Seasons

Poems For Getting By

By Joshua Brian Krebs

Copyright © Schechem House Books, Joshua Brian Krebs, and

Katherine Krebs, 2014, 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022.
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Preface:
During the COVID-19 pandemic I began writing a poem a day. I didn’t
do this because of the pandemic, I did it because my fifth child was born
on March 18, 2020 and I wanted to do something to remind myself to be
present and attentive for my wife and kids. Poetry was a way to make
sense of the world around me so that I wasn’t constantly preoccupied with
the news, the anxieties of life, and the constantly changing needs and
emotions of my family. Late in 2020, I began to feel overwhelmed by the
negativity in the world around me and so I published a book The Joy of
Simple Things, intended to spread a little joy and light to an otherwise dark
world. I kept it focused on the more mirthful or positive poetry I had
written.
Now, nearly two years later, I have been revisiting my poetry and realized
that there have been many seasons of life and love during the last few
years. Some have been joyous and some have not. As the author of
Ecclesiastes reminds us—to everything there is a season. I have complied
some of my poems from over the years to process through the seasons we
go through in our years, lives, loves, faiths, places, and even in our
random thoughts. In this book you will find my hopes and my fears—may
it inspire you to examine your own.

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Seasons of the Year

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There is some great wonder
In a fallen tree
That it should have outgrown 
Its native soil or
By some great calamity felled
Lie dead amongst it’s brethren
Its life still giving life 
Even in its death

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In shades of grey the skies are cast
With rainclouds all arrayed
And though long the winters last
And though the spirit is dismayed

There is a certain beauty found

In winter’s cold and muted tone
When the heart feels the wound
Known only when we are alone

And when the brightly colored days

Have gone the way of colorblindness
And we can no longer push away
With subtle joys and simple kindness

And so the wintry afternoon

Exists for just this kind of thing—
For the soul to feel the mournful tune
Of the longing for the spring

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There’s a voice in the wind as it blows by my window
And it whispers of winter and whistles of rain
And it sings a sad song as it pushes the clouds
And the shivers the glass of the old windowpane

In the mournful tune that it hums as it passes

I hear gentle notes of great giants sleeping
And though the trees of the woods appear dead
I know through the winter their watches they’re keeping

The electrical wires are shuddered and snapped

And the concrete is broken by rain turned to ice
But the trees greet the wind like it’s an old friend
And they’re bending better to hear his advice

For the wind spreads the seeds of the trees of the forest
And drops them in ground where they thrive and grow
And I like to think that the trees are delighted
As the wind tells them stories of seeds they let go

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Some hate the dreariness of winter—
The cold and cloudy days of rain and snow,
The wind that bites and tires,
The quiet walk without birdsong—
And long for the warmth and wonder of spring.

Yet winter is my working season,

Undistracted by the sunshine and flowers
I toil away at projects undone
Shuttered in my workshop, tools in hand,
That I might be ready when spring comes.

This is a lesson hard learned—

That while the sun’s radiance hides from me
It is a time for hard labor and duty—
For when He is here again with me
I desire that He find my work worthy.

The hedgehog may or may not shadow,

I know not the day when He comes again,
So winter’s toil redeems my time—
These evil days of winter now turned
To joy in hard work of preparation.

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Against the stars of the heaven’s cast
Are the silhouettes of trees.
From where I lay upon the earth,
Gently rustling in the breeze.
I have questioned their purpose,
But to obfuscate my view 
Of the wonder of the skies.
But what I know is true
Is that the things I often look past 
Are the things that help me breathe,
And the things that are often in the way
Are the very things I need.

10
They don't want a playground. 
They just want trees 
And a magical forest 
And wide-open space. 
They don't want equipment. 
They just want room
To run and run and run. 
They just need space to be.
(by Katie Krebs)

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How scary it must be to see the snow melting  
For the poets who’ve promised that winter is coming; 
For the sage of this modern age, the White Witches 
Outside of fiction who see the Spring that’s dawning. 

They have made false claims on the end of things 

For we know that winter lasted many a year, 
Winter with no Christmas until that Advent 
That promised the future drying of every tear. 

How it must terrify them to think that the justice  

They were seeking through vengeance all these years 
Has somehow been overtaken by God’s redemption; 
Their blood rituals broken as the Lion of Judah appears.

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Seasons of Life

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As a boy I played the squire
Running to and fro, all regaled 
In imaginative visions of war.
The death of enemies imminent
As, with each sweeping arc, 
My sword met its mark unhindered.
As a young man, the gallant knight,
Seeking to test my newly molded metal,
I yelled at the moon and railed at the stars.
“Faint heart never won fair lady”
And yet my lady knows not so faint a heart
As then beat within my chest.
Now the tired sergeant, weary of battle
But not knowing the war’s end.
For truth, it takes more heart to pump
Blood through old wounds and tired bones
Than ever I knew when first I felt 
The weight of sharp steel wielded.
Gone are the days of cheerful anxiety
And pulling at the slips of restraint.
Now the longing for homely rest
And children sat around the feet,
Of simple supper and quiet retreat.  
Yet my heart will grow stronger still
And I am called with the sounding horn 
And must answer; I am ready to stand.
For all the love I hold for home, 
I cannot sit at home and call it love.

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The kudzu whispered and the ground was impressed 
The deer danced their ballet
Then scattered away
As the cardinals composed and sang their address

In the sun-broken shadows the copperheads stalked

As the great eastern pines
Stood guard in their lines
Where the barefooted boy blissfully walked

Then he'd rest in the arms of the magnolia tree

And the dreams he had there
Before he knew care
Still burn deep inside the man I came to be

But I live in concrete and among trees of steel

And the city's great stage 
Feels more like a cage
That drives my mind back to the forests and fields

And I'm trying to grow with all that I see

But I long for the times 
Of simpler rhymes
And afternoons spent in a magnolia tree

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Once there was a little boy
Who wandered the woods with a dog
Gun in hand he had no fears
Of the wilderness, vast and broad
But as he grew up the world changed
The gun became a toy for play
He had only time for mental journeys
In the busyness of the long workdays
And instead of fearless wonder crept
The fearful, worried grown-up man
For he had forgotten what it felt like
To stalk the squirrels in the land
But then one day I was given a book
That taught his heart to touch the earth
And in the quiet work he read
And found again the boyish mirth
So thank the farmers and the poets
And the shepherds in the meadow
Thank the gardeners and the woodsmen
And let the woods soak up your sorrow

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Out my office window in the late afternoon
I see the thin branches and empty husks
Upon them, casting strange shadows
Through my office as the day turns to dusk.

What tree is this? I thought today while looking

Out my window, and why have I never cared
To ask myself this question before now?
Dumbstruck, I sat a while and stared.

Surely there was a time when I would

Have known the trees that stand and grow
So close beside me every day and watch
The same faces tell what none but we know.

To have their pain witnessed by the living,

Even so poor the hearers as we are, but
To be heard without judgment, is a relief, 
All told to a man and a horsechestnut.

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There he sits upon his throne
Decreeing the happiness of the nation
Reminding each within his reach
To stay within their station.

Has he the authority? It matters not!

For all will bend to his design
And we, ultimately his mere servants,
We all will willingly resign.

We do all this to contain the crap—

To keep away the skids.
What'd you think I was on about?
Politics has got nothing on potty-training kids.

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On the desk in my office there sits a small figure
Under a lamp in the darkness of night
And he seems to have only the light for his task
And whisper “I’m here, it’s alright”

But his posture is bent and he sits there and holds her
And seems to be shielding the darkness away
And he seems to be praying and crying and hoping
That there’s coming a better day

Perhaps it’s because my office exists

For the crying of tears and the telling of sorrows
And I’ve listened and watched as men and women
Trade in for small pleasures all their tomorrows

And he struggles to see how the world that I’m seeing

Could be a place she could ever rejoice
And he wonders if over the din of the darkness
God can even hear his voice

“Give this child faith in the night

When the darkness seems to hide your face
And, when faith is found weak and failing,
God, please give this child mercy and grace”

Many a night we have sat here together

In the light of the lamp and the shadows it casts
And we pray for the strength to keep on in the night
‘Till at last we go Home for our rest

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An empty coffee cup and a box of tissue,
A laptop, a mask, some books, and a figure
Dress my desk, bathed in morning light,
And a recent addition—my children’s picture.

