; it will come easily; it will come soon.
How do I know? Because this is the longing of creation itself, the groaning of the Spirit, the very dream of God. My tomorrow is his today. My distant hope is his 3D. And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking great 'Amen!' from countless angels, from hero's of the faith, from Christ himself. And he is the original dreamer, the ultimate winner.
Guaranteed.
Nehemiah 6:3
So this guy comes up to me and says "what's the vision? What's the big idea?" I open my mouth and words come out like this…
The vision?
The vision is JESUS – obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus.
The vision is an army of young people.
You see bones? I see an army. And they are FREE from materialism.
They laugh at 9-5 little prisons.
They could eat caviar on Monday and crusts on Tuesday.
They wouldn't even notice.
They know the meaning of the Matrix, the way the west was won.
They are mobile like the wind, they belong to the nations. They need no passport.. People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at their strange existence.
They are free yet they are slaves of the hurting and dirty and dying.
What is the vision ?
The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes. It makes children laugh and adults angry. It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago to reach for the stars. It scorns the good and strains for the best. It is dangerously pure.
Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation.
It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their Satan games.
This is an army that will lay down its life for the cause.
A million times a day its soldiers
choose to loose
that they might one day win
the great 'Well done' of faithful sons and daughters.
Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as Sunday night. They don't need fame from names. Instead they grin quietly upwards and hear the crowds chanting again and again: "COME ON!"
And this is the sound of the underground
The whisper of history in the making
Foundations shaking
Revolutionaries dreaming once again
Mystery is scheming in whispers
Conspiracy is breathing…
This is the sound of the underground
And the army is discipl(in)ed.
Young people who beat their bodies into submission.
Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms.
The tattoo on their back boasts "for me to live is Christ and to die is gain".
Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes. Winners. Martyrs. Who can stop them ?
Can hormones hold them back?
Can failure succeed? Can fear scare them or death kill them ?
And the generation prays
like a dying man
with groans beyond talking,
with warrior cries, sulphuric tears and
with great barrow loads of laughter!
Waiting. Watching: 24 – 7 – 365.
Whatever it takes they will give: Breaking the rules. Shaking mediocrity from its cosy little hide. Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs, laughing at labels, fasting essentials. The advertisers cannot mold them. Hollywood cannot hold them. Peer-pressure is powerless to shake their resolve at late night parties before the cockerel cries.
They are incredibly cool, dangerously attractive
inside.
On the outside? They hardly care. They wear clothes like costumes to communicate and celebrate but never to hide.
Would they surrender their image or their popularity?
They would lay down their very lives - swap seats with the man on death row - guilty as hell. A throne for an electric chair.
With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights and fruitless days,
they pray as if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them.
Their DNA chooses JESUS. (He breathes out, they breathe in.)
Their subconscious sings. They had a blood transfusion with Jesus.
Their words make demons scream in shopping centers.
Don't you hear them coming?
Herald the weirdo's! Summon the losers and the freaks. Here come the frightened and forgotten with fire in their eyes. They walk tall and trees applaud, skyscrapers bow, mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension. Their prayers summon the hounds of heaven and invoke the ancient dream of Eden.
And this vision will be. It will come to pass; it will come easily; it will come soon.
How do I know? Because this is the longing of creation itself, the groaning of the Spirit, the very dream of God. My tomorrow is his today. My distant hope is his 3D. And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking great 'Amen!' from countless angels, from hero's of the faith, from Christ himself. And he is the original dreamer, the ultimate winner.
Guaranteed.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
a healthy diet
(I wrote this a while back and have decided to share it.)
If only
we could get it in our heads...
In our hearts!
In the very core of our understanding...
That we need you.
With a need that is more vital even than food & water.
Often it seems
we are only ever thankful for such
simple
Necessities
when we realize how much they are needed.
And when they are scarce.
So it is with you.
If I need your Spirit I'll just
turn the handle
and out it pours.
Or open the door to find a shelf full of the Bread of Life.
So then why do I barely scrounge together one
decent meal each day? (if that)
The same cereal. The same sandwich.
