Sometimes,
I remember that
the radio continues to play
as a car wrecks,
and I think that’s
how we often live –
ravaged by pain,
aware of our destruction,
and, yet,
humming along.
Faith, Health, and Other Musings
May our minds flourish with creation, and may our hands never deny its expression.
Sometimes,
I remember that
the radio continues to play
as a car wrecks,
and I think that’s
how we often live –
ravaged by pain,
aware of our destruction,
and, yet,
humming along.
You are a snow day,
a game-saving buzzer shot,
the first sip of coffee,
and the last page
of my favorite book,
when good defeats evil
and love wins.
I think our trouble
with “unifying”
is that we glorify
a beautiful, abstract
unity,
but never —
never —
choose unity
above
sharing each and every
fleeting condemnation
that occurs to us,
and thereby
keep unity
from ever
becoming.
She pulls me
gently
down a well-worn path,
littered with ferns and old letters,
and brings me to
a flowery clearing.
“This is always where they leave,”
she says,
indicating the barren field.
“Yes,” I say,
“this is it.”
“This is what?”
“This is a perfect place
to build a home.”
Breathing heavy,
I wait for light to leave the sky –
longing for your nighttime spell
a brutal, tortured tongue-tie.
You haunt me with your drawling voice
dark and yet unseen,
you disturb my foolish, failing heart
and call it Halloween.
Poetry is for the living,
but death
is what grants it meaning,
making time so fleeting
and love so precious
that even poetry
can scarcely
touch it.
Even if you’ve never
traveled beyond borders,
if you’ve entered
the open arms of love
or eclipsed the lighted end
of despair’s underpass,
you’ve seen
the most exotic things
this life offers.
Is something
beautiful
because it is
unexamined —
mysterious, unique, untouched —
or is it
the exploration,
the unearthing of layers,
that makes a thing so radiant?