They are turned, their back to the camera

To keep hidden their treasured faces
But I also imagine I’m shielding their eyes
From deep and dark and scary places.

In my office, people come to share sorrow,

And sorrow is nothing to shame or fear,
And I often tell my children the value
Of a good cry of cathartic tears.

And I’m not worried about them seeing

The reality of a world with fear and depression,
These things are part of a fallen world
And are made better in honest confession.

Nor do a worry that they might find out

That some people’s affections are deeply broken,
That drugs, or money, or gambling, or sex
Can become what a person puts their hope in.

The dark place I long for them never to see

Is the post-sin hiding in the Garden of Eden,
Where clients make fig-leaf attempts to conceal
The brokenness they know is there deep within.

Let them run to you naked and be covered,

Let them bare their sin and see it removed,
Let them show their brokenness and be mended,
Let them not hide but embrace their beloved.

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Some days it seems a struggle to find any inspiration
To put into a poem or verse.
Sometimes, tired, I sit to write and with exasperation
I let out a frustrated curse.

But then I find, if I wait and trust the rules of rhyme,

A way to bare my weary soul.
And in writing daily poems over extended time
I’ve decided this is my only goal.

So often I have kept to myself the many pages

Filled with joy and sorrow,
Thinking of the many poems of wondrous sages,
“I’ll write a better one tomorrow.”

But I’ve decided, for the little that they are worth
Outside my own troubled mind,
I’ll sow these soul-piece poems into the earth
And trust that providence is kind.

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Babies do not conform well to poetry,
Their syncopated rhythm of wonder and excitement
Untamed by the world set on orderly things.
They laugh and the sun shines, they cry and the clouds gather.
It is as if faeries danced to their mood 
And logic bent to their delight.

The meter and verse of poetry makes poor

The riches of a new baby’s coos and smiles.
And so this poem cannot tell you of my 
Sweetest little cuddly girl, not with constrained meter,
For to bind her to the rules of poetry
Would be to trap a wild bird’s soul.

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Four thousand nine hundred and sixty-two days ago,
I woke up early in a small hotel room.
I grabbed my clothes bag and headed to church
Where you were the bride and I was the groom.

Give or take about seventy-two pounds ago

We shared our first meal as husband and wife.
While sometimes I complain about needing to lose them
Each pound speaks to the richness of life.

Five wonderful, wacky children ago

We sat just us two overlooking a lake
And talked about plans but who could imagine
The twists and turns our life would take?

Twenty-four hours is just not time enough

To do and to say what needs done and said
So please try to imagine I’m singing you love songs
Tonight when I keep you up with my snoring in bed.

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I’m not saying things have been easy per se
As they have certainly struggled with all the change
But it’s amazing how children, with their resilience,
Find this odd new world wondrous, not strange.

Not everyone adjusts well to the world outside changing

And there’s a great deal that these new masks disguise
But while I’m trying to find a new way of living
My children have learned to smile with their eyes.

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Habits are like footpaths, worn
Into the earth and more clearly seen
The more days they are tread.
How disappointing that my lawn
Lacks paths and is so very green
Where there should be habits instead.

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There is a certain sadness to the closing of a day
When all the kids are in their beds and toys are tucked away
The teacups with their tea stains and phone alarms ready
The tired dad begins his snoring, loud and steady

There is a certain peacefulness that sometimes leads to worry

When minds are left to wander thoughts can begin to flurry
Then peace is turned to anxious fears and sadness
And the racing thoughts can lead to tired madness

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Lord,
in this moment as I bear the brunt of this child’s emotions

Remind me of the blessing of the task you have given me, equipped me for, and
encouraged me in.

As my child chooses sitting in his own filth over a clean and new diaper
Help me have compassion—
Compassion as I remember how I often choose the dark things of this
world over your light, the dirty things over your new creation, the mud
pies in the gutter over a day at the beach, my own filthy rags over your
righteousness.

Remind me that potty training and changing diapers are sanctifying for my soul
because they remind me—
Of the many ways I still choose sin,
Of the daily renewal of your mercies,
Of the wretchedness of my unrighteousness,
Of the clean garments of your righteousness that make me presentable to
God.

May I see the fruit of your sanctifying love in my heart as I seek to love my
children through the toil and toiletry of the day.

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It still stings a bit in my soul
Though I know she is at rest
And with her beloved husband
At the feet of her savior
She sings among the choir of the blessed.

I remember soft and knowing eyes

Her neatly permed and shimmering white hair
The blind eye turned to snuck snacks
The never-ending feast of comfort, food
The corrections always firm but fair.

I remember the hushed moments of study

Large reading glasses and furrowed brow
More than words taught in ladies Sunday School
She taught as well in the day-to-day
Oh Death, where is thy sting now?

For the life she was given she poured out

In daily works and words that we might see,
Through her care and faithfulness, our Savior
And there find life—and that abundantly.

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The first son of the morning,
The first light of my day,
A burst of energy before my coffee,
And he has a lot to say.
 
A lot to say of wonder
And his latest Lego toy,
So much more than words express
In his pre-daylight joy.

For within the thin facade

Of witty boyish charm
There beats a loving heart
As tender as it's warm.

So wake me in the morning, son,

With all you need to say
And remind me in my bleariness
To have a passion for today.

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My daughter has a little box
She fills it up with little things
Thingamaboboos she calls them
Bits and bobs and shreds of strings.
 
The things that you might throw away
Or sweep into the garbage pile
She hides away in her little box.
These are the treasures of her smile.

With a twinkle in her sea blue eyes

She rescues the broken necklace beads
"They're still beautiful to me,"
She says, and I confusedly concede.

Oh that in the broken baubles

Instead of trash I would find a prize
For in the world of her thingy-box
She sees jars of clay through heaven's eyes.

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The labor in the Springtime sun,
Which breaks the earth
And trains the boughs and branches,
Which makes of messes and wanton things
A garden for our fellowship,
Is not contrary to the Sabbath rest.
Though done with weary limbs,
It does not wear the soul and
Though it brings the sweating brow
The work is restful.
For in re-creating and recreating,
The work becomes true worship.

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There is a feral little child who plays among the flowers—
Her face is smudged with dirt and sweat from countless hours.
Spent under the shining sun that bleaches her golden hair,
And if you catch her bright blue eyes there's a wildness there.

Within her chest loudly beats a heart both fierce and kind
Rapidly playing out rhythms from her wild and curious mind.
She has flown the confines of our man-made complication
To grow and dream among the lilies in the garden of creation.

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Arthur is a rumbling, tumbling,
Tough, and tender little guy—
If you hurt his feelings he 
Will hide away and cry.

But he greets you with his mischievous grin,

And his rough and tumble hugs
Are matched with his dirt-stained face
And a jar with a captured bug.

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It's been too weary a year to have a birthday.
I'm not old, but I'm getting older.
The flame that burned bright in youth is
Reducing slowly to a smolder.
The half-baked ideas of younger years,
Now tested by the proofing
And sullied by many parting tears,
Are broken for the fellowship 
And shared for their nourishment
In the hope the Spirit will equip
Us all as God has promised
That whatever years are left be blessed.

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“When I was a kid…” I started to say
And my wife just rolled her eyes,
“You were never a kid, Sweetheart,
You were always an old man in disguise.”

I started to argue, to disagree—

But here I am chasing my own dad,
While people ask if my kids are grands,
To have the most grey hairs on my head.

It’s true I’ve never really felt my age,

Or at least never really thought I fit in,
But I always figured the best folks were old
And they were way cooler than all my friends.

