A Self-Conscious Morning Musing

What are the words that are in me today?

What is their tone

And range of arrangement?

Coffee breath or divine placement?

 

I hear my own typical tune these days

(How untypical)

And think it may be overly heroic,

Beginning stoic,

With blue tint of despair

And somber importance,

And inevitably on to crescendo

That may be oh so cliche: 

Light of dawn,

Brand new day,

Jesus and grace 

To save us both,

Word-feeder and presumed distant reader.

My words are Word-stained,

Christos-saturated

and Calvary-blooded,

Every poem a rolling stone.

I am a man 

(Not a poet)

Scarred by the scars

Of the Son

Littered with gospel shards

And caught in the lion's daze

Of resurrection repose.

I can't shake it.

I'm leaving bloodstains on the pages

And reading glory into the ordinary.

 

I think I write 

For myself

And my hope,

My God.

 

Growing, though, in empathy

And articulation

And divinely wise perspective,

Trying to travel through ink

With rhythm

To the self-proclaimed

God-forsaken world,

The citizenry whose pages don't bleed

With Father's house hopes

And Paradise dreams.

I'm here pursuing

An undercover tour de grace

For my brother's sake,

To hide or disguise or sermonize,

Trying tritely 

To find my way.

(Use me, Lord, and love me)

 

But how to hide the sun

Whose light can neither die nor dim,

Christ, the lamp,

That shan't be covered up,

The city that can't be hid?

How now to go

Further down and further out,

Seemingly same and without?

How did Peter come down

From Mount Tabor?

And how did Paul come to 

Blind and beside himself

On a desserted desert street?

"Do you see what I see

Way up in the sky, little lamb?"

How to encapsulate the great

Force and fury and

Every-little-thingness 

Of God in words for friends,

To fit a bit of Him

In whom live and move

Into a moment of verse?

How to squeeze the juice

Of living grandeur

Into little newborn wombs called words?

(Lord, the Wisdom of the world,

Transfigure this little gift,

And breathe your birthing tone into me.)

 

The prophet's rap upon your door,

Called to record

A faithfulness in language,

Life lived well 

Through wisdom worded

And statements made;

Not a prophet, but more:

A child,

Wanting and longing for that embrace

Before the city gate.

To make peace through speech

Is this son's dream;

To sway brothers,

Furious in fields,

To become lovers 

Of Him who heals;

Heroic tone or no,

Let the Kingdom be now in me.