Rhymes From my Youth - This Tear

I found a pile of my old poetry and lead sheets the other day and wanted to share some of this collection with y'all.

Like a bead of glass, this tear roles down his face
Hurling toward the ground, it shatters unseen space
Drifting down we come, covered with this fragrance
Floating up again, we get another chance
At life

This tear is a multitude of sorrow
Yet filled with a world of endless joy
This tear is the sharp caress of death
But this tear is the promise of new life

Suspended in air, it swells like a tempest
Between the eyes of man and the sky is where I will rest
That's where I'll rest

This tear is a melody of anguish
This is the consequence of liberty
This tear is at the boiling point of failure
But this tear is dancing with victory

Spoils of a Blustery Day

It is the beginning of autumn in the northern hemisphere. The air is crisp, the sun is low, and everything is dry. For southern California, it is simply the beginning of a cooler summer with more wind and fire danger. Some trees change colors and lose their leaves, but most stay the same, clinging to the hope that water will fall from the sky in a few months or lounging in the luxury of consistent irrigation.
The fruits in the photo are part of my edible collection; spoils of an expedition down the street on a particularly blustery day. Free avocados... a thing I shall miss should I ever move away from SoCal country.

Within every day there is a moment of purpose. A moment I understand as the reason I got out of bed. A moment so beautiful and surreal, my soul often hurts if I remain to contemplate it. Some days I ignore this moment and hope that it will pass me by, leaving my insides unscathed. But most days I wait eagerly for the promise, for the gift that will rip me open and dare me to look straight into eternity. Today I wait.
These moments are hardly more noticeable than the moments that surround them. To anyone on the outside, they are very mundane and simple events that are only another block in a block castle of a day. To me, they are breakthroughs. Tiny holes torn out of the fabric that divides this world from the other. These moments remind me that I am alive, that life is worth living, that here is a purpose for life. I try to keep my eyes open so that my heart can see the moment of purpose in every day.

Two weeks ago the moment of purpose happened early in the morning before sunrise. My eight year old nephew and I were the only ones up. We started talking and within the abnormal, sweet conversation we soon came to subject of music. He asked me if I knew the song, This Is My Father's World. I sadly admitted that I only knew some of the words and not the melody, but that I would like to learn. He then proposed to teach me and began to sing. Flawless. Pure. Perfect. I was submerged in the promised moment. I tried not to cry. I really did try.

Last week I was cleaning up the art room and dug out this relic -
That guy in the center...


...he's the reason I woke up that day.


This afternoon I thought the moment must have come and passed me by. I was so lost inside myself and the hurt of the day that I though I must have missed it. The promise must have been there, I just didn't get to see it today. But then, there it was. The moment was wrapped up in a note from a friend telling me about the walk he went on with God yesterday. Beautiful. Simple. Solid.

Mundane moments of purpose fill my life. His mercies are new every morning.

Short Story 1

I didn't know where I was going

But I had a sense of where I'd been

I didn't see it coming

Creeping up silently

Until it could not be stopped

And it became part of me

It was cold and heavy

So heavy, I couldn't breath

It suffocated me

Death creeps silently

Last Day of Tabernacles 09

"Good morning", I attempted in the least groggy voice i could muster as I leaned over the edge of the cot. Dad was peering into the booth through a slit in one of the fabric walls, the one with the EDCO recycle bin on the other side. He nodded his regards and continued walking, teapot in hand, up the hill and to his office. When he had seen that I was awake and attempting communication, I watched affection mingle with amusement in his eyes. That rugged smirk probably stayed on his face for several paces after he left our temporary dwelling, perhaps longer.
I looked down and was faced with the bloodshot eyes of my sister as she grappled with the fact that she was awake, she was on the ground outside, there was a dog sprawled out on her blankets nearly on top of her, and my predawn face was dangling over hers. "Why wouldjou say 'g'morning'?" She stretched half heartedly and yawned, "... whatime is it?" After my explanation, we both fell back into sleep with the mist slowly dissipating around us and the light growing steadily.

Almost every autumn, we drag our bedding out side, unroll mats and cots, hang sheets and tree branches from various structures to create semi-sheltered habitations, and then we live out there for a week. Some years we are more committed than others. Some we can be found eating our meals and playing games in the shelters. Some years we only sleep in them. One year we slept in cardboard boxes for a week with only sleeping bags and cats to stay warm.
When I was little, the reason for this week was to camp out for a couple hours, smell the tree branches and go back inside when it got cold. When I grew a little older, I remembered when the Israelites had wandered in the wilderness and Adonai had come to live with them in a tent called a tabernacle. I liked to draw the connection between that tabernacle and a little stable in Bethlehem thousands of years later; both temporary dwelling places where the Creator came to live with us. Then I began using this week of homelessness to identify with the millions of people around the world who have no permanent dwelling. I would sleep under the stars imagining what it must be like to live outside all year round, relying on the charity or whims of others to get through the next day. What would it be like to know that there was no bedroom to go back to if it got too cold? What would it be like to know that the only guarantied meal was the one that I just ate? What if these people sharing this space with me were not family and friends?
I would catch myself thinking of and praying for people living under the weight of constant struggle. People just down on their luck, and people trapped in sub-poverty, starving before birth. Displaced families crossing international borders, some seeking a better life, some seeking the right to life. I think of these and fail to feel the extent of their hardships. God lives with them.