Imitation is the best way to flatter,

So I want all you old folks to know,
I try real hard to be ornery and wise
And I let all my white hairs show.

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I’m gonna drive the Mars Rover
Like my big brother with his RC cars
And I’m gonna fly in a rocketship
And I’m gonna play in the dirt on Mars

I’m gonna hike a tall mountain

And spend the night under the stars
I’m gonna explore distant places
And I’m gonna play in the dirt on Mars

I’m gonna build my own jetplane

I bet it’s gonna fly really far
And it’ll be faster than you’ve ever seen
And I’m gonna play in the dirt on Mars

It’s so exciting to see the world

He’s gonna find out in the backyard
Where he’ll imagine he’s an astronaut 
And he’s gonna play in the dirt on Mars

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Amidst all the trials and sleepless nights,
The chafed nipples and spit up stained clothes
Piling up for the spare moment that never comes
There is a certain added fear only a mother knows.

In every conversation I’ve had with mothers,

My own wife being no exception to the rule,
I hear the tragic pain of guilt and shame 
They bear for all the things they didn’t do. 

Mary was likely no exception, I think.

Young and struggling for energy to wake, 
She held the God-Man and I wonder the toll
That raising the perfect child would take. 

But there were those blissful moments

While he gazed lovingly and nursed–
When she stored up the hope and promise
That all mom guilt was overcome in his birth. 

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I love you Daddy
I love you Son
Now go to sleep 
The day is done
Tomorrow there’s more work to do
But I’ll be home when it’s all through
To say goodnight and I love you

I love you Son

I love you Daddy
Hold the wheel
Keep it steady
Check your mirrors, watch your speed,
Use your blinker if you need
Remember, even young men bleed

I love you Daddy

I love you Son
I met a girl
She’s the one
If you love her I’m sure she’s great
When do we all get to meet?
She’s great for you and really sweet

I love you Son

I love you Daddy
Let’s fix your tie
The pastor’s ready
I’m glad to have you here with me
There’s no place I would rather be
This is what we prayed for, see?

I love you Daddy

I love you Son
Look at that baby
The prettiest one
Dad, I don’t think I know what I’m doing
You’ll figure it out, just keep going
It isn’t just babies that keep growing

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I love you Son
I love you Daddy
How are you?
How are my grandbabies?
Well, you know things are pretty rough.
Just keep the faith that it’s enough
To just love your kids when things are tough.

I love you Daddy

I love you Son
Every single time
We hang up the phone
I understand as an adult how, as a boy,
I learned through their regular employ
Just how much fear those words destroy

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Always in his mind is the ticking of the clocks
Sometimes loud and sometimes covered by a song
But always in his heart he knows their sound
As they shout and sigh that time is not so very long

They tick their meter in the quiet hush of mornings

When he longs to stay another moment in her arms
They tock their rhythm as labors to pay the bills
When he struggles to remember days of youthful charms

Sometimes their arms slow down and wait a sec

That he might wrap his children in a warm embrace
Sometimes they seem to whirl and spin so fast
When he pauses to remember his lover’s face

But never do they ever stop and let him breathe

And every moment he has watched pass is truly gone
With each moment a new calculation must come
To plan out anew the time and everything to be done

The beating can lend it’s aid to a song or a poem

It tells him the rhythm of life, love, pain, and sorrow
It helps him make sense and to order the chaos
But it reminds him there is so little time till tomorrow

The clock marks the time he’s spent on his life

It turns his hairs white and squints his spectacled eyes
But when all is said and the done things are done
He simply looks at the clock and calmly sighs

For beyond the clocks that run in his mind

Beyond the task lists and chores of his life
He is only sorry that it might not be clear
That he’s done it all for the love of his wife. 

Is there time enough left?

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You talk like I was wonderful kid
But I know I hell to raise sometimes
It’s a lot of hard work to watch kids grow
Just to leave their home behind

I know I’ve said things I’d rather have back

And there are things I wish I hadn’t done
There are times when I didn’t see the fear or the pain
That comes with raising a son

I must have seemed half crazy sometimes 

Because I felt half crazy almost everyday
It’s taken years of thinking and writing to figure out
Just a little of what I’m trying to say

I’m sure there are times that you laid awake 

Wondering if things were gonna turn out right
‘Cause I’m watching my babies sleepin’ in their beds
Thinking the very same thing tonight

But you know they’re fine

And I’m gonna be okay
We never would have made it to where we are 
Without your love along the way
So if you wonder if it turned out to be enough
With all the things you’ve said and done
I’m proud to be the man I am today
And I’m happy to be your son

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I woke up in the darkness of our room
And had to reach out to find you there
So I got up and got a stiff drink 
And sipped it with a long and tired stare

This wasn’t the life we planned, I know,

When two young dreamers started out
And all the cracks in paint along the walls
Remind me of my optimistic doubt

The sidewalks are all cracked

And there are potholes in the streets
It ain’t no good playing around 
‘Cause we’ve always played for keeps. 

A glance while helping out a friend

Started the tale that’s brought us down
And taken us from all the world
And settled me and you in this town

I’m not sure what comes next I say

While you sleep in bed with fitul dreams
I can’t see the next step or where to go
Even if that’s how it sometimes seems

And the price of eggs has doubled 

While the paychecks stay the same
If we work hard every single day 
We’ll still have nothing to our name

I finish the glass and climb back in bed

And I stare at the shadowed walls
But I know the dreams aren’t coming
And I know that sleep won’t fall

But I’ll rise in the morning to shower

And I’ll drive to the office to work a while
Maybe when I get home we’ll have a dance
Or eat with the kids and share a smile

43
And the rains just that aren’t coming 
Mean the flowers cannot grow
But we’ll keep pressing on together
‘Cause pressing on is all we know

44
How To Become The Best Mom For Your Kids

Step 1: Have a baby before you are ready, not that anyone ever is
End up back in the NICU because you know something isn’t right
Go back to work when your leave is up, they should have given more
Come back home every night, cuddle your baby and hold her tight

Step 2: Have a baby and buy a house, lose your job a few weeks later
Enjoy the anxiety of recovering from a huge three year recession
Lose your sense of purpose and personhood and pride
Recognize you might struggle with postpartum depression

Step 3: Have a baby while your husband’s in grad school and never home
Hold your baby tight, co-sleep, maybe nurse a little longer
About this time realize your first child is struggling to cope
Almost die from gall-bladder complications, come out even stronger

Step 4: Have a baby then move away from your friends and church
New house, new town, new people, old memories–good and bad
Same old depression and anxiety you’ve had all the times before
But also a peace after this baby different from the other ones you’ve had

Step 5: Have a baby while just as worldwide pandemic starts

Come to terms with all the trauma from things in the past
Recognize it’s time to talk about things you’ve buried deep
Begin to heal and decide this baby is definitely the last

Step 6: Surprise! Have a baby conceived through two birth controls

Keep working to find purpose and personhood and peace
Dream of a place to write, reflect, and be out in nature more often
Give yourself space to grow and freedom to finally let go of the grief

Step 7: Remind your husband when his vasectomy appointment is. 

45
The darker, autumnal browns
Are turning to wintry white and grays
And it comes as a surprise
Because we can’t have had the days 
To make an entire year.

Surely only yesterday the sun

Burned brightly, hotly in the afternoon,
As we sweated out our reverie
And danced beneath the moon
Without a single tear.

The days of freshly sprung flowers

Were only last week, am I mistaken?
I remember well the gentle rain from
The freshly fallen dewdrops shaken
By the gentlest touch. 

How then the cold wind comes

And drives the bitter sleet and frost?
The white capped chin and graying temples 
Have come too soon, the time lost
Is not so very much.

No, the grays and white of winter 

Have come far too soon.

46
When I am gone you owe me nothing
But if you would have my wish
My deepest desire for all my kids
Is a simple but hard to follow list.

