A new pursuit

I’m re-reading “Smoke and Steel” by Carl Sandburg. Besides being one of the greatest books of poetry I’ve ever read, it also deals with a subject very near to my heart, namely the reconciliation of man and God. The book begins by laying its thesis, ” Smoke and blood is the mix of steel.” He sees that while civilization is essential, that we are broken, that the things we make are temporary as we ourselves are temporary. The primary thrust of the work is outward… reaching for permenance, for beauty in the temporal that outlasts the shell of things… that redeems both the essence of us and our temporary state. There is no resolution to this book, only a search. Love is his only rule and in the persuit of its changing manifestations, he finds both his freedom and his mortality a blessiing. All of creation becomes relative to Love in this book. The force behind the world is a giving one to this man and he becomes it’s passionate lover, courting this God in the vast and changing imagery of the world. For the next little while I’ll be posting poems from this beautiful collection.

I Forgot How Good It Is

I’m learning to start small, where I am.

“…of such is the Kingdom Of Heaven.”

Today I saw a group of kids wrap their minds around something entirely new. We made book covers today at Reservoir and I don’t think it could have gone better. We put out all of the supplies; the loose ends of fancy paper we got for dirt cheap, the glue, the scissors, and told them what to do. I was SOOOOOO scared when they first sat down. They had no idea where to begin and I think this was the first time they had made anything without drawing pictures. It was so amazing to see the freedom well up in them and unfold into their work. They have such an intuitive sense of things and a joy that I admire.
One of the guys in my group covered his book in a plain red paper that was so uninspiring on the table and asked me if he could draw a picture on it. I said no and he looked so frustrated. He then proceeded to pick out a fantasticly yellow-green patterned paper and stick it square in the middle. It looked great. This one girl used entirely too much glue, but the paper absorbed it and crinkled in the most astonishing way. She made a very aesthetically mature collage on top of it and I almost jumped out of my seat with excitement. People thought their projects were ugly and found that they were beautiful in the end. I’m so proud of these kids. I’ve got to get pictures to put up here!
Anyway, when I stopped to look around, every kid in the room had their head down, intent and focused and happy. Rarely are things this beautiful, or maybe we just don’t look. Kids who have been abused, forgotten, cut down, abandoned, uprooted again and again, found peace today in glue, paper, smiles and safety. And we were a part of that.

I Wrote This On The Bus

I don’t want to hold on, hold
on to you. I won’t cage you
up in the bars of my fingers.
Dreams are like our shadow
hands; givers, lovers
and robber barons.
I don’t want to be timid, but
it feels like I forgot the dream
when I awoke. I’m so confused.
Sleep is the escape we
chose; your dreams are the most
beautiful I have ever seen.
I’ve forgotten now
what might have been.

Writers Block

Tonight I’m trying to write you a poem. I’m trying to say that the ocean couldn’t match the wonderful mystery of you, that to me the experience of you is deeper than the most purplish, blackish, greenish shimmering sea, that you’ve got guts and glory in your own special way, but i just can’t find the words.

I guess I’m just searching for the right metaphor. You are the ivory keys of my grandfathers piano, the pines in the night, the cedars of lebanon, the gathering myst… in the meadows… at dawn, the song of the sun and the beating drum of the tribe in my chest, but
so
much
more.

I want to write down exactly how I’m feeling now, to give to you. I want you to know exactly what’s in my heart, but I can’t get you out of my brain and all of the things I would say just get swallowed up and the only image that I can use, the only thing to compare beauty to is your big, blue eyes

and that’s enough for me.

Worship for a football team

What if the church were like the Kop?

When you walk through a storm
hold your head up high
And don’t be afraid of the dark.
At the end of a storm is a golden sky

And the sweet silver song of a lark.
Walk on through the wind,
Walk on through the rain,
Tho’ your dreams be tossed and blown.

Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart
And you’ll never walk alone,
You’ll never, ever walk alone.
Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart

And you’ll never walk alone,
You’ll never, ever walk alone.

Haiku

I am not perfect
but someone else is and He
holds both of our hands.

-Emma Tripp

No. 22 Pontiac-Reservoir

The other day I was riding the bus across town and a young mother sat down next to me. She was probably 18, but acted 21, her infant resting silent as a stone on her knee. The child was facing me and I could see that his eyes were brown like the deepest walnut dresser drawer. He was calm in a one piece suit and almost never blinked.

The woman was talking with her brother, who had gotten on when she did and was probably around 15 years old. He had a bag of baby toys in one hand and another on his back and talked excitedly about people I have never met, about his girl and his mother. He was loud and affectionate. He was a friend to the world and the protector of the innocent. No one ever talks on the bus.

I asked how old the baby was because life is too short sometimes and we miss it. He was staring at me, wondering how I got to be so big, wondering at the size of me, how my hair must feel, if I was hungry, fascinated by the bump of my nose and the dark grey rain of my hood. He studied my smile like a monk studies silence. I dedicate my mustard yellow corduroy jacket to you, little man.

She said he was six weeks old and, with pride, showed me his full head of hair. His brother smiled and I knew that there was love in this family. She waited until the frozen bus had stopped then looked me straight in the eye and told me her name and that she was glad to meet me. I’ve cried tears over this incident. Children of grace, I reached for you and you reached for me and love was there. We were redeemed and will never be the same.

The Pasture

I’m going out to clean the pasture spring;
I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I shan’t be gone long. -You come too.

I’m going out to fetch the little calf
That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young
It totters when she licks it with her tounge.
I shan’t be gone long. -You come too.

-Robert Frost

Thank you

you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.