Trading meat for snacks.
Because I'm too lazy?
Because I don't understand?
Because, ultimately, I don't think I need you.
The effects of
starvation and dehydration
are evident.
And, try as I might,
one meal won't solve the problem.
If only
we could get it in our heads...
In our hearts!
In the very core of our understanding...
That we need you.
With a need that is more vital even than food & water.
Often it seems
we are only ever thankful for such
simple
Necessities
when we realize how much they are needed.
And when they are scarce.
So it is with you.
If I need your Spirit I'll just
turn the handle
and out it pours.
Or open the door to find a shelf full of the Bread of Life.
So then why do I barely scrounge together one
decent meal each day? (if that)
The same cereal. The same sandwich.
Trading meat for snacks.
Because I'm too lazy?
Because I don't understand?
Because, ultimately, I don't think I need you.
The effects of
starvation and dehydration
are evident.
And, try as I might,
one meal won't solve the problem.
Friday, February 1, 2008
holy sonnet 15
by John Donne
Wilt thou love God as he thee? then digest,
My soul, this wholesome meditation,
How God the Spirit, by angels waited on
In heaven, doth make His temple in thy breast.
The Father having begot a Son most blest,
And still begetting—for he ne'er begun—
Hath deign'd to choose thee by adoption,
Co-heir to His glory, and Sabbath' endless rest.
And as a robb'd man, which by search doth find
His stolen stuff sold, must lose or buy it again,
The Sun of glory came down, and was slain,
Us whom He had made, and Satan stole, to unbind.
'Twas much, that man was made like God before,
But, that God should be made like man, much more.
Wilt thou love God as he thee? then digest,
My soul, this wholesome meditation,
How God the Spirit, by angels waited on
In heaven, doth make His temple in thy breast.
The Father having begot a Son most blest,
And still begetting—for he ne'er begun—
Hath deign'd to choose thee by adoption,
Co-heir to His glory, and Sabbath' endless rest.
And as a robb'd man, which by search doth find
His stolen stuff sold, must lose or buy it again,
The Sun of glory came down, and was slain,
Us whom He had made, and Satan stole, to unbind.
'Twas much, that man was made like God before,
But, that God should be made like man, much more.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
poems
one of my poems i reread tonight and wanted to share.
i didn't name at the time.
it's sad
awful really
but separated from the second half of the story...
it is very very true
and real
They are...
tired.
Tired of thee apparent machine
that chews them up
crunches every resolve
chains their hearts.
And tired of failing to unlock them.
They are...
scary.
Each a portfolio of child-drawn
monsters and aliens:
A new hideous sketch every time,
to highlight every disgusting characteristic.
They are...
plural.
Everywhere you look, surrounding you,
In plain sight,
And in the smallest of dark corners.
Filling oceans with tears, because.....
They are...
alone.
Every single one cut off.
From each other. From every other.
From hope.
Every whispered plea either
fearfully ignored or faithlessly forgotten.
and just for your enjoyment
a poem i wrote about two years ago, in the style of William Carlos Williams
only the artistic types such as myself seem to understand and enjoy it.
the
green
pencil sharpener
i didn't name at the time.
it's sad
awful really
but separated from the second half of the story...
it is very very true
and real
They are...
tired.
Tired of thee apparent machine
that chews them up
crunches every resolve
chains their hearts.
And tired of failing to unlock them.
They are...
scary.
Each a portfolio of child-drawn
monsters and aliens:
A new hideous sketch every time,
to highlight every disgusting characteristic.
They are...
plural.
Everywhere you look, surrounding you,
In plain sight,
And in the smallest of dark corners.
Filling oceans with tears, because.....
They are...
alone.
Every single one cut off.
From each other. From every other.
From hope.
Every whispered plea either
fearfully ignored or faithlessly forgotten.
and just for your enjoyment
a poem i wrote about two years ago, in the style of William Carlos Williams
only the artistic types such as myself seem to understand and enjoy it.
the
green
pencil sharpener
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