The family tree
That grows no good
In an enchanted forest,
A haunted wood,
Every branch sits
Stark and fallow
Stretching out
Hungry as gallows
Crooked finger-twigs
Like razor-features
Scratching to devour
The gentle creatures
Who wander too close.
I live here now
At ground zero,
In the hollowed how,
The earthen barrow
I once called home.
A life seemingly certain
Toppled by trouble
I hang tattered curtains
Inside the rubble
Unsure where the windows were.
And every cloth
Is a funeral shroud
Even the moths
Are too proud
To feast at the sepulcher.
Before the shell landed,
I sang to You
Now grief, heavy-handed,
Leaves me mute.
Sing over me again.
By my reflection
All is consumed.
Help me see Your resurrection
From inside the tomb
Build me again.
Unless the Lord builds the house,
those who build it labor in vain.
Unless the Lord watches over the city,
the watchman stays awake in vain.
Psalm 127:1
Oh, that I could have been
As wise as You;
Walking among men
Knowing who to choose
Knowing the one You loved most
Would love in kind;
But I am a fool
Who was born blind.
Was it a solace to know
From the very first day
That it was Judas among You
Destined to betray?
This country girl
Has walked down a lifetime’s worth
Of winding country miles
I’ve paved the earth
With footfalls and freeverse
In search of reasons to stay
And found down every lane
A reason to run away.
In city lights and cement gardens
I’ve sung against the noise
The old country’s songs
And my lonely voice
Floated to heaven
Before it dispersed
I’ve lived a life of baby steps:
Unapplauded and unrehearsed.
The order of broken things
Leaves a lot of ground to cover
I collected no souvenirs.
I took no lovers.
But time took its toll on me
As I searched the din
For some pleasant land
In which to begin.
Asleep for a time
In the middle of my roam
I dreamt of a family,
A husband, a home,
But morning broke
It all to bits.
Reasons don’t matter anymore
In a life adrift.
And if I now hope to arrive
It’ll have to be as the crow flies.
I’ve always loved the snow
You paint in pure white
Over the dirty streets, the scarlet sins,
And branding blights,
With fresh hope.
In the pale light
I remember no matter the scar,
The struggle, our plight:
You alone can make all things new.
Grant me the serenity
To accept the world I indwell
All I can’t fix or change,
And the courage as well
To look at hope unflinchingly
And take one step towards the hell
With a vision of heaven.
Grant me the wisdom to tell
Between acceptance and defeat.
And if it pleases You,
Make me new as the fresh snow.
I am where I have always been:
Inscribed on the palm
Of Your powerful hand;
I wait in Gilead for balm
To soothe the wound I can’t understand.
You speak into what is not,
And the impossible bursts forth
Like a fresh fawn eagerly trots;
You point the seamen to true north
By distant, burning blots.
You breathe, and wind troubles the waves,
Babies inhale and cry.
You tell us to be brave
Knowing we will suffer and die,
Because You know beauty outlives the grave.
You wait quietly by my grief
With a capacity to feel beyond my own
You cement my belief
While all I’ve known
Becomes the carousel of a thief.
And my heart is shattered.
My tears have replaced my song.
My love is purple and battered
With nowhere to belong:
The home I built is scattered.
But I know I still reside
Where I’ve always dwelled
Where I always run to hide
From the fumes of hell:
I curl up inside
The palm of Your tender hand.
This nightmare rips me awake
Repeatedly stabbing me
In piercing hatred, I quake
Under the blade, fearfully,
Again, it comes in innocence
And ends in childlike screams
And all good sense
Says it’s just a dream
But I’ve been murdered
A hundred times
And return uninterred
Into the same crime
I wake in the aching strain
Of knowing my little brood
Will suffer the same pain
Will be offered up as the same food
And wakefulness offers no relief
To the blade that devours
Will You sit by my bedside, my belief,
Through these dark, lonely hours?
I wander outside
To avoid this sleep
But there is nowhere to hide
From the company I keep.
Let me make peace with You
On this hallowed day of giving
In which we praise the offshoot of Jesse,
The root of all the living
For You are not like man,
Whose perpetual greed for more
Distorts his days and simple blessings
Your promises are sure
And Your daily bread
Is a feast of rewards.
As sure as the sun
I orbit each year
As a fixed axis
Neither too far, nor near,
A roiling constant
Warming the earth
For the little seeds
Emerging in new birth
So sure are Your promises.
As sure as the ancient moon
Orbiting me with borrowed light
Watching high in the sky
Through the loneliest nights
Marking time in tides
Among the host of stars
Reminding us the day
Is never too far
So sure are Your promises.
Jeremiah 33
What words remain
Worth speaking?
Have resolutions emerged
Something worth keeping
From the earthen mounds
Verbose heaps
Cataloging the lost.
Was there anything to keep?
When I have digested these concepts
By the consonant and vowel
Each morsel of shock masticated
Excreted via tracheal bowels
All sound and fury
Over a swollen tongue
Can any change be wrought
By these words I’ve wrung?
Has howling at the moon
Ever altered its spin?