Be brave but know that sometimes it means walking away

Know that it’s hard to let things go because it seems like fear
Don’t be afraid to have conversations when things are gray
Say “I don’t know” when you don’t know and always be fair

If you have to get the last word make it an apology

Or better yet say “I love you” and give them a hug
Sometimes you’ll have to go to bed angry with them
But greet them first thing with love and a full coffee mug. 

When you yell at your kids, as all good parents do

Be quick to apologize and remind them that being human
Is part of the deal, even when you’re an adult
And no one ever got anywhere by guessing or assuming

If you know what you need, tell the people who love you
If you don’t then talk to a therapist until you do
If you ever feel like you or you stuff is too much
Remember that God loves you even more than I do

If I’m not there when you walk down the aisle just know
I prayed for you every day and your spouse as well
And I hope you have all the hardship and happiness
That helped me find heaven through this world’s hell. 

If I’m not there and your mother is I’m glad it was her
She really was the better half and you better be kind
She has loved and ached and tried and cried more tears
To keep you and me in her heart, sometimes at the cost of her mind.

When you put me in the ground remember that I’m not there
I’m already where I pray all of you follow behind me
But know that no matter what you believe or who you become
I give you all the love that I have and that love is completely free.

47
There is a certain sadness to the closing of a day
When all the kids are in their beds and toys are tucked away
The teacups with their tea stains and phone alarms ready
The tired dad begins his snoring, loud and steady

There is a certain peacefulness that sometimes leads to worry

When minds are left to wander thoughts can begin to flurry
Then peace is turned to anxious fears and sadness
And the racing thoughts can lead to tired madness

48
Seasons of Love

49
A single tear upon eyelashes
Caught as dew in a spider’s web
Just after realization dawns 
My words have drawn blood again

There is an odd artistry in the duel

The way emotion paints across your face
When I say a selfish word in fear,
Lashing out, pretending to defend

But then, just as the battle’s won,

I remember you aren’t the enemy
Too late but to hope that wounds
Cut by the tongue can heal in the end

50
The world is yet again ablaze and warring all around.
I have often wondered that we should find love at all,
And yet through a kind providence we each found 
One another and sought to make our lives, small
Though they are in the great and profound 
World around us, worthy of the call—
Together seeking a trumpet sound
That ends the labor of the Fall.

51
I have two pictures of my wife:
One from the day we married,
Beautiful in the classic way,
Full of youth, bright with life,
Kissing as we tarried
In the bright sun of our wedding day.

The other is of a woman young still,

But the lines in her brow speak
Of worry, work, and care.
Looking at the pictures, as I often will,
I cannot help but see our love as weak
when we were free of care.

52
Save only the Hand, the Anchor,
Salvation, and Sepulchre,
I'd give her the world
But my whole world is her.

53
We took a vow so long ago,
Long before we could have known
What it would mean these later days
To love, honor, cherish, and obey.

I’m glad for all the ways you’ve loved me

And your love has made me free 
To discover who I really, deeply am
And I hope my love has done the same.

Far from the favors of medieval jousts

I’ve found that honor in our house
Has much more to do with how we speak
When one or the other of us feels weak.

And cherishing each other has been 

Looking past the way things seem
To find the good behind all the pain
And nurse it back to health again.

But I’ve never understood obey, 

Not even after all these days,
So I want to say this here and now
I release you forever from this vow.

Nowhere does God tell me to command you

Nor is it my desire, nor do I intend to,
So let’s stick the the other vows we made
And chalk that vow up to plans best-laid.

54
I can still remember your awkward smile
A whirlwind of classes, glances, and grades
Eight hours on a date staring in your eyes
Reading the lines like scars on your heart

Dates to the bookstore, the library, the commons 

Debates about the things that really mattered 
Saying I love you before you were ready
So many moments forgotten and scattered

Buying great value because campbell’s was rich

Working all the time with no time to share
Oreos and a movie was like a steak dinner out
Not that out-on-the-town was ever our fare

Life happened fast while we were making plans

Kids on the way before we’d prepared
Not that you can really ever be ready
Babies having babies and trying not to look scared

Careers crashing in with depressing recession

I was never at home while the babies were crying
Missing first steps, first words, big conversations
Getting just enough sleep to keep from dying

You were the best “single mother” I knew

Wondered why you even bothered to stay
Hoping for a few minutes to tell you I love you
Hoping we could find a way out someday

Nearly lost the house before we moved

Nearly lost each other trying to get it sold
Finally found a place we thought would be safe
Looked in the mirror and started feeling old

Betrayed by the ones who promised peace

Lost in the anger and lost sight in the grief
Praying for some space to live and breathe
Praying for a place to rebuild our faith

55
Maybe peace is on the lonely horizon
Maybe peace is a firepit and a drink
Maybe peace is crashing into bed at night
Baby, now I lay me down sleep

Anxious fingers on an out of tune guitar

Hacking a dresser to burn for smores
Hitting snooze to kiss your shoulder again
It isn’t peace but I don’t need more

56
15 Lines for 15 Years

Things seemed so simple back when we began,

Though I know we thought them to be complex,
And young to wed makes hard to understand
The many fears our innocence protects.
I do believe that it has saved our care
‘Till we could grow to take the weight and strain
That comes when those who wed become aware
Of what it means to bear another’s pain.
For in not knowing, bonds are made so strong
That even truly known they cannot break,
Nor e’er upon the age of years be wrong,
For that built slow with stone cannot be weak.
          I know your soul as strong as granite is–
          For it has been the making of our bliss. 

And yet fifteen more years have passed,

(to be continued on our 30th…)

57
We took a vow so long ago,
Long before we could have known
What it would mean these later days
To love, honor, cherish, and obey.

I’m glad for all the ways you’ve loved me

And your love has made me free 
To discover who I really, deeply am
And I hope my love has done the same.

Far from the favors of medieval jousts

I’ve found that honor in our house
Has much more to do with how we speak
When one or the other of us feels weak.

And cherishing each other has been 

Looking past the way things seem
To find the good behind all the pain
And nurse it back to health again.

But I’ve never understood obey 

Not even after all these days
So I want to say this here and now
I release you forever from this vow.

Nowhere does God tell me to command you

Nor is it my desire, nor do I intend to,
So let’s stick the the other vows we made
And chalk that vow up to plans best-laid.

58
Tonight I was really frustrated with you
You were insensitive and easily annoyed
And you took a night and made it a pain
When it could have been rather enjoyed

And that’s how I know that we’ll always be

Because all I hope is a better tomorrow.
I’ll wake up excited to learn your feelings
Even if it’s bleary-eyed and touched with sorrow.

I think, really, that’s the secret to marriage:

To be so committed to figuring your mood
That even the worst days are nothing more
Then a moment to learn to do you good.

Someone told me not to use “stubborn”

They felt “constant” was a better word
But stubborn has kept me coming back each day
Determined to make my “I love you” heard. 

I would walk five hundred miles

I’d go hungry, I’d go black and blue 
But the words just came out wrong, you see?
So I hope you know I love you. 

