You fashioned the human clay,
knowing we’d get dirty.
But image is everything.
The paradigm is true
but the bottle holding breath,
swears at the very idea.
Yet some muddy vessels hold
a treasure they were made for.
Persona like Your person,
as well as earth.
Grasping The Yarn
To touch the healing thread as it is woven through time;
years of wasted life, bleeding unclean in this instance.
Fearful anticipation as I reach to grasp the yarn;
knowing the meaning of the mystery, that is found in these lines.
Could I be typed
outside these lines?
Hidden in the metaphor
is the meaning of an artist,
feeling like a tired cliché,
overused and misunderstood,
that everyone thinks they understand.
The image has got to be bigger
than the meaning on the surface,
but complexity is lost in ambiguity,
so many try to simplify into something
they can comprehend.
Walk The Line©
Walk the line; the path through
the straight and narrow.
Left and right is foolishness
as the moderately wide
is on either side.
The right moves left
and the left falls over itself.
Balance on the edge
as they look on.
“Walk the line in one direction,”
whispers from behind.
The end leads to the beginning,
but the line never bends.
The crystal orb shattered,
as if I could save my friendships
in a fragile ball of glass.
Fragments flew across the floor,
as my sphere fell out of significance.
Fractured relationships flung asunder
sprawling across reality.
One bond can bring us back together,
melting us down
and breathing into us anew.
The Creator of the crystal
can fashion beauty once again,
out of our fragments.
Bouncing the ball,
or is it bouncing me.
Smacking the concrete
only to rebound and rise;
reacting to an action.
Slammed to that solid surface,
as if the gravity of my circumstances,
Beneath The Purple Hills
My thoughts linger in the twilight.
The setting of my hope,
fills my life with faded forms,
and memories of violence
now cast in softer hues of violet.
I stand on the purple hills of the present,
looking over the valley of existence,
as points of light defy the darkness,
making shadows pulse with desire,
as time tingles, for tomorrow.
Walking through sprawling arguments
of humanity looking for direction,
I stopped in the blurring fumes
of stalled progress, and read the writing on the wall.
Scrawling script of postmodern prose;
colorful language in hues of frustration,
trying to find an identity amidst the rambling crowd.
Here I stood and watched the peaceful moon rise
over this mass of metropolis,
so large I could almost touch, Your smile.
Blurring vision into false reality
virtually glowing in front of us,
in the seduction of the glass,
we reflect upon our image.
Reason too futile to understand
failed those before us.
Organized religion confused us,
leaving us with more questions.
We look into the mirror and ask,
can I worship the figure,
and find myself lost in emotion?
Reality is a manipulated impression,
as we reveal what we can’t understand.
Three Shots Down
we all need a shot of love
in our empty cups.
Trouble’s brewing bitterness,
but the draft will call us all
into the service of our brothers,
two shots happy, one shot sad,
speak easy till we’ve all had enough.
Lost In The Glow
Above the city a red moon rises,
silver and gold glitter below,
and shimmer earnestly in the darkness.
The crimson color of forgiveness
for those who outshine the heavens,
and glorify themselves in the process.
The fallen look above and speculate,
angels wondering where the sky is,
running through the sparkling valley,
finding themselves lost, in the glow.
Falling Off The Bridge
Falling off the bridge,
the distance is great,
the surface rock solid
till we disappear into the depths.
To much water runs beneath
to catch selfish desire
and drown in the moment.
One night we stand
between yesterday and tomorrow
looking at how far we could fall;
deciding to walk towards
opposite sides of the bridge.
A splash of emotion,
a fine line and a curve,
an artist paints an image,
but black adds depth and meaning.
Darker hues in the background,
contrasting shadows subtle and mysterious,
add intensity to the illustration,
making lighter tones more lifelike,
adding strength and significance,
to reality’s reflection.
Lump Of Clay
Unyielding I would take my shape, but He chose to break me again.
Melting in gray shades of doubt, I would finally become malleable,
as He spins me on the wheel.
I slip through hardened fingers, as a soft touch bends me once more.
Making this ordinary lump into something of usefulness,
in His hand.
Circle To The River
I wander in the circle You have set,
covering old ground in my memories.
The fire burns dim in the distance,
and I hope I’ve made the last turn
‘round the arc of my recollections,
coming back to where I turned away.
I struck the rock and drank from the flow,
not knowing what I was doing,
but now I long to cross the river
and be baptized from this death,
into the new life, You have promised.
I just spoke silence
with the seeker next to me.
The words were eloquent and sweet
as we sat there in perfect harmony.
Breathing the wonder
of shared memories,
words left unspoken
echoed in knowing eyes.
In that moment,
we realized, eternity.
Peering through the clouded glass,
often I only see my reflection.
But moments when the mist swirls
I catch a glimpse of a grander figure.
Someone I may look a bit like
smiles in a faded suggestion,
and beckons me to look deeper,
into this darkened mysterious mirror.
