A House Called America

This is a poem I found on the highway, pasted to stop sign facing the sunrise.

I grew up in a house called America,

There was a crack running clean down the floor,

I played soldier on guard over my half of the house,

Because the wings of the house were at war.

I’m writing this letter to you: America,

The millions like me who feel like a waste,

I’m writing to say that I love you;

I can’t recall when we abandoned that phrase.

Yes, you reading this poem,

Yes you whom I may never see-

You are America and I cherish you,

For who you are and who you were born to be.

I still dream of what we may become:

A land that is both just and free,

Though at times it seems that the dream is undone,

When I wake up in reality.

Still, I will never reject you,

There is nothing that won’t make you home to me;

Because by the living God who holds you,

You are my family.

For The Beauty of Tomorrow

I hope all of you have enjoyed this summer as much as the mosquitoes in my general area have. In a lazy moment of my morning, I stumbled across this small poem scribbled onto a blank page on someone's planner book. The poem was accompanied by a small army of disproportionately shaped cartoon faces and gas masks. As far as I can tell, the art has little or no connection whatsoever.

 For the Beauty of Tomorrow:

For the beauty of tomorrow,
As varied as a mystery it may be,
I will exchange my fear for sorrow,
and trust that God will part my sea.

I will weep, yes gripped by grieving,
for the things we refused to see-
I will mourn what we did not bury-
I will cut the dead weight free.

I will shed my tears at midnight,
not all for the gloom or pain,
but with faith will I accept the twighlight,
as it descends on my darkling plain.

For I believe in dawns and daybreaks,
and in the One who dries my eyes,
Yes, I shall watch the ebony horizon,
my heart leaping for hints of morning skies. 

Give it Up

Here is a poem, or a song, depending on how you look at it. (Squinting with one eye is recommended.)

Give it up, give it back,
return the light to the grocery rack;
now is not the time to keep it all.

The door was open; now it's shut,
you seem to stuck in the same old rut,
wondering why you're never through.
It's time to pull up the crusty tent pegs,
knock the rust from off your hood.
Now's the time to up and wander;
but one day you'll settle down for good.

Just because you have to leave now,
doesn't mean this was not your home.
You'll find this door open and waiting,
when you pass through Jordan's gloom.

I know it hurts if just a little,
to feel the waking wind of dawn,
I know there's a loss, if still a riddle,
to grow and learn and find it gone.

But walk the road and home will be waiting:
desire planted during a mortal phase,
eternal innocence, eternal wonder;
the light of life on a child's face.

The Dawn Shall Come

Just a quick blog post. This one is a poem dedicated to history, in general. Found originally written on cured banana skins nailed to voting booths in Honduras.

The Dawn Shall Come

Take heart, weary watchers;
the dawn will rise through the rain,
perhaps on the bleak slopes of winter,
or on the white fields tossing with grain.

Have strength, little guardian;
the house was not built in vain-
whether divided in rubble or high on a rock-
the sun shall shine on it again.

Find courage, prophets of ruin,
your cowardice is not all to blame;
the wheels of God turn slowly,
but they will raise up the sun once again.


Aye, we stagger on a heady drought,
The tears of Lord mixed with the blood of his saints,
what precious wrath we drink so fast,
draining the cup until we reel and faint.

How cheaply we sell what others have bought;
how quick we are to scorn the past,
we sacrifice that which is not ours to give-
we discard the bronze and display the cast.

If only our treasure not tarnish or rot,
if only our idols could wake up and live-
the house we defend not totter and rend-
If only we had stayed with the One who forgives.


Oh, what songs the wind shall sing-
through this massive eagle's bones!
Oh, what silly pointless things
will be figured from our stones!

Would that this world not stumble towards midnight,
would that these rocks cry out for us all;
if only we'd cherish our last bit of sunlight;
and see that our pillars topple and fall,

But those whom He punishes I know that he loves,
Just as our hearts break and then mend,
and when we beg for his blood to rain from above,
I know that the dawn shall come back again.