59
Questions on the boardwalk, vows in the church
Questions in the heart, words that hurt
Questions in the night, fires that burn
Questions about life and babies born
When this crazy world threatens to tear our souls
I promise you I won’t let go

Questions in night, how to make it through

Questions in the heart, fears that come true
Questioning yourself, it’s just what you do
Questions on the mind, I always wanted you
When this crazy world threatens to tear our souls
I promise you I won’t let go

Questioning yourself, what’s so wrong

Questioning your sanity, singing happy songs
Questions from the kids, why’s he always gone
Questions for me, can we hold out long
When this crazy world threatens to tear our souls
I promise you I won’t let go

Questioning from the kids, pain in their eyes

Questioning God, Lord hear our cries
Questioning our faith, what to do with the lies
Question in the heart, looking to the skies
When this crazy world threatens to tear our souls
I promise you I won’t let go

60
I know that the world has not been kind
Nor have I as often as I should
I know that people will choose to misunderstand
And I haven’t been selfless when I could

It’s hard to be broken and trust my love

Because obviously I’m broken as well
And I know that sometimes I could give grace 
But instead I just give you hell

I know that I take things you say personally

But I expect you to take a constructive comment
And deep down we weight our souls by
Treating our words like shoes of cement

And in all the emotions that pour out we drown

As we sink with the heavy weight and pain
But I do love you, and you love me
And we’ll find the Gospel again

And maybe I could lose a few pounds

And maybe you could lose a little anxiety
But we won’t grow closer together with 
Faked indifference and feigned piety

So be harsh sometimes, I will be too

But I’ll still hold you at night
Because the grace of God in marriage 
Makes it more important to be honest than right

61
Seasons of Faith

62
The Lion told Shasta on the mountain path
“I tell no one a story but their own.”
And, as a boy of nine or ten,
I think the seed was truly sown
That when I got to God in prayer
To accuse the ones who anger me
It is, instead, my own sins
From which he promised to set me free.

But still find my prayers are full

Of questions asking God, “But why?”
As if a thousand, thousand times
He hasn’t healed the tears I cry.
And so I often forget the truth,
For the scourge of sin runs deep within
That prayer to fix others often end
The a focus on the plank of my own sin.

63
For most of my life I’ve imagined the warrior
Like David, clearing enemies from the field.
The command of God in the Garden I heard
As forcing the ground the bend and to yield.
And there is some truth to the call of the warrior
To fight back the darkness of thistle and thorn,
But it isn’t the warriors who bring order from chaos
Who plant the seeds and see the fruits borne.

So then what of the gardener, kneeling and caring

For the plants and the bearing of fruit in its season,
With gentleness feeding the bushes and trees
In quiet reflection and calm, humble reason.

So have I misunderstood what is the calling

That God gave to Adam within the Garden’s borders?
Is it wrong to think that God called on warriors
To drive back the chaos and bring earth into order?
Was Joshua not right to be brave and courageous?
Is the church not assaulting the very gates of Hell?
Then how can God ask also Adam to show
The simple peace of a Gardener as well?

And this is where Christ has cleared up the picture,

As comforted adulterers and the tables in the Temple,
And while the calling is very hard to live out,
The calling is also quite simple:
Love only the things that God loves,
Follow only His command,
Be strong as a lion, gentle as a lamb,
That your days may be long in the land.
And when the days are tough and long,
And your strength lends you only the power to weep,
Cry out to God in the truth of your weakness,
For He does not slumber nor sleep.

64
On that final blessed judgement day
All the weight of judgment is burned away
Piled up like a funeral pyre
And razed by God’s righteous fire
Not to bring his children grief
But rather the sweet relief
That we are washed of worldly perceptions
And all the Accuser’s creative deceptions
And whatever reward may be
Is joy to be eternally free

65
I cried in the night as the hatred burned bright
In heart of the Ruler of Men
And I heard in the quiet the words of the Savior
Repeated again and again.

Let not your heart be troubled

My peace I leave with you
The one you fear has no power here
For I’m making all things new

But still I cried as new day broke outside

For I shuddered to face all the fears
Of the weary and worn, the completely forlorn,
The hearts burdened down by the years.

Let not your heart be troubled

Believe in God and also in Me
I go to prepare a place for you that where
I am you also will be

So I dried my eyes and looked to the skies

And said a quick prayer for peace
But deep in my soul is a pain that won’t go
Like a battle that never will cease

Let not your heart be troubled

The world cannot give what I give
Do not be afraid! The plans I have laid
Bring fruit from the battle to live

66
Where were you when crusaders slaughtered and raped?
My kingdom is not of this world
Where were you when the black plague came?
My kingdom is not of this world
Where were you when religious wars waged?
My kingdom is not of this world
Where were you when the slavers tortured?
My kingdom is not of this world
Where were you when the boys died in Flanders?
My kingdom is not of this world
Where were you when the holocaust reigned?
My kingdom is not of this world
Where were you when the babies were killed?
My kingdom is not of this world
Where were you when the pandemic struck?
My kingdom is not of this world
Where were you when the votes were cast?
My kingdom is not of this world

I had answered your questions before you asked,

Now prepare yourself and let me ask my own:
Where were you when I laid the foundations of the world?
Who marked it’s dimensions, surely you know?
Have you given orders to bring forth the dawn?
Will the one who contends with the Almighty correct him?
Let him who accuses God answer him?
Where were you when the sins of the world were laid 
On my only, perfect son?
When the perfect and blessed or all nations was beaten 
And slain for daring to love them so well?

I’ve spoken of what I do not know.  

I held the whip that beat him 
It was my sin that held him there
My hands that hammered in the nails
And yet, having seen the empty tomb
I have doubted your love or care.

67
Lord, I still hear creation groan
I know you know what time is best
Yet, still you sit upon your throne
While we suffer, without a home
Waiting for the promised rest
Once you came to walk below
And crush the serpent beneath your feet
But we lose heart in what we know
We long to hear the trumpet blow
And sound death's last defeat.
For all creation holds its breath
Yet send your spirit now to bind us
We fear you, Lord, but we fear death,
Please Spirit hold us in our faith
Come quickly, dear Lord Jesus
Amen

68
"I don't see why it's such a big deal
That this post is a little crooked, my friend."
"Allow me to walk with you to the end of the fence,
And we can have this talk again."

69
I understand why newborns cry,
Why men fear their growing age,
Why children mourn a rainy afternoon,
But why do the nations rage?

I feel the sparkle in a child's first smile,

I chuckle at the comedian on the stage,
My wife's jokes bring a hearty laugh,
But why do the nations rage?

I've quaked before the mighty storm,

I've played the student and the sage,
I've felt the pain of loved ones lost,
But why do the nations rage?

I have taken solace in the Rock,

I have sought refuge in the Son.
Why do the nations rage, oh Lord?
They are deaf to the laughs of the Mighty One.

70
To everything there is a time:
A time to gather and a time to quarantine,
A time to sleep and a time for sitting up all night,
A time to be heard and a time to be seen,
There are moments of quiet contemplation,
Moments of loud shouts and songs of war,
Moments of peaceful prayer in the garden,
Reminders of how we were before.
There are days of weeping for the loss,
Days of rejoicing for the Lord is near,
Days for mourning the Fall's cost,
And dancing for the Feast of the Lamb is here.

I know there is no good in man

Though the world is in his heart.
I know his eyes have seen God's works,
Yet he wanders in the dark.
Still there is a time for everything,
And in dark hours we weep to know
If the seed we plant so prayerfully
Will be watered by the Spirit and grow.

71
We see now through a glass darkly
The reflection of your love, your incarnation
Made manifest in the visible church 
That we might find local representation
Of your hands and feet.
This week we would gather again
To reflect on your death, and our union
With you in your eternal resurrection,
As we join together in communion
And remember death’s defeat.

But Lord, the fallenness of this world, 

The curse of sin, is wringing out our fears.
As we cannot be together in body
We see through longing, loving tears 
Only the reflection of the reflection.
But in our silent, sacred prayers 
We join the cloud of witness around
And rejoice with all the saints invisible
Who with us wait the trumpet sound
That brings the final resurrection. 

72
Is a daisy any less beautiful because it excels in a warmer clime?
Or cannot survive the mountain heights where edelweiss is found?
Do we blame rosemary because it doesn’t taste or smell like thyme?
Are we mad that ivy climbs while ginseng stays safely on the ground?

Do we expect that rainbow trout can fly or run to prove their worth?
Or do we test the majestic eagles to see how deeply they can swim?
Long before man made machines, God created heaven and earth.
Not as a biological machine–he fashioned humankind like Him.

So why do we schedule sleep like it's just recharging a battery?

Or teach our kids in school like we’re programming some software?
How did “highly productive” become our highest form of flattery?
We’ve forgotten things have value just because God put them there. 

