Horizon

I found this poem dotted onto a sun-bleached hankerchief that was kept on the dashboard of a massive rusty tractor-trailer with an inordinate amount of spikes. The name of the poem is

Horizon

I've been trapped in a prison of faces,
all of them look just like mine:
hollow eyes for empty places-
masks for shame and wistful smiles.

Round and round I make my paces,
the door unbarred to gall my pride,
no chains could chafe or be more hated
as those that hold me back inside.

A ruined street, a single rebel,
the stage stands still for my ticking heart,
my wardens approach and cast long shadows,
my will and hopes to quickly thwart.

But Lo! I'm headed for a new horizon,
opening below the virgin sky,
gold-white salt flats and a dawn vermillion,
rise up to meet me as I travel by!

Dawns turn to days that turn to midnight,
and I fear my resolve may flicker,
Lord that I might travel towards your light,
and travel stronger, quicker!

There was a bowl of bracken water
in my prison, foul to taste.
And though it seems this desert empty-
I know I pass from strength to strength.

In my dungeon the air was breathless,
and black the ceiling hung low to crush me,
Here I gaze into infinity,
pursue the endless with felicity,
feel the winds caress and kiss me,
and chart my progress by the stars.

Lo, I see a new horizon!
A desert golden-white and bare,
some say I will die of thirst
in pursuit of empty air.

Others that I should have never left,
my prison was in fact a haven;
better to be poisoned, broken, craven,
than wander to an early death.

But I believe in new horizons
just beyond the reach of human eyes
and I will gladly traverse this desert
until it lead me to paradise.

False Dichotomy

"I know it's hard to accept the Facts, but the Truth is that there is no god."

The crumpled logo on his T-shirt moves as he waves his arms about. It tells a very funny joke if you happen to watch the tv shows he watches and believe the things he believes and studied Science as much as he has.

He has a beautiful face; pale but intense, with articulate, sensitive eyes. It's too bad that he doesn't believe he's beautiful. He doesn't believe in Beauty. Secretly, he wishes he were a knight in 12th century Europe with a sword in his hand and his eyes hardened behind the slit of his great helm as he faces off alone against a pillaging army of rapacious mercenaries. But he's born in the 21st century, and he's been taught to know better. The internet and some movie writers in Hollywood have explained to him that there were no righteous knights.


"You may not like it, but what the Bible is teaching is clearly my point of view, where God just made sinners to burn in Hell because they didn't cognitively assess their eternal options and pick the most beneficial and profitable choice like I did."

He tries to look serious, maybe a little grim but also passionate. It's hard to look grim or passionate in a pair of (ironed) khaki slacks, with a little white collar poking out of the top of your (monochrome, earth toned and expensive) woolen sweater.

 He's leaning forward, which does help you look engaged, if you are leaning forward to thump your fist on a battle map and affix your generals with a zealous eye. We're all awkwardly leaning forward to see each other's faces because we've placed our folding chairs in a loose circle, with large gaps in between us to fit our purses, coffee cups, and sense of security because we don't actually know each other that well.


How boring it must be to fit the entire universe into a cramped white-walled office-space lit by a florescent light. To be able to collar God with a necktie and use it as a leash, ask Him to show some respect and keep quiet while you review your church's financial quarter.

How tiring too, to eat of the Forbidden Fruit, only to discover that Rebellion means living a virgin in a basement somewhere watching videos of fake women pretend to love men with more muscles than you, unless by some lucky chance you manage to enter a 3-month marriage to some girl with daddy issues who's willing to exchange (safe) sex for emotional support. (The exchange rate is typically about 8-12 hours of listening for 1 3-second rush of Dopamine. Endorphines and depression reduction varies on how much self-worth you put on your genitals.)


Aren't we tired of this yet? Aren't we all sick, ready to vomit all over our leather-bound study bibles we open once a week?

We're all marching in step to the booming loudspeakers that tell us which side we're on and which side to hate, two identical armies bleeding red human blood for control of a world as colorless and claustrophobic as a tomb.

But stop listening to the loudspeaker for a minute. For one second, stop taking this war seriously. Because its purpose was never to motivate you, but to block out the music we've been hearing since we were born.

Do you hear it now? The winds of heaven, blowing down off the slopes of the mountains of God? Those roaring, buffeting winds that strike a frequency in our hearts, causing them to sing?

Can you hear it now? the pattering and thundering of God's rain on the roofs we've constructed to keep it out, the slashing monsoons to this thirsty world?

