My Extension

Open handed palm reaching
to squeeze the natural extension,
the bulb going off for Edison, the
true resilience and brilliance of the
perfectly fitting piece.

Calming quickly, but beating
heavily, a metaphorical heart is
at peace while the circulatory
drives like a diesel machine every
time she grabs my hand.

Her stare is the ecstatic pace
of my desire, the complete
acknowledging communication
that she truly does love me.

The wholeness that God meant
for me when he told me he was
going to show me what it meant
when he said he loved the church
as his bride.

She is the flawless masterpiece of
his hand, corrected from sin by
the blood that covered her,
transforming the beaten projection
into the most beautiful new
creation.

My blessing, the manna in the
desert, my feet above the waves,
the mercy of God shown to me and
my advocate to be the Man God
created me to be.

Haven’t Seen Truth Without You

Haven’t seen so much in
quite some time, you know
truth comes in a summer
wind, a cliche, but a beautiful
stream may drift quite the
promise you’ve been
waiting for; a gazelle among
sunflowers and a congregation
I thought I’d left long ago.

Love is Scantic

White water rippling over stony
chasms of the backwoods Brooke,
a moving force racing an eternity
we can see in consistent spring.

Mesmerized by undying force,
almost like an immortal hope;
the river flowing while men
grow old and the sun keeps
passing.

A gravitational pull of living
water, let me take a drink
while I sit and watch the
fountain planted beneath
the canopy.

She sits by me, mossy
rubble entertains young
love in the midst of a
passing picture.

The moment reminds me
I’ve known hope, but I
never knew joy until she
turned and smiled; the
instant where my perplexed
wondering ceased to
appreciate an illuminating
elation.

A Fragrant Joy

A sunflower reflects the shine
of God given joy, a design of
rapture and a fragrance of love
that intoxicates the looming
pedals.

The aroma that permeates
through a bright young angel,
pressing smells that trigger
the true taste of the sweetest
fruit found on the tree of the
most high.

Lingering myrrh perfuming the
captive depression and sorrow
of broken souls, her sweet sense
changes pain into something
whole, the life giving smile when
her plight graced their nose.

She took a bite of the bliss Christ
captured for her, gave away the
sweetest scent prepared and
spread it to the world.

Like a bottle of perfume pumped
out into the air, the stare of her
bright eyes that mimed a peace
and luxury that needed not speech
to illuminate her fragrant alleviation.

She Showed All She Had

She walks down the street
showing all she has to feed
the hungry eyes of broken
men in whom she feels
satisfaction from.

Their stares give her pride,
her understanding of men
has died at the shallow root
buried in each of the males
selfish inferior need to see
what their lust desired.

Pornography gave them the
unfair hunger and their sexual
fire has conspired to burn
property marks, like gathered
cattle, into the porcelain souls
of innocent girls.

We helped to build the bridge
to gather them in, gave them
everything they wanted to defile
their precious commodity to feel
like they could be worthy of the
love of men.

But they had it backwards, they
couldn’t see true love wasn’t
found in skimpy shorts and long
legs, that the days without makeup
weren’t days that should be
counted as failure.

And the men tried to cover their
eyes, they saw love in real time, but
lust faded burning passion and
broke strong holds of compassion
for moments of weak hands and
those moments alone.

She gave it her all, felt security and
safety would come if she gave up
her body, but scum sucked up the
last of the beauty she could see and
from there on she showed her body
in hopes that a man would see and
cherish her completely.

Growing Up In A Christian Home

Growing up in a Christian home
was growing up with rainbow
over great boat bed time stories,
hearing about men coming out
of fire and a redemption shown
in light shine painted on Sunday
school nursery walls.

Growing up in a Christian home
was growing up with expectations,
weighted moves and waiting for
spiritual maturity.

The stories were tales, they seemed
like lessons we didn’t really understand,
but it made our parents happy so
we sang along to junior church sing a
long songs and knew nothing of what
kind of father Abraham was.

We didn’t know of sacrifice for the sake
of God and when my Sunday school
teacher explained child like faith, I stared
and wondered, but could have no
understanding. Now the truth of pain
and broken hearts and how they weigh
on your faith like grains in the cracks
of a wooden foundation give sense to
exactly what he was saying.

I knew nothing of grace when my elders
told me representation and being an
example were what I was required to
be, the liability imparted on me to
shine as an ambassador no one could
ever be and when I felt like a failure
for the lines drawn from the well of
transgression, my burden was heavy
and my works a failure.

My head sunk in sin, downfall was
etched in my skin and fear of
imperfection grew over me as I
projected my misunderstood
responsibility on everyone around
me.

And it finally hit me, when I found
him for myself and stood out from
the cultural Christianity shown to
me from the bride hailing in
brokenness and sin; I could now
see past the story to the truth of
struggling men and their need
for mercy.

It was a truth of grace in which
purpose was found and lost
meaning reconciled, it was where
peace came to me and the filter
of older believers rested in my
comprehension.

What A World Compassion Would Bring

What a lifeless word,
a straining brokenness;
a funnel of possibility
strained into a glimpse
of slight hope.

A lost world, hateful,
accepting guilt no one
can swallow; empty
reaching for every
dream that spilled out
of negative impressed
experience.

Defiant like their self
reflections, cries for
peace among tattered
outside judgement.

Not loving, no
understanding, because
if everybody knew influence
molded behavior, than
maybe compassion would
be easy.

The Better Laid Plans Of Mice and Men

Everyone is waiting on tomorrow
marked down on the calender
for their marker pressed plans,
like moving sands will always
predict time and the hopes
of tomorrow are promised.

If we held the eclipsing hours
erasing another days sealed
impression of red hot wax, than
maybe we wouldn’t burn our
hands on what we tried to
command of our futures.

We can watch the parchment
drip, the better laid of a man’s
hand scratching his quill as if
he knew what was to come
better than the common knowledge
of mice and of men.

Gave the hare a home, until
the slyness of a hiding farm
fox dug his hole.

Laid fences around our heart
warming abode, hoped for
peace until the storm ripped
the posts from the grove.

Told love to wait a day, that
our minds would come back
again to reconcile with our
pulsing emotion, but duty
drown our hopes of matrimony
and responsibility killed the
flair of new passion.

Planted our crops in fertile
fields, gave fertilizer to the
finer of soils, cultivated the
rain and waited for our plants
to grow, but the sun gave
way to drought and our
food withered with our
hope.

What could we know of
tomorrow, that we could
give command to fate and
circumstance? What plans
come to fruition without
first considering that no
moonlight or new Sunshine
are promised?

Caught Suppression in Photos and Sound Waves

There is a somber sound
quivering from the echo,
distances sound waves
traveled to come back again,
we could have told you we
forgot, but when they arrived
our minds flashed like popping
camera bulbs taking a shine
to the memories in the
making.

Everything we’d like to forget
being photo forged for the
sake of a cynical art students
pretentious gain, he mapped
out our pain under the red
lights of the studio dark
room.

The nostalgia was the deepest
wound of discomfort and
recollection cased for the
photographers appeal.

And when the light first shined
over drying stock paper, the
sound created years ago caught
up to unveil distancing suppression.

Unmoving Hands Progessing Our Demise

Subtly caught in the slow
movement of a clock’s
hands as they pass over
hours, but my eyes never
caught time past.

Never witness the cranking
cogs, the spinning wheels
and mechanics, the gears
turn and the tightened
lever.

Mechanisms moving behind
the seen, they never catch
our glimpse, they push
our mortality and we waste
away from the obscure
steadiness of aging.