He placed us in a garden and said “go make the world like this.”
A place of order from the chaos but also a place of gentle nurture.
We have misunderstood dominion as the power to control things
Rather than to create and care for as was created in our nature.

73
The garden has a smallish gate, a little short
For adults but kids seem to walk through okay.
It isn’t terribly hard to find but people think
“That can’t be it.” So they walk by it every day. 

So they miss the garden and keep going and

A little further down there’s a much larger gate 
With a sign that says “You know what you have to do”
And adults like it because they can stand up straight.

Some think it means tolerance, others legalism,

But all are very proud of whatever thing they pick.
Some point out the good they did for the world 
Others are proud they acted like a…jerk.

But the gate doesn’t lead to the peaceful garden.

No, it leads to the assembly rooms and forum halls
Where grown-ups talk about important things 
So loudly that they drown out creation calls. 

You see, the little gate isn’t much to look at 

But every childlike heart can immediately see
It just takes a bowing head to get through the gate
And then once you’re through you’re free.

74
At the end of seven years you must cancel debts
Every creditor must cancel what he’s lent to his neighbor
Whatever you’ve lent, and whatever you’ve received,
You must not ask for what’s owed by your brother

God will bless you the generosity of your heart

There will be no poor among you because you lend
But you must lend freely to the poor among you
Even if the seven years is almost at an end

But the poor and needy you will always have with you
Unless you lend to them enough for every need
If you do not they will cry to God who will find you guilty
And won’t bless your stingy heart or godless greed

75
I read the news this morning and there’s blood on every page
I watched the governor play the comforter on his bulletproofed stage
While the twitter warriors retweet the latest wisdom of the age
And send thoughts and prayers to a god they don’t believe in 

And the weeping of the mothers thunders like the rain

While fathers bow their head but nothing stops the pain
As the senators stand like statues and do nothing yet again
But send thoughts and prayers to a god they don’t believe in

And we yell about the children killed in their mother’s womb

And we cry about the children too early in their tomb
But we play the party politics that brought about their doom
While we send thoughts and prayers to a god we don’t believe in

76
She came to the garden where he was laid
A found no stone to cover the tomb.
Imagine the blood pounding in her ears 
As she ran to tell Simon Peter the news.

“They have taken the Lord’s body but

I don’t know where.” Words breathless steady.
Off go Peter and John to inspect
But what will they find that she hasn’t already?

She catches up to them as they come out

“They’ve left us nothing but a burial rag.”
They walk back but Mary stays there
Weeping outside the tomb, shoulders sag.

She looks in to find two men in white

“Woman, why are you crying?”
“They have take my Lord away.

77
Beware of rooms that lock from the inside.
For within them hide the fear filled disciples
Who, having walked the country with Jesus,
Having seen the wonders and signs,
Having stumbled over the parables and their meaning,
Having wondered at the raising of Lazarus,
Having heard the witness of faithful women,
Having seen the stone rolled away,
Still cowered as men fearing men.

Rejoice in the rooms that lock from the outside.

For within them are the fearful disciples
Who, being filled with the Holy Spirit,
Being renewed in mind through Gospel,
Being approved workmen by study,
Being called Christians by their love,
Being at peace with all for their part,
Being kind and compassionate towards all,
Have torn apart jails with nothing but God’s Word. 

78
I looked at the faces in the crowd
As Peter denied he knew our Lord
But I did not find any hope in their jeers
I did not find hope in my brother’s lie

I did not find hope in the upper room

Where his closest followers gathered
And shut out the world while they fretted
About persecution that might come

I did not find hope in the burial rags

Left in the empty tomb that morning
Nor in the despondent looks of the two
Who raced me back but left dejected

But as I turned away weeping I did

I found hope in the lowly gardener
Unnoticed because it looked at home
In the garden where he found me

The lowly Gardener who brought life

From the death, from the burial tomb
Who brought hope from the despair
For a bloom unfit for another’s garden

But fit to bloom in your kingdom

Apostle to the apostles
Repentant sinner and joyous saint
Mother of Easter and first to true joy

79
The Lord will put the nations on trial
For his people they have scattered
They have caste their lots against the Lord
And their families they have shattered

They have sold his sons for sexual sin;

For a little more wine, his daughters. 
"Prepare for war!" Declares the Lord.
Gather now all you warriors. 

We will beat our ploughs into swords

And our pruning shears into battle spears
And the weak will say I am strong
As the Lord roars forth from Jerusalem

And the innocent will be avenged

And the sun and moon will cease to shine
He will stand and judge the nations
And press them out like new wine

But the Lord who trains my hands for war

Gave us a world to be gardened
But in our pride the serpent deceived us
In our pride our hearts were hardened

We will beat our ploughs into swords

And our pruning shears into battle spears
And he will judge them right from wrong
As the Lord roars forth from Jerusalem

But the Lord our God is patient

And full of loving kindness
By his own son's blood he has paid his price
For those who put their trust in him

Lord our hands are full of silver and gold

But we hide in the rocks from your splendor
In our pride we have worshipped idols
And loved our works and treasure

80
But we will beat our sword into ploughs
And our battle spears into pruning shears
And no more will we train for war
As we take our place in the garden

The things our pride has built to stand

We will watch them fall and crumble
The Lord will despise our haughty eyes
But he gives his grace to the humble

"Stop trusting in mere men," he says,

For there is one who is greater
He has called us as workers in the harvest
He is our Lord and savior

And we will beat our sword into ploughs

And our battle spears into pruning shears
And our battle cries into wedding songs
And he will dry our every tear

Be at peace you sons of Adam

Rejoice and dance you daughters of Eve
At the end of the war is a wedding
And the bridegroom waits in the garden of peace

81
Lord, let me obey.
Though they ask for a mile
Let me go two 
And talk of your Word all the while.

Lord, let me obey.

When they strike my cheek
Let me turn the other
And Lord, please keep me meek.

Lord, let me obey.

When they take even my shirt
Let me give also my coat
And give only love in return for the hurt.

Lord, let me obey.

Let me not worry about clothes or food
But quietly give to the poor
For I know our Father is loving and good.

Lord, let me obey.

Convict me of my own sins first
Before I see another’s sin
And try to treat their sin as worse. 

Lord, let me obey.

Let me continue to knock on the door
Knowing whatever good I ask
You want and know my good all the more.

Lord, let me obey.

Let me know your teachers by fruit they bear
Instead of the security of their words
Which echo the things I want to hear.

Lord, let me obey.

Let me love my enemies as you love
And when they curse and persecute
Let me set my mind on things above.

Lord, let me obey.

82
Seasons of Place

83
Whatever happened to checking the facts?
Have we read so many opinions we no longer know how?
Or is it simply more work than we want to do
Because it’s easier to listen to the echoes we have now?

How hard is it really to mix it with brains?

Is finding the truth simply not worth all the time?
Is it better to be blissfully, expertly ignorant
Then actually try to mix things with reason or rhyme?

Does it satisfy anyone to be confident in opinion

When they’ve never subjected it to cross-examination?
Maybe our inability to wonder if we’re wrong
Is the real crisis of wisdom that’s facing the nation.

84
An angry American mob stormed the capitol
That’s something that’s never been done before
I guess they forgot the old metonymic adage
The pen is mightier than the sword

Millions of dollars of business were lost

With very little progress to show as reward
And the riots are used to excuse the abuse 
With the pen that’s mightier than the sword

I hear cries of “fake news” and media bias

Shoddy journalism and social media wars
While people are making up facts on both sides
For the pen is mightier than the sword

People unable to censor themselves 

Ask for censorship of their enemy’s word
We all know there’s great power in speaking
Because the pen is mightier than the sword

But when the people don’t know how to read 

At least not for themselves with critical eyes
The pen doesn’t stop being mightier than the sword
The pen simply tells mightier lies

So if you are trying to prepare your children

To be a calm voice in the war that we’re in
Please equip them with reading and writing and logic
And remind them that Truth is mightier than the pen

85
“What if going to church meant getting shot?”
“Well, of course I’d go, how could I not?
Hasn’t God commanded us clearly
Not to forsake His bride He loves dearly
And the assembly of believers must
Sacrifice their bodies to show they trust
In the one who saves them body and soul
And set eternal security as their goal.”
“Sorry, I misspoke, I meant getting the shot.”
“The vaccine? In that case obviously not.”

