mid-February morning

the sky is brilliant blue

sun looks strangely unfamiliar

there is is a sense of lightness

floating, something like relief

yet the long months of winter 

here are no where close 

to their time of ending

I will take what comfort

and ease I can and joy 

in the lengthening days

hanging out with the poets today

 

lace and glory

this season of

the shortest days

the velvet dark deeper 

than memory 

recalls

a hole that pulls you in

fingers harsh, cold

muffled but not

silent

don't linger long

for there are gifts barely 

hidden

how He scatters snow 

like lace, the thick

and thin

creating space

for glory revealed

without apology

prompted by tweetspeak poetry

and hanging out at the pub
 

sharp edges

cold leaves me

brittle, too close 

to the edge of 

breaking, when what I

seek is unity

wholeness, to be 

a welcoming place

not these fractures

splintered, sharp to the

touch, come near and 

you leave bleeding

if I claim

innocence, lack of

foul intent, the flow

of pain continues

unhindered, hot

and raw

so let me own this

and ask you now

for grace, forgiveness

patience, that you wait

with me for warmer days

hanging out at the pub with the poets
 

thrill ride

Reason and logic were always a large part of who she was and when she tried to step away from them, they pulled her back harshly.  She always wanted yet never seemed able to loose control.  Perhaps that what she was seeking in her love of thrill rides.  You buy your ticket and take your seat.  The straps are buckled, the chains fixed, and you are locked in.  There is no turning back.  With excited and shaking expectation you climb to spectacular heights, knowing all the while that you cannot remain there.  Slowly, too slowly, you reach the edge, and freeze.  Time waits.  You gasp, and it's too late to pray as you fall with increasing speed and you don't even know that the screams you hear are your own.  Rising and falling and turning too fast, the blood rushes in your ears, your heart beats a wildness you've hungered for forever.  If you could only live in that moment always.  So you ride again.  And again.  And again.

back at the pub for a shot of prose/poetry
 

wolves can wait

wind blowing cold

wild again

low moan background 

music to my morning

tension strums nerves

no whispering

breeze this clamoring 

wail demanding answers

I have no reply

curl up small

in fleecy protection

warm the wolves

can wait another day

back at the bar with the poets

slice in the night

the other night, these words came

waking me

again and again

slicing watermelon

to find sugary

goodness

runs like water

to refresh

leave the knife

in My hand

allow Me liberty

to work as

I will

and trust Me

a touch of salt

to the flesh

makes the juice

flow sweeter

For the word of God is alive and powerful. It is sharper than the sharpest two-edged sword, cutting between soul and spirit, between joint and marrow. It exposes our innermost thoughts and desires. Hebrews 4:12 NLT

hanging out at the bar with the poets

 

pixels captured

pixels captured

hope spread 

wide, flash

against the snow

power in delicacy

flight

suspended, beauty

almost too sacred

to hold, this

moment

back with the poets today
 

in their shoes

not my words today, but His as I opened my journal to listen--

walk in their shoes

or lack of

right now

to gain empathy

to hear 

My heart

be open to learn

be open to feel

accepting emptiness

gives me space

to fill

that is where

the joy goes

the pub is open again, I'm hanging out with the poets
 

focus blurs

focus blurs, there is

a softening

ice crystals suspended

mid-air, perhaps

a weariness of the eyes

thoughts of wandering

cease, this is

a time for home, hearts 

settling deep in 

unexpected surrender

hanging out at the pub for the last time until the new year

 

lights and artifice

light-emitting diode 

colours bright 

the inside tree reflects 

on slick white frozen 

through to the other side

of the living room window

while flames artifice

dance in snaps 

and crackles on the flat screen

pretending heat

still the air is warm

here where hearts 

find rest in sacred expectation

side by side with the poets today
 

unplugged

retreat, an act of 

withdrawing

a move toward

peace

slowing, stopping

seeking shelter

I am giving up

giving in

to silence, surrender

three nights

four days away

in the company of other

hungry hearts

my fingers tremble

on these keys

feeling the need for them

so deep

that I know

retreat is called for

even here

this laptop

this connection

will be left behind

that I might find

connection

of a richer kind

hanging out at the pub with the poets tonight

warm side of the glass

on the warm side

of the glass I am

holding fast against

the wind

symphony of knocks

whistles, cries

leaves dance mid air

as branches crack

splinter on the narrow road

covered far too soon

with snow

hanging out with the poets today

 

the bent I

I am re-reading, slowly, a little gem of a book titled The Calvary Road by Roy Hession

To be broken is the beginning of Revival. It is painful, humiliating, but it is the only way. It is being "Not I, but Christ” (Gal 2:20), and a "C" is a bent "I." The Lord Jesus cannot live in us fully and reveal Himself through until the proud self within us is broken. This simply means that the hard unyielding self, which justifies itself, wants its own way, stands up for its rights, and seeks its own glory, at last bows its head to God's will, admits its wrong, gives up its own way to Jesus, surrenders its rights and discards its own glory - that the Lord Jesus might have all and be all. In other words it is dying to self and self-attitudes. 

strip away

layer upon layer

ashes and dust

scattering

and still

too much of me 

remains weary of the I 

stiff, hard, straight

aching deep

to be pliable

yielding

forgetting

to be bent

I must be 

broken

hanging out with the poets today

 

surrendering recognition

I order words

one after

the other

on pages, screens

tools of a trade

familiar to all

who paint with letters

thoughts, phrases

knock and burn

with the need

for release

we long to be heard

read, known

recognized 

and yet

if I claim to be

a pen surrendered

to His hand

than you need not

know me

at all

let me be invisible

as silver glass

a mirror to

reflect His glory

Day 29 of 31 Days of Surrender

hanging at the bar with the poets

 

tenacious cling

winds are gusting fierce this morning

blowing the nighttime 
clouds of darkness 

across the morning sky

the yard 
mowed yesterday 

before the rain

is covered 
with foliage curling up 
to die in brown, gold
screaming yellow

yet there are leaves

that cling hard 
to branches both tenacious 
and stubborn they tremble 

in the storm

willing themselves to live 
for moments longer

every bit of them focused 
on the fight

how much easier to let go

surrendered 
to the wind

take me, then

I whisper

wherever You will

this is Day 1 of 31 days of surrender

also linking with the poets, hanging out at the pub today

 

put a coat of paint on it

does your day feel

dark, messy

put a coat of paint on it

maybe no one

will know

are there cracks

where the  pain

weeps and leaks

put a coat of paint on them

it might seal

what will not 

heal

or at least forget

for a little while

memories like dirt

streaks ragged

put a coat of paint on 

everything looks like new

looks like

but isn't

no 

give me the paint

that washes 

clean the deep red 

flow that leaves 

snow white behind

Come now, and let us reason together, says the Lord. 

Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow 

Isaiah 1:18a Amplified

back at the bar with the poets