“the eternal appetite of infancy”

I fastened the joints of the rainbow’s sleek and arching backbone
I planted secretly the lark’s song-knowing
I run the length of sparkling seas and walk the ocean’s bed
I feed the leaves through veins of life
I lit the fire in the dragon’s throat
I chase time, and capture and keep it
I observe all that breathes from My throne of light
I trace the earth with My fingers and watch the winds follow
I split the mountain with My gaze to see its stony bones
I fall and dive and race the cascading stream
I bring buckets swinging from My shoulders laden with rains to the desert
I sink My hands into crying valley soil and raise its plane
I cleanse your streets and skies with impulsive thunderstorms
I shine sun on the evil and the good
I paint with light and cloud every evening and morning, from the first day
I hope for My children, for I am Love
I climb with you up My Holy Mountain, where none will kill or destroy

I am had for the seeking, found for the looking
I call and carry you to Myself
I am the LORD your God,

and I am building us a forever House where you will share My unbound joy.

“The sun rises every morning… His routine might be due, not to lifelessness, but to a rush of life. The thing I mean can be seen, for instance, in children, when they find some game or joke that they specially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be the automatic necessity that makes all the daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we…”

G. K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy, Pg. 51

“…So we sit perhaps in a starry chamber of silence,
while the laughter of the heavens is too loud for us to hear.”
Pg. 152

Tears of the King

The throne of the Ancient of Days
is his weeping place

Once, falling and cascading, his tears flooded heaven and filled the earth,
the waters never to fully subside

His face — old lines deep with wisdom;
his being — gentle heart carved with sorrow

Outpoured love and brimming provision rejected turns to salty flow in pain
as the little precious ones choose harm, emptiness, and solitude.

What has been lost was part of him, born out of him

Weighty majesty and crushing grief interlace to form his covering
“We cannot see You! Where have you gone?”

He yet reigns, and weeps

and hopes

–even while some who are his stand back from his embrace,
hands clutching fear, shadows of self, cries of affirmation from the world–

for one to glance up to his face in willing trust;
to look into the eyes of his son

for one to find herself happy in his protecting arms;
to wash the dirt from his daughter’s body

for one to rest close to his heart in peaceful abandon;
to give his children all of Himself and all of home.

To Artists: An Address

The created create, yes–
but never ex nihilo, scraping from within the frame of self
To do so presses unnecessary strain
to the boundaries of a fragile vessel
{Turbulence…}
The forcing of a birth and invention of an embryo
Then, is it Real? Can it be? Self seeded to self

Not created to create another self-centered universe
the cosmos is already Self-centered, necessarily
There is only one Creator who pours out Himself endlessly
We empty; He is always full
We do not burn with Life from before the ancient days, but must be set aflame…

Sunlight beats and bleaches hair, bone
ever and only more white, dry, dead… Fading
But breathing beings? With thirsting skin and hungering minds
The Light quickens, livens, causes to breathe,
{like honey}
Gushing, glowing, healing energy,
rush-of-consciousness

Artists, live from within your place before Him,
as one to be filled,
as a created one,
as His.

Commit not the Contradiction
of trying to pull Life from your own being and creating alone

May He be the breath of Life to your creations,
at times joyously unexpected, tensely anticipated
but always close, intwining His hands to yours,
showing Himself one with you as your hands fashion and shape, together.

november dry

birthing a fire
requires your own oxygen
given up out of lungs

the shadow-overcast, casting shadows
but within a coal, a flame, there may be none

i am still standing after wind has blown and
few leaves remain, dry, thin, brittle

the violin’s high, pure note was long ago

let me fly in a departing flock–
choreographed motion unison, dips and turns and banks and

rest

will chills come again not of cold, of solitude,
but of wonder’s victory and victory’s wonder

trunks turn grey branches splinter surrounding airy substance,
cracks in the atmostphere

pines and the sky deserve reflecting

but how can i
my eyes have lost their flame

i suffocate in any air
but yours

but it’s all
yours
?

Whirling White

The column of brimming humanity

that belongs to You in one body

Flattened to 3D, splashed and collapsed, bucket-dumped

onto the surface of time

reaching from beginning to infinite future

billions of Euclidian rays.

A spinning painted spectrum glows white, purely

whirling to your heart’s beat

drawing life from Life

each turn a beat of Your heart’s flow.

Your holy fiery blood is what we lost

when we cut ourselves

from You.

Falteringly haltingly faded

grafted to you

 brings back our lost Red

now spinning makes us

white again.

the paradox of between

 

 

between Ascension and Pentecost

wait, you un-abandoned ones

see how He will come, in such power and force of Light

 

come

come away

      you are His still

      you just can’t see

 

hide

hide yourselves

      in the One who will come

 

wait

wait for Him

      Love is yours

 

paradox always

      now, not yet

      here, not yet

      with us, not yet

 

Savior faithful Love show us your peace

help us to speak

let us receive You and be filled.

remember Eden

chase play find

the guarded gate, the flaming sword

children children

great evil happened here

dance pull sway laugh

you don’t know, you weren’t here

inside the gate

there was untamed beauty unbound passion verdant green

every scent that will ever please you

came from here

whenever the breeze traces your skin

remember this place I show you

remember my eyes when I tell you

it was perfection

Life Himself walked with us when the day cooled

we loved, we felt

we worshipped

we longed and were satisfied

from rhythm to rhythm all harmonious

He breathed in all, He knew all

as He walked, the flowers turned their faces to His light

ancient, new

the stillness of the sound of rushing waters

time parted before Him and closed behind Him

peace rippled from Him

this we knew this we lost

for this we long again

but children

it’s so far

so far.

ever the Refiner’s cleansing light

~

 

Screeching reeling drunken darkness rushed forth

burst, blown open

 

Your Light had penetrated another of my remaining dark holds

terror surged out

Cowering, fear, doubt, all dragged to light,

screamed

their last attempts–

 

your God cannot see you

your God has forgotten you

your God has no special love for you

 

Suddenly, all was cleared–

the foundings were gone, taken captive or enveloped in light,

silenced.

 

{left     open}

 

in abrupt and breathing peace

 

waiting for The Lord, waiting as space to be filled

with trust, safety, and knowing…

~

oh Jesus how can you stand to take these evils upon yourself

each one aimed at Your heart, an arrow of malice

Holy One You never run out of strength within Yourself, You never change

You stand there even as I beat Your chest with my fists.

~

{an encounter with Him, recorded about two weeks ago}

Just As Faith

Step back, back away, put some space between you and the frame… Get your hands dirty with paint or pastel? Never. Too many mistakes are possible, too many rules may be broken with your own hands. Keep your art on the wall and describe what it is like but never try it for yourself, not even a sketch. Don’t enter the world of artists, mediums, and ideas, or you might know it. Restrain, admire, discuss… But don’t know.

Don’t let Him flow from you–the boundaries you like will begin to disappear…

Become one with the Creator and He will freely create through you with your hands