Plowing

You harrowed my heart
like a baked-clay field
hardened by sun and weather
furrowed by unyielding blades
turned over in search
of the good fertile soil
the soil You knew
was there all along
softened and prepared
for spring planting
and--
unimaginably--
a bountiful harvest

Swimming

My love is a placid lake
Nestled deep in a mysterious forest.
I love to explore those woods,
To seek solace and delight
On sweaty July afternoons
In the cool refreshment
Of her fathomless depths.

Swimming With a Shadow

I tried to outswim my pain today,
And by accident succeeded.
I thought that my salvation lay
In strong arms, capacious lungs,
Propelling a body hard and fast,
Cutting fiercely through
The frigid blue.

Lap followed lap as I strove,
Sweat melting unseen
Into chlorinated depths,
Glimpses of harsh noonday sun
Alternating with eyefuls
Of cool pool water.

Arms and lungs began to burn,
And still the pain remained
Inside, well beyond the barrier
Between blood and brain.

An abrupt delight:
Dark shadow imposed on the white
Of the pool floor far below,
Nearing me as I neared
The shallow end.

It glided along, muscles rippling,
Shadow-bubbles blowing,
As it swam amid pure light.
It entranced me, spurred me on
To greater effort, greater satisfaction
As I watched its effortless progress,
Took joy in the beauty
Of its silent strength.

I pulled myself out at last,
Muscling up at pool's edge,
And despite my puffing and panting,
I found the joy of the shadow-race
Had left me lighter than light itself.

NoPAD Chapbook 24: I'll Be ______

One of these days, I'll be dead
And you will live on, I trust,
My lovely ones,

For lovely you are,
And I have loved you fiercely,
Faithfully, sacrificially:

My beautiful bedmate,
My strong young sons,
My delightful daughter.

You'll know I did not love
As well as I had wished, and yet
You'll know I loved the best I could.

When I have gone, as go I must,
May echoes of my imperfect love
Birth joyful melodies in your souls.

My Block

This prose poem was inspired by NPR's Morning Edition. 

My childhood block was a grid of gravel roads running through a newborn subdivision just outside of town. Red-tailed hawks and wide-eyed deer watched us bike down those dusty roads on long, hot summer afternoons. Crashes were painful. Decades later, I still smell the rusty tang of blood-soaked dust, feel the bite of antiseptic on raw palms, and taste the tart, sweet comfort of cold lemonade.

Beauty Within the Mess

This morning, I was in a hurry to get to work. As I opened the car door to put my laptop case inside, I noticed that my lawn was looking a little shaggy. Or, to be precise, a lot shaggy:

I will be the first to admit that I am a terrible groundskeeper. My grass is always the longest on the block, and every August, it's one of the first to die from the overwhelming heat. (Just between you and me, I would kill it off earlier than that if I could.)

It's not that I wouldn't like to have a nice-looking lawn; it's just that I normally have better things to spend my time and money on. Nonetheless, that doesn't stop me from feeling just a wee bit ashamed when my yard looks like this. I mean, who likes having a constant reminder of his failings every time he steps outside his door? Not this guy.

So, with my daily dose of yard-guilt successfully internalized, I was ready to rush off to work, hopefully not arriving too late for my first meeting.

Then, as I was putting my laptop case and lunch bag into the car, I saw something that stopped me cold. I have probably looked at my front yard a dozen times in the past week, but I never noticed this: 

 Or this:

 Or this:

Lovely, no? They have been buried within that messy yard for a long time, but I never had the eyes to see them until this morning. What's more, I wouldn't have even gotten to see them if I weren't such a negligent homeowner.

Suddenly, I didn't care how late I was going to be. It seemed much more important to take a little bit of time to intentionally enjoy these blessings that my gracious Maker left in the most unexpected of places.

The New Testament book of James says, "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows."

My experience this morning made me realize that I am perhaps too hasty in deciding what those good and perfect gifts are -- or aren't.

I'm glad the Giver has a better imagination -- and a farther-reaching vision -- than I do.

Ha Ha! to the Old Year

Eric Peters's BiRDS OF RELOCATiON might very well be the perfect CD to celebrate the passing of an old, worn-out year and the beginning of a new, hope-filled one.

I have had this on Repeat all day and am still not tired of it.

Here are the lyrics.

Here are some snippets of reviews and stories behind the songs.

This album is deep, thoughtful, and extremely catchy. If you don't have already have it, you need it. Get it now.