Can you taste it yet? The brine from that crashing, endless sea? The grey, aching horizon that calls you to leave all behind?


I'll be damned if God isn't actually bigger than the fortresses we've created to wall ourselves off from the world. Maybe the reason it's gotten so dull in sunday school is because we couldn't fit God in our newly purchased youth building.

And if the Facts point to a meaningless universe where we drift aimlessly to our deaths, then try and stop me from wandering to every corner of it, play-acting at being a hero for my invisible God.

Because if there's one thing I do know, is that this world we've constructed is one huge cattle-schute, to funnel us, heirs to the Infinite Kingdom, away from our destiny. And I choose to believe that our destinies will find us the day we stop being controlled by our fears and false desires.

I'm just one little boy-man with gossip issues who inspects his biceps in the mirror and finds them wanting. But from this day forward I don't want to keep accepting the role of a gagged wooden puppet, pretending to be perfect and have all the answers.

Since all men die, I'd rather die gripping my King's banner in the free air than lie embalmed in a flowery casket. If I'm going to live for God's love, than it's real love, all the way. The love that gives this world color and and breaks down our strongholds and chains and sets us free from the suffocating identities the devil tells us is our destiny.

Destiny

I found this poem at a busy intersection, where the signal lights were confused, the drivers seemed to be (mostly) unaware of the intersection at all, and as I consequence I nearly was run over half a dozen times. The poem, which was written on the back of a crumpled boarding pass, was lightly dusted with sand. I have a deep suspicion that the author is either dead, or will not complain if I publish it here.


Destiny

Whether in joyous love or thirsty hate,
to be consumed, we yearn.
Not for the cold ground and touching cold gold, are the God-children born.
No, if there is one thing I trust for certain,
one thing I have learned;
in the heights of heaven or the depths of hell,
men were made to burn.

Eye Contact

This is a poem which was written by a man who wanted to believe he possessed the qualities required to become a free-styling rap singer. The meter and structure go out the window in this one, but maybe my rapping friend could argue that is the soul of 'free style' . Judge for yourselves, my readers.

Eye Contact

He always says nothing; but he has a mountain to say,

he feels helpless knowing that she'll go away,

he's angry at himself and her, in a way,

because deep down he wishes she'd sit down and stay. 

They meet when he's strongest; 

For me it was the day,

When he's strong he's ashamed 

of the part that he played:

He's failed yet again, and knows who to blame. 

She takes many forms: friends, crushes, sisters,

oblivious of how his mind has been twisted,

how dark the places that last night he visited. 

He lashes himself with his own sense of Honor,

after so many failures his mantra seems hollow,

But denial tastes bitter and a tough thing to swallow. 

It's sad just how easy he can say that "I'm broken."

It's freeing at first, after that's spoken. 

But then it seems that the gates of his pride are ripped open,

leaving him free to sink in his poison. 

Dammit! He curses, there must be point to this shame,

surely there's a purpose for disappointment and rage,

surely dreams and ideals have not passed from this age-

can I ever live wholly, can I ever live free, 

is there a chance that I'll always want to be clean?

Wanting. Now there's the stuff. 

What we desire controls us, it will shape what we love. 

If I want to climb higher, will that be enough? 

Christ knew this in a world of hard iron and stone,

that evil is inside us when we think we're alone;

That it is in our own hatred where the murder is done,

and we fail and betray Her with the lust from day one. 

God save me! he cries, maybe this time he means it. 

The Lord works in our weakness; He cleans and redeems it,

Given chance after chance, at last he'll wake up and seize it. 

It's hard to be clean without wanting to change,

It's easy in the pigsty to stay just the same, 

But once from all his addictions he tries to escape,

The prison collapses from this leap of faith. 

Leave it all behind, every last indulgence!

the small ones are seeds for their unstoppable parents

If this leaves you alone - become a knight errant,

those demons will scatter once you take up forbearance. 

They'll seem like good friends- with which you had fun,

reliable mates with whom you've had a good run-

Damn them to hell, those devils are lying;

they were sucking your blood and your true life denying. 

What he really was chasing

when he bought all their lies

was a word with that lady 

and to look in her eyes. 

To be a man to his woman,

and a son to his God,

to win the battle for honor

 he did not realize he fought.

Oh yes I know how heady are the drinks Satan serves,

but I've tasted sweeter things in Christ's endless reserves.

Once you've felt the free air hit your face with sting,

You can't just go back to hell's stale gathering

of the objects and toys that broken men buy 

because they're ashamed that they won't look Her straight in the eye.