86
I went to the rock but the rock gave no answer
I went to the tree and it silently swayed
I went to the stream and it babbled, not helping,
I went to the field and asked each grassy blade

I climbed up the mountain and asked of the clouds

I dove in the ocean and pleaded with sands
I walked in my hometown and far distant places
I wandered and traveled across many lands

I sang to the birds in their homes in the trees

I lowed to the cattle who silently stood
I danced with the deer across the wide meadow
I hunted with wolves through all the wide wood

Then at last I came home and sat on my couch

And my children came ‘round and sat on my lap
And my wife came in too and we talked of the day
And at last I laid down for a nice, restful nap

As I lay there dreaming, at last I was answered

No more the question that first set my soul to roam
Wherever I’m found in the love of my family,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home

87
Enter now the hallowed halls,
Marbled, and see the portraits, hung
Among the columns there,
Of great leaders who have promised
That which could not be delivered:
Peace and freedom to all who see
Stars on a blue field, stripes of white and red.
The inauguration may bring hope,
But the hope of all nations is fleeting.

Trust instead the stripes of red

That wash us whiter than snow,
That have inaugurated a new and living way,
Not hidden behind the veil but through
A curtain torn, the risen Lord not
Elected, but rather we elected by him
To eternal peace and freedom, the true
Hope of our calling, the anchor,
Spurring on to love and good works.

88
Give me the fairy land of common sense,
The entirely reasonable castles in the skies,
A world where elves weave their dance
And the music of the spheres still cries.

I long to see the world where fears are met

With the shield of faithful principles defying
The fiery darts of common practicality
With it’s compromise and factual lying.

So do not sell me on the world of facts

And of principles pragmatically abandoned.
I have chosen a world where horns rend walls,
Where tombs are emptied,
Where seas are parted,
A world that we see the divine hand in.

89
Is the gallant knight still searching
In the sunny dale and deepest valley’s shadow?
Or has he found the tarnished town
We claim is El Dorado.

The golden buildings to the sky,

The streets paved with jade and amber,
The endless feasts without relief
And the revelry’s daily clamor.

But just behind the thin facade

The ugly truth is known by those who dwell
Within the golden city, what a pity
It’s to be swallowed up by hell.

90
On the flat, rich, brown earth in West Tennessee
At an old little house on a rundown little street
There’s a yard full of toys and childhood noise
And it’s there you can hear my heartbeat

Sometimes it’s hidden by a vacuum that’s running

Sometimes by giggles and children at play
Sometimes by groans and correctional tones
Because kids don’t want to do school today

I’ve a nice grey couch with a stain on one cushion

From a little boy eating peanut butter for lunch
And sure, the kitchen floor really needs replacing
And you might say the house doesn’t look like much

But every brick and board and repair worthy pipe

That I need to fix when I’ve set up the money
Doesn’t detract from the feeling of home that I feel
In my own land of milk and honey

I know I’d be happy in a tent in the woods

If I had my wife there and my children as well
But I’m thankful instead for a project house
And the stories one day my children will tell

And though I long for the ocean and wide open spaces
I find that my heart would much rather stay
In an old little house on a rundown little street
Where, if you listen, you can hear my heartbeat
Over the chatter of children at play

91
The sun is already setting on the American experiment 
Not because things have changed 
But rather because they haven’t
I’m no cynic, the future is not lost
Rather I accept the end of all our sorrows 
Beyond the lies of political parties 
And the weight of self-determined 

92
Is it to the detriment my beloved children
That they will grow up in concrete jungles?
Man-made gardens that seek to hide 
The natural order of earthly things?

It is not the command given in the garden

That leads to sky-scrapers and pavement,
Nor is it the curse that nature ever works
To overthrow our binding chains.

The trees crack our asphalt bands,

The pigeons share their opinion of our statues,
The rains work slowly against our labors,
But the soil responds to the Gardener’s touch.

For when joy and peace have come

It is the trees that will clap their hands
And the mountains that will be singing—
When all things are made new again. 

Shall we seek the eternal places together

In the patches of grass and the breeze,
The birdsong in the air and the rainfall?
Let us groan for renewal and recreation.

93
Long they lived along the Mosel river
Building barges for the family wine.
Beautiful museum pieces built to carry
Casks of the family’s finest vintage
Over the river’s gentle current in the
Land of my ancestors.
Seven generations lived amidst
The bayous off of Pascagoula Bay.
Many dinners were caught in those waters
And shot from those skies
In the breeze of the Gulf waters.
Waters I can still see through my father’s eyes.
My great-grandfather crafted wooden boats
Not unlike the vessels of our old homeland.
My grandfather built great naval vessels that
Have defended the freedoms of our new heritage.
My father hauled cables in the hot summers
On those same great ships that still hold their sweat.
In looks I am like the men of my family,
And in my heart I will always love the sea,
But my path has taken me away from the waters
Where so much of my heritage was born.
My life has been mostly lived on the shore,
With this great land firm beneath my feet.
Yet I have stood on the banks of Krebs Lake
And seen our house overlooking the waters.
I have hunted the grounds and fished the waters
Where my fathers grew from boys to men.
I hear the stories of my family and tell them.
I tell my children of water and blood that run deep.

94
So many people dream of travelling,
But I dream of standing still.  
I dream of a place, the trees and the hills, 
Where the ground I walk knows my footprint.  
I long for the birds to come back each year 
And sing me a song of their travels, 
Knowing they will find my listening ear
Prepared for their concert.  
I wish to be a father to trees. 
I hope for a place so known to me, 
And me to that sacred place,
That when I die it will hold my body as a gentle friend
And return it to me when, in the last days, we are at peace again,
And can work together as the Creator intended.

95
I weep for creation on a somber day
When, as think about it groaning in labor pains,
More than words and rhyme fill my mind
As I stare out my window at the wind and rain.

Blood and water, cries and gasping tears,

My most precious love, her hair damp and wild,
Straining to bring forth God-knitted life, 
The long carried, long awaited, newest child. 

For a moment tomorrow there will be a silence,

As every labor pain will quiet and stillness fall,
As co-laborers will hold their stillest vigil
And I will gaze upon the closest thing to heaven’s call.

96
Have you ever stared at a field and counted the blades of grass
And consider the Creator who has painted every single one?
I think sometimes our scientific minds assume they get their color
By chemical process, but that’s not how God gets things done.

When we see the greens, yellows, browns, and other hues,

Sometimes we calculate that the Creator just got things growing—
We forget the He is Sustainer to the whole wide world as well
And every living thing we see shows His paintbrush is still going.

97
Trying to find a place in this weary world–
Where do you go when nowhere is home?
How do you teach your children peace
When wars drive your feet to the road?

Is there some place away from memories

Where the quiet fills each ray of light
And we can lay by the fires of nowhere
While we wonder at the stars of night?

Can we belong to the land or the river

Or to the forest or mountain’s high peak?
Can we learn to hear birdsong as worship
And hear the waves give verse on the beach?

What will we do when our children have grown?

Will they remember they can always be found
If they look beyond wars, nations, and fears
And tie their souls to the Cross and the ground?

98
The rainclouds come with lightning strikes
And thunder claps that shake my bones.
Where the downpour pools and runs
Along the guttered streets of concrete stone
The trash, beer cans and cigarillo pouches,
Is carried along as though by a purifying 
Baptism—with the signs of sin removed—but
Leaving behind a deeper and more terrifying 
Truth. The wounds are deeper than this rain
Can mend alone—the grime and crime
Of these rainy streets grows much to deep 
In pain, poverty, treachery, and time.
But the rain carries all it can and nurtures
The street, the heart, the roses in the flowerbed
Standing in bright colors against the dreary day,
And I will choose to see the growth instead. 

