Invisibility (ie. invisible)

Light passes through
Darkness overwhelms
The wind alters it not
A stoic unfluttering
cloak.

In a room full of light
a room full of dust
a room full of emptiness
a room, nothing in it
But me

I’m standing in a window
longing to feel upon my face
the light to expel the coldness
the pale moonlight overwhelms
All of me.

I move through the room
from the window to the wall
a wall of steel-ish cold
with chains and shackles riveted
Shackles meant for me.

I try to lift the chains
they pass through my hand
a clanking on the floor
a ringing in my empty ears
Empty me.

Yet as I lean against the wall
the chains begin to move
The clasps open slowly, creaking
and now upwards move
My neck

The metal is at my chest now
moving upwards slowly
at my neck now moving closer
to wrap, circumference, bind me
To the wall.

I feel the steel upon my skin
I feel, a tear, I feel,
down my ashen cheek it runs
and rests upon my curving mouth
I feel.


A euphoric feeling of feeling cold
to finally feel at all
How much I gave to get me here
now I shall be content.
It’s cold.

The icy fingers round my neck
squeeze what life had brought
This feeling I had so long sought
is not what I had thought.
At all.

The tear that ran down my face
left a blazen trail of red
a blush that touched my icy cheek
was now fading fast.
The steel.

Pulled into the cold hard wall
trying to consume me
I try to scream but my mouth won’t move
all that escapes is a prayer of a breath.
A Prayer.

And as I am consumed alive
alive and well and whole
I see the window across the room
in a glorious unaltered view.
A warm light.

The cold pale moonlight has gone and left
the icy bluish light
a warmish, orangish, glorious light
has come and is promising life.
Save me.

The feeling that I had longed and loved
now chokes and cuts and hurts
I see the light not afar off
but I feel slowly pulled and jerked
I Fight.

A helpless cry escapes my lips
a rending heart wrenching cry.
The light reaches within a foot
I reach and writhe and cry.
HELP.

The heavy chains fall away like grass
The clasps just disappear
The light has just now touched my face
and melted my frozen tear.
Warmth.

The light it pierces my every vein
It warms and softens my skin
It permeates my every breath
Oh now true life, true feeling begins.
Life

Sing

Love

Hope

Feel

Sing

LIVE.

Sometimes

Sometimes It takes more than a thought
Sometimes a thought is enough
Sometime enough is a little
Sometimes enough is enough

Life

Co-existent beings sitting in a stream

Floating gently backwards

in an unaroused dream

Is

To exist in a nutshell

A world all your own

A world without worries

A world with unknown unknowns.

Hard.

unbroken thoughts are difficult

dreams unshattered beautiful

Shattered promises unbearable

Bearing guilt, unthinkable

A Thought on P(rose)oetry

Poetry.
Not bound.
By any. . . Strings.
But only by the love
ing strokes of the pen and mind of the poet


To be free like the wind
to blow where it wills
to forget about the staunch harsh
cords that bind

A love is formed in the words not rhymed
by the words not in meter or
at all visually formed
but only by the way they form a complete idea.

Like red,
roses, with a sharp bit of blood
pouring down the stalk, a cry for help
and tears of pain, beauty.

or wetness, in a blue cloak hides it mysterious
ness( ).
A monster, a flower, a ring of gold
perhaps a sphere of purity.
White.

or a tear, a crystal, a drop in a bucket
full of the tears of men.
it’s half full now but still filling
upwards. why?


Or a sound of fear
a sharp report, a trumpet, a siren
a whirling intonation,
of lights and drear, and
forgiveness.

or perhaps a rhyme that is a rhyme
of an idea, a thought or a dream

Like a pool of blood
a cloak that was scarlet
a rose that happened upon a crimson
sunset. Of red.

Of a deep night so
Black (ness) envelopes a(n)
empty (ness) minds play for the thoughts of
mankind was dying a
death (that) is not the end.

Thus is an imperfect study in
the Idea that all (none) of poetry has to rhyme
in the
least bit.

Good Friday.

They will look on him whom they have pierced. John 19:37

And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. John 3:14-15

You all perhaps remember the story this second verse is referring to, The Israelites were in the desert and were complaining against The Lord, and in return were afflicted by broods of snakes that were biting and killing many of the people. God then told Moses to erect a pole and to place on it a brazen serpent. He was told to tell the people that whoever looked upon the serpent after he had been bitten would be saved. And they were. 

Yesterday I was on my way to work when I realized that it was Good Friday, the day on which our savior was Crucified. When I realized this a verse immediately came to mind It was John 19:37. "And they looked upon him whom they had pierced." Him whom I had pierced. When this though occurred to me I was overwhelmed, I had been the cause of Christ dying, my sin, my lies, my thoughts had all been the reason why our saviour died. And while I was still thinking over this another verse came to mind. The verse about Moses. 