I weave a garment of thin cloth
and barely cover parts
I’d rather you not see,
but always expose a part of me
hoping for some intimacy.
We sit together trying to find
what’s under the woven threads
as we hide behind our
our true selves.
Question the Cube
If I unlock the box,
confusion expands into my world.
It could never contain You,
but it felt safer that way.
The universe and more
in a cube that I toss,
trying to know Your will.
Chance and destiny turn over each other,
and a lot is found in the moments,
I dare to question the limits
I’ve placed on You.
Inner Most Chamber
On this side of the veil
we treat You as familiar,
but to slip past the curtain of the physical
and enter our inner chamber
is a terrifying thought.
Kneeling before the sun rose,
and asking to meet with You
was nearly impossible.
Then You ripped the shroud
that You hid behind,
and entered us,
whispering wonder, inside.
Faith mixed with pop,
the counter culture tickles their ears,
and settles somewhere between the channels.
Behind the lyric and tune is the buzz of the crowd
amplified by the machine of societies' mediocrity.
Thirty-two bit clarity
lost in the floating point
of purposeful ambiguity;
the reflecting light flickers
through the glow of rose colored
stained glass windows.
Off tempo the faithful will dance
till tomorrow becomes yesterday,
and the beat continues to change
into the music, of sacred rhythms.
Longing To Wander Out And See
In the center of the maze is the temple of the flies.
Entomologists learn the ways of the annoying creatures.
They hover above the floor, rising up the dividers
that include their redundant shiny ideal,
contained in the cubes along the walls of their minds.
At the center the supreme models vibrate with enthusiasm,
hoping to lead more into analyzing the random flights
and methodical movements of the creatures,
and to forget the laws of physics, for a more subtle behavior;
longing to disregard desire.
Their children stand in the doorway, and wonder about the world.
Hiding From The Flies
You’re hiding from the shadows of the flies;
entomologists release the creatures out into the maze
seeking their children.
Lurking in the darkness the pests bother you now,
watching your movements with crimson eyes.
Annoying creatures buzzing about in late afternoon;
random circles around us that we all must deal with.
Misguided naive and ignorant, you were afraid of the insects,
they would worship.
Follow the instructions.
Open the paper in your inner room,
and place it in the middle of your life.
The world finds it aesthetically unpleasant,
because it doesn’t see the need to capture
the pests buzzing about.
It can become ineffective if it sits there,
and gathers dust.
Beneath The Standards
The Angel Of Light shines through her face,
as she blots with a dark brush the same old ancient rhetoric
combined into compound splotches of postmodernism.
Careless strokes across the canvas of life,
she paints a portrait of a blurred mind;
darker kinds of composite colors,
as ideas blend in the image.
A creature, almost the hue of xanadu,
smiles back below the surface of imagination.
Superimposed is her expression,
yet faintly visible beneath the standards of her appearance,
is the likeness, of a fly.
Some entomologists transcribe their wisdom
from a whisper in their ear.
The sound of a fly humming logical insanity
for dull intellectuals in redundant rhythms,
patterned on the page.
What I would call annoying they actually enjoy;
the static buzz and vibration oscillating enough to entertain them
in the moments, of their day.
The science of describing the methodical movements
and ideals of the insects.
An interesting tale, created by the creatures.
He Took The Hill
Buzzing around the blood,
they thought they had achieved the final victory,
and infected creation, soon eternity,
on the hill.
His strategy was quite different,
and now His Spirit possesses His people too.
He won the war that day but gnats still infest the field,
seeking to reclaim the rights to death.
Another day He will whistle for the flies,
and they will come from the crevasses of the rocks,
and be hurled into the ravine, down, into the pit.
A Mass Of Bees And Wasps
The bees hover around the hive, but should invade the countryside.
Some bees are busy building individual compartments for their young,
isolating them from the world, as well as teaching them to hate
the wasps. I know we look a lot like flies.
The keepers should train them to detect the stench the flies
leave on the mines buried, throughout the field.
Or some of them could zoom with us above their turf,
and acoustically sweep the world, telling the others the path,
Leader Of Their Hives
I know it sounds crazy and hard to understand,
but there is actually a king bee, although he can’t reproduce.
He is usually a bit larger, and seldom flies with the workers.
He is responsible for choreographing new dance steps,
and they gather around him to practice the patterns of his posterior,
as he tangos in circles.
Over the generations,
the drones have been convinced that they need him,
as honey drips from their mouths that is in most cases,
just as sweet.
Dressing up for a moment of black and white history,
memories took time to develop.
Truth was monochrome simplicity.
Emotions brought color to remembrances,
but even then, change would come faster
if we’d shake it.
Now bits of reality are frozen and edited
into imaginary actuality.
We expose ourselves and take the moments,
Light hits your lens and you translate
it into an equation.
Binary values of right and wrong
corresponding to the pulse of emotion.
Elemental colors are actually three points
of alternating illumination forming an image,
of the sun rising over the hill.
More than logic stored in memory.
More than an image printed on paper.