Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Still More (what is wrong with me?)


It is our stories that make us,

not politicians, not executives

with our stories we create our world.

Shoah, Holodomor, Killing Fields,

and hospitals, healing, wells in the desert

Crusades, inquisitions, exiles,

and communities, families, welcoming embraces

What is my story?

God speaks worlds into being

We, His image-bearers, do the same

Our stories do this.

What worlds do I create?

Stories destroy, stories rebuild,

stories wound, stories heal,

A story crucified the Prince of Peace

but a larger story still pulled Him from the grave.

How large is my story?

Empires tell their stories,

and rulers, and authorities,

but there is another story teller,

greater than they.

Who tells my story?

More poetry

I don't know what's gotten into me. Poetry really isn't my style.


There is pain to slavery

yet there is comfort, too

The lash bites, the shackles rub

but you are safe

safe from decision

safe from care and worry

the evening meal is always there

Of what value is courage?

What is the currency of freedom?

What can they buy a slave?

A quick death;

or a long one

starvation, homelessness, care and worry,

Why, then, this restlessness?

From where comes these urgings?

A whisper in my sleeping ear?

A waking vision, a day dream?

Who is this that says “Follow Me”?

A demon, a fantasy, a fever?


A Small Poem

This is something I wrote after a "Focusing" experience. Dedicated to Sarah and Kristin.


Loneliness, despair, death

was my life

into the pit of pain

but not alone

a light, a glimmer, a hope

grasp it, hold on