The Biggest Losers

easterThe tomb is empty

All sin’s burdens roll away

God’s weight loss program

Advertisements

The Hunt

seagull egg

My heart was born,

an embryo, a pale and speckled thing;  I

painted it with childish dreams, in rainbow shades of spring.

I thought it was a masterpiece, its shell Venetian glass; I put my gift upon

display, in Easter basket grass. When no one stopped or noticed it, I gazed about

in tears; I noted how the others looked, and painted mine like theirs. But ev’ry layer

colored in just added extra weight; its overburdened, hard-boiled shell soon learned

to hibernate. One day someone gathered it and leaned in for a peep; in his haste he

scrambled it, and tossed it in a heap. Hurt, it hid, and hidden, hurt, and nursed its

deviled thoughts; broken, beaten, in despair, pain fried its yolk in knots. Gentle eyes

began a search, intent upon a quest; Hunter, restless, overlooked the paint-by-number

nests. Gentle hands with kid-glove care collected, cracks and all;  Humpty’s horses’

kingly men had no luck by his wall, but Hunter’s love was kingly glue, and whisked

the shattered shell back into its birthday state, and realigned each cell. Gentle

pressure peeled the paint, revealed its truest shade – Seeker sought and found

his prize, and put it on display. He tells me now he loves me true, though

still my cracks survive; but, incubated by his warmth,

my heart has come alive.

Culverts

culvert

Without warning culverts swell with hope,

Meltwaters surge where ice and snow once reigned absolute.

All vestiges of Winter succumb to its vortex;

What is annihilates what has been,

Washes every trace of despair downstream.

Creeks crucify the cold,

Flotsam crosses carried on rippled muscles

As they re-enact the Passion.

Earth awakes,

Breaking from its tomb once again.

Thick Skin

Not newborn skinpuddle ice, this.

Calloused, thick,

Barrier excludes blood

From heart of stone

Lest it beat and fulfill its function.

Stubborn film rejects sunshine,

Warmth,

Content to stagnate frozen

In primordial ooze

Lest the mess that lurks beneath

Be exposed, raw in its stench.

Your skin has kept emotions contained,

Given you a measure of control

Over the uncontrollable.

See here, the crown of thorns

Which pierces hearts of ice.

Take hold of the spear

Which alone penetrates

Thick skin.

Be melted.

Drip with awe.

And watch your dirty little secrets

Dry up and turn to dust

Before the Light of the World.

Adding Yeast

 

 

fresh bread

Stir me.

Add the flour of infirmity,

Anoint me with the oil of sorrow.

Beat me.

Pummel me with your fists,

Pound out your frustrations on my flesh.

 

Bake me.

Turn up the heat of your accusations,

Burn me with your passions, the self that fires your actions.

Kill me.

I will rise,

Tower above you,

Tear my flesh to feed a starving world.

You will eat,

And rise

To live again.

 

 

Transfusion

frozenpuddle.jpg

 

He invades her thoughts

Like formaldehyde,

Preserving pain

(Locking it in amber),

The proverbial fly.

He swirls through her veins,

Throbs at her temples

Thick like curdled milk.

Only the Surgeon

Can cut deep enough

To bleed out this cancer,

Transfuse Life

from heaven’s veins

to her impoverished frame.

Blades flash.

Blood flows,

Staining wood and stone.

Every drop

Finds its way

Intravenously

To her heart.

The God Who Built a Man Bridge

snowybridge.jpg

The God who built a man-bridge

to span the miles between

where humanity’s design began,

and where Love intervened

sent Man-God down to frozen earth

to be the Son of Grace;

and so, my steps are firm and sure

as I cross in His place.