Isaiah 53.

Who will come to hear the story

one that God has painted true?

With no part about Him special

why should we keep Him in view?

Some before us did mistreat Him,

jeered and scorned the One who saves;

He became a man of sorrows,

Every grief in life He braved.

Though we failed to love His presence,

yet He bears our burdens whole.

We saw death, and thought, “He earned it,”

didn’t see He saved our souls.

He took the beating meant for us –

because of sin, the Son was killed.

He laid His life down for our peace,

and by His wounds, we are healed.

So all of us, who’ve turned away,

had our wrongs and burdens laid

silently, upon His shoulders,

He, our Lamb, atonement made.

He was treated by His people

like a robber or a thief.

He did no wrong during His years

yet the Lord put him to grief.

Now we see what our transgressions

bear as fruit: the death of Him.

We’ve become now seen as righteous,

He intercedes for us, praise Him!

 

Falling Branches.

 

A branch fell down today, carried off by

the wind?

Or was it the weight of life

bearing downwards a moment too long,

breaking its ability to hold on?

It fell slowly but loudly whispered,

demanding my attention, and so I paid.

The leaves fluttered, excited

to meet the ground.

The grass! Their unknown, distant cousins embraced

some of them, yet some of them

were still born aloft by the natural way of

the branches.

They had to wait their turn.  Warmth found them all

as the sun shadowed them with light;

they wait until night to begin life anew.

The thoughts of the natural world are –

or aren’t they?

Perhaps I’ve been staring outside for too long.

Highway to Hip.

Ethiopian beans are ground,

so filled with vibrant life.

A lovely smell my nose has found –

awake the after-life.

The brown remains are soon poured out

into the chamber’s heart

as boiling water is whored out

to heat the inner part.

The tamped-down grounds are introduced

to scalding, steaming rain;

I lick my lips as it’s reduced

to heal the waking pain.

The shot is pulled, and life is formed

within a humble cup.

I take a sip, my soul is warmed –

espresso’s just enough.

A Friend of the Mist.

He walked through the haze of memorial pain,

seeing the scars, the wounds.

He thought of each glimpse of once-certain gain,

knowing his soul it’d consume.

Onwards, he marched, until silence reigned –

solemn, severe, surrender.

He laid down his arms before stifled pain

beckoned him to remember

the spectres of his friends; they drifted

as mist upon his weary legs.

They bore him up, his spirits lifted

the bottle ’til the bitter dregs.

Hangover.

After the end of a long,

longer than usual day,

I closed the garage and climbed

up the stairs.

There was some shuffling.

Dad.

Hi, Dad!

Hello! You’re back?

Yeah, I am –

finally.

Even as the weight of our

collective society bore down on me

all day, there was beauty in just

saying hello.

And it was good –

And it was enough.

Finding Rest.

Where shall we go from here?

The one who stood so tall

has been, by time, felled

amidst the growing wood.

~

There is silence here, but it aches

to find words proper, emotion

appropriate.

It is loss.

~

Will we survive him here?

Can flight be learned

before the ground scatters the nest?

Or will it be too soon to fly?

~

May you find freedom there.

This world was not your home,

but it was a house; greet

the family there – Amen.

Moon Beams.

Tonight is a good night for nostalgia,

so go to the lake.

The moon says hello from the surface,

you wave politely.

~

What memories shall we make tonight?

Perhaps the trees will light aflame

in remembrance of

three hundred forgotten stars.

~

Your sighs howl in branches

and wind up in your lap;

don’t forget to look

up – and see yourself always upwards.

~

Eyes put on colder lenses

as the night grows softer, fuzzier.

Warmth yearns for freedom

from weathered tombs.

~

You let go of the clinging in your eyes,

scattered free on moon beams.

So they walked on the moon,

forever forgetting home.