This year I am caught with a blank stare slapped on my face as I stumble through the fact that I am a temporary dwelling. Just like our little tents and cardboard shacks will sooner or later cave to the elements or be torn down, our lives here will only last as long as they last. But just like the tabernacle in the wilderness, my life is a holy residence. God lives with me... in me.

I didn't want to get out of bed this morning when I woke my sister up. Not because the cot was entirely comfortable, nor because I was terribly sleepy, and not because I couldn't wait for the dog to try to lick my face one more time. But simply because God was living there with us.

dark with murderous numbness, icy fog gathers on the horizon threatening to engulf my soul... again.
it is on the outside this time, assaulting my defences with disciplined zeal and patient persistence. this creeping thing is out there, laying siege to the fleshly structure that houses my spirit, attacking all that it can within the jungle of neurotransmitters and receivers and chemicals and hormones. it tries.
this slithering thing is out there and i am thankful. it is not inside. it is no longer a parasite - a stowaway in another humans heart that i would welcome with open arms. i would gladly embrace that heart and in doing so take the hit that would put me under. i wouldn't feel the break. i wouldn't smell the burn. that puff of smoke would blur seen reality into unrecognizable shapes and visions. a cacophonous chaos unperceived by drugged consciousness would burrow through me like a disease. i would not hear the sirens. they would be too late.
its motives are clear and uncensored, but for this thing, my soul is not a safe place anymore. this thing that would shred, cut, smash and tear me to pieces is on the outside peering in with ravenous longing etched into its ancient weary eyes, but it dare not enter without invitation. there is no hiding place dark enough, no fortress sturdy enough to protect it from the master of my soul. should it enter unbidden, its destruction would be swift and merciful and there would be no trace, not even vapors. it knows this, so it remains on the outside assailing, gnawing, speaking softly in my ear. "awe, poor sweetie, just listen, just wait. poor baby, please, let me in. just listen..." melodious and pathetic, its voice strings out coaxing monologues. it wants a piece of me... no... it wants more.
it knows about the light in the depths of my being, a light that is apart from me but that i am a part of. it has seen that light and it hides in the shadows of its gaping valley. it knows our romance, the one that stretches across the plains of human existence. the love story that is written on every cell of my body, in every song that i sing, in every smile, in every sob... the numb, icy fog of death itself longs for this. i am willing to share.
but soon light will overtake me and catch my spirit up into the presence where everything dissipates into beauty. and light will whisper, "honey, we're home."

The Roof On Fire

Brother and I have returned to dry heat, frenchless labels and regular week days. Settling back into a normal so.cal. routine of school, work and the promise of play has been easy, but a little saddening. When's the next time I'll be able to go running in the forest to take a bath in the lake? When will dinner be caught in out front yard? When might I hear the farewell, "Wish I could stay longer, but the wind is picking up and my home is sinking." I miss so much about Refuge Cove.


The air was a sweltering 105 degrees Fahrenheit all day everyday for about a week and it hadn't rained in over a month. The trees were getting crunchy, the upper dam was running dry, a campfire ban was in effect across the entire area. Then things started to break; the boardwalk, the ice machine, the freezers, our will to survive... All the fixings for a typical Refuge cove work day, except it was hot as a wort hog's backside.
One evening of that hellish week there was a birthday gathering on the upper deck of the cafe. Most of the Cove's inhabitants attended the non-air conditioned celebration, though perhaps a bit reluctantly due to the puddles forming in various bodily crevasses. It was a lovely happy hour style party and at some point someone even brought ice to share, but it was all too quaint for such an auspicious occasion as Miss Meg's birthday. It seems something dramatic happens every anniversary of her birth and this year was to be no different.
We were all getting ready to return to our respective sanctums of cool habitation when auntie Di came running out of the store and down the dock ramp with an entourage of bucket carriers. We all jumped to our feet only to see smoke rising from the generator shed. The little wooden shack that houses the machine that generates electricity for the docks, all of downtown and most of the homes on the island was on fire.
While brother helped on the roof dodging hot wires and avoiding falling through, I helped connect hoses together to reach the flames. Of course no one thought through the fact that all the water pressure relied upon the generator which was not functioning. So the bucket brigade began. We had buckets all the way down to the sea and the passing line was very efficient. The backup generator was turned on to try to get water pressure back but all it did was spray soot everywhere and on everyone near. We looked like street urchins from Oliver Twist. After not too long we had a working hose with sufficient pressure up to the roof and the blaze was put out.
Looking back at the incident we all could see how bad it could have been. Had the fire been spotted a few minutes later we would have easily had a forest fire on our hands. Had there been fewer people downtown at that moment, Refuge Cove might not have survived.
Now there are plans to install a longer hose and a water pump that does not rely on the generator.
Thankfully, that was the most dramatic story of the summer.