The Israelites were being punished for their sin, for their rebellion and disbelief. Yet in his judgement God provided a way of grace.  "And the LORD said to Moses, Make a fiery serpent and set it on a pole, and everyone who is bitten, when he sees it, shall live." Numbers 21:8 All they had to do was look upon it, for looking upon it was their testimony of faith. When I though about this, the first verse I had thought of came back with so much more meaning, They looked upon Him whom they had pierced.  

Isn't that just like God? He is always looking for a way to save and draw people to himself. To provide a way to be saved and even to offer it unto those who had killed him. Those who had mocked Him and divided His clothes amongst themselves now had a way to draw near to the father, and it was sitting before their eyes, "raised up on a pole in the wilderness".  Hallelujah what a Saviour.

They will look on him whom they have pierced. John 19:37

A thought on John 9

The other day I was listening to the gospel of John over and over on my iPod, an exercise I would highly encourage anyone to take up. I think I was on my third time when something struck me as interesting. In John 9:5-7 the writer says,  "Having said these things, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva. Then he anointed the man’s eyes with the mud and said to him, "Go, wash in the pool of Siloam" (which means Sent). So he went and washed and came back seeing." The first thing I noticed in the verse was the heavy imagery used, We have some very common word pictures that are used throughout the scriptures. Basically what I got out of it was this:

When the Word of life (the product of Christ's mouth) comes in contact with unseeing man (who came from the dust) The only possible outcome is the healing of blindness.

Just a thought.

Is Art Practical?

Last week I was in a conversation with a group of friends when the subject of art was brought up. We were discussing a film we were doing and how many artistic corners we had to cut so we could get this done quickly. It was then that an idea struck me, "Can art be practical?" The thought amused me and I decided to ponder it awhile. What is art by definition and how does it relate to everyday life. It was said by an artist that "Life is a two way road  separated  by the median of art, It is always there but seldom appreciated, yet without it our entire system would collapse and become no more than a giant multi-car pileup." I am apt to agree, art is definitely a necessity in this life, for without time to stop and ponder without time express our feelings we would so quickly become a race of machines denying the soul that God put in us. Now onto the question about it's practicality. 

In it's very essence art is never practical, how practical is it to pause and take time out of our busy days to appreciate something beautiful? How practical is it to stop what we are doing to sit and think about our lives in a different way? How practical is it to consider the world a dance when it seems like everything but? How practical can it be to ponder colors and their harmony? Funny thing about life, There are a lot of things that are necessary but totally unpractical. Consider sleep, why would someone stop their work, which provides them with a way to live, to lay down and dream of things that have nothing to do with reality? Ah you say, Sleep is absolutely vital to life, without it we all would perish. I think there is the problem, no one looks at art as being that important.

Granted, there were people groups that considered art as the highest goal to aim for and their nations suffered for it, most of the times they fell, so it is viable that it can become over important, but so can sleep, so can food, so can water. Think of every group of people ever recorded, they all had their own type of art, they all had a different way to express the things they went through, the feelings they had, the life they experienced. Be it music, paintings, stories, poems, or songs. It was a vital part to their life, without it life was monotonous and hard. So though it may not always seem practical, we should all take time out of our days to appreciate or create something beautiful. When we do I think we will find that life comes at us a little slower, and we have more time to appreciate the things the Lord has given us.

"Life is a two way road separated by the median of art, It is always there but seldom appreciated, yet without it our entire system would collapse and become no more than a giant multi-car pileup." 

A non-Rhythmic poem, or thinking.

A while back I wrote this in a time of trial. It started out with me really questioning the Lord and his will. These verses are the result of my musings.

I heard that the sound of the wind is not always in sync with it's effects.

I heard that as far as you can see there will always be something that you don't

I heard that life is not always as easy as death

I heard the sound of many a nation crying out.

I heard the sound of the footsteps of death fast approaching 

I heard the sounds of of despair even at my door

I heard the sounds of my soul weeping for life

I heard the sound of of darkness suffocating light

I heard the sound of life, crushed from the innocent

I heard the sound of the innocent crying for love

I heard the sound of despair clutching at my heart

I heard the sound of my heart caving under its pressure

I heard the sound of my spirit screaming for the truth

I heard the sound of The Truth speaking softly

I heard the sound of my heart melting

I heard the sound of The Life calming my soul

I heard the sound of my soul embracing Life

I heard the sound of the Way being shown

I heard the sound of my spirit responding to Life

I heard the sound of a voice

I heard the sound of the Love

I heard the sound

I saw the Light 

The Way

The Truth

The Life.

I beheld the Face of Christ