99
Seasons of Miscellany

100
Deep in the mists of the marshy moor
A rivulet runs raggedly around
A broken birch with bedraggled branches
And the near silent hush and shushing sound
Are cracked by the caw of a crow crying.
Surprised and startled I stare at the skies,
The mists messing with my muddled mind,
The drizzling damp my depression decrying
As the fleeting fantasy of firelight flies.

Once there was wonder in the whirling wind,

Peace in the peat moss of passive pasture.
The deer darted daintily down the dales
And none neglected the nurture of nature.
But bring the bubbling, boiling building
Of stainless steel  and sturdy store?
You yield the ewe-less yard for yeomen
And mire my memories of the moor.

101
Sixty four squares of black and white
Two bishops each, the same for knight
Two rooks to castle and protect the king
Eight pawns and a powerful queen

Nearly infinite games and combinations

Books upon books of algebraic notations
Candidate moves and playing coffeehouse
Chess clock ticking and endgame fortress

Good bishops, bad bishops, j’adoube

Playing by hand or over the board
Shots, skewers, traps, and trades
Family forks and Fischer delays

This complex game of moving pieces,

The gold standard of strategy for every fight,
Is still simpler than dealing with daily life—
Everything is still labeled black and white.

102
She sat in my office crying and scared
Her whole life plan gone when she found
A little plus sign on a pregnancy test
She took when her boyfriend wasn’t around

“I know that I shouldn’t have been having sex

I really love Jesus and I know it was wrong
I’ve prayed and I’ve asked for forgiveness
Like I should have done all along

“I don’t think the guy who’s the father

Really wants to be involved in the mess
And when he asked me to get an abortion
I told him it’d be better if he left

“So I know that I shouldn’t be happy

And even though I’m really stressing
I guess what I really wanted to ask is
Am I allowed to see this child as a blessing?”

“Yes it is, and you can be happy as well.”

103
I can’t remember who I first heard say it
But I’m reminded whenever my feelings sink
“Sometimes you can change someone’s mind, but mostly 
People will think what they want to think.”

Sometimes people are open to change,

Sometimes they take a new idea in a blink,
But mostly they're stubborn about being right
And people will think what they want to think.

The world can be burning, the ship can be sinking,

All they hold dear could stand on the brink,
God himself could call down from heaven…
And some people will still think what they want to think.

104
I drove past its empty halls and barren fields,
The memories of my childhood days
Flashing through my weary mind, the joys
Of blissful dreams clearing grown-up haze.

There was a time when those hallowed walls

Were covered with all kinds of toys.
The fields stretched out with cars of
Parents bringing little girls and boys.

I too was once among their glad number.

A quest before a birthday or with allowance
Money to find the perfect gift or reward—
Stopped and stunned by the toy store trance.

But now the barren fields and faded signs

Tell of changing values and one-click buys, 
No longer is the clerk a sage
Nor the quest itself a surprise. 

My children will not know this joy

But in my childlike heart I recall the glory—
Walls and displays in every direction
Of toys like a mystic fairytale story.

105
All around me are people wearing masks
They fear the passerby, the stranger,
The one who stands too close in line,
That the barrier be broken, exposing them to danger.

The masks they wear are thinly covering

The global pandemic, the anxious expression,
Behind the mask lies the true self, fearful
And tearful, but outside one gives a good impression.

Masks are nothing new to this modern world.

We wear our Tweets and Instagram pics,
Our Facebook stati, the blog and the podcast,
Are all there to mask the brokenness we cannot fix.

106
“I think I’m just tired,” I said to myself
As I waved out the last client I had that day.
And I realize I knew I was lying to me,
But I didn’t know what else the feeling could be,
Because all things considered it really had been
A fairly normal day.

So I started to jot down a few notes to myself,

As I tend to do when I’m about to head out—
Divorce, drugs, rape, suicidal ideation,
Found out about an affair on a family vacation—
Just the normal things I hear all the time
That people tell me about. 

Then I heard an interviews from a couple of guys

About the over-medicalization of mental illness
And how all these things are normal and common
Because we live in a world that is fallen
And I started to cry as I heard them say these
Things aren’t threatening to kill us. 

I don’t know if they meant it some other way

Or maybe they’re just so used to the pain
And the suffering wrought by sin and death
That even when their fellows can’t take a breath
And it goes far beyond a person’s own sin
They don’t see the whole thing as strange.

107
Some days I find joy in the simplest of things
And some days I stare at the page
Some days I’m easily inspired by life
And some days I stare at the page

Some days it’s easy to look at the world 

And set aside sadness, fear, or rage
Some days I don’t mind that there’s so much evil
And some days I stare at the page

And some days the page is the bandage

That holds the blood of my pen
And after I bled out the sadness and fear
I can find and feel joy and peace again

108
A little green and some blue and gray
A brush filled with water to push and play
To paint the sea and salty air
I imagine dampens my graying hair
On the bow of the ship I’ve painted brown
With tall white sails from masts looking down

On my cheeks the salt water stings

While wind billows the sails and sings
Of places far from the tired piers
That have given birth to my salty tears
So I paint my pains in gray and green
I paint my tears so they aren’t seen

109
Oligarchs grin and generals grimace
When the boys go off to war

Poets write rousing ballads

And flags are waved to rising anthems
When the boys go off to war

Old men speak of days gone by

Mothers weep with not knowing
And lovers cling together in the dark
When the boys go off to war

Promises of valor are made 

And some are ever paid out
While politicians bandy words
Far the the mud and bloody sod
When the boys go off to war

Then the pocket books run dry

And the politicking runs cold
And the powerful men’s courage fails
Where smaller men have died
To prove worthwhile their fancies
 So they can come home again

Shelled out houses for shell-shocked men

Empty vessels for empty vessels
The wartorn province of person and place
Boys no longer, but neither men
Nations may fall in war, but souls are torn free
When the boys go off to war
And the boys who left never come home

110
The yellow dawn of streetlights was the only light 
Scattered across my covers through drawn curtains
As my alarm went off this morning in the cold
Darkness of my room where I slept warmly.

Too early, I thought, and too tired to go to work.

I cuddled up to my wife and kissed her forehead.
Pray for Ukraine, I thought and I whispered
To the only one who hears over the din of war. 

Get up, I heard, get up and tend your garden. 

You cannot wield the sword for your brothers
You cannot hold the shield for your sisters
But you can push the plow and plant peace today.

It was raining outside, cold and dark and muddy.

I got up and took a warm shower in the dim light.
Lord give them warmth. Lord give them courage.
I dressed and hugged my children and left for work.

The anxiety of tests and classes seems trivial

Compared to children who will be made orphans today.
I will care for the widows and orphans, feed my sheep.
So I tend my garden and watch and wait and pray. 

Swords to plowshares, lion with lamb,

Warriors to gardeners, peace in the land,
Life from death, love from hate,
Come quickly Lord Jesus, we work as we wait. 

111
How do we understand the things that hurt?
The words that sting, long after their ring
Has left the air, still reverberate and find 
Their way into our memory and sing.

The songs of memories and words spoken

Untimely or perhaps untruthfully, yet ruefully
Used to manipulate or steal our joy and hope,
Train our hearts to pain and tears cried dutifully. 

Lies can be overcome more easily than truth

Spoken with malice, like a poisoned chalice 
Bearing soothing wine, that we willingly take it in 
Because we have been taught it’s good for us. 

God is just in His righteous anger towards sin

But He is not cruel.  There is no complex duel
Between truth and love for they share a source—
Sarcasm and mockery are the accuser’s tool. 

And what of his servants? The seated scorners,

The mockers of emotion who set in motion
The denial of all the pain when they could be a balm
By giving gracious speech from their station.

112
Seasons of Prose

113
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