By Faith

Jacob dies in Egypt;
by irony (or sovereignty)
he leads a life of pilgrimage
in the Land of Promise
yet dies a prince embalmed
in a land of lies and bondage
The sorrows and the sins are his
but so the covenant of God.
And what of God
who orders these discrepancies
these diametric rifts in perceived reality?
Say only,
"Bury me in Canaan."
for faith is not a slave to the apparent
allowing in his sojourn
delays, detours, and disappointed hopes
which end
despite the doubts
in empty tombs

Chamber 4: The Nautilus on Redemption

Broken things breed
yet more brokenness
the sharp edges of
the brittle shards
shatter even hands, skin cannot
escape and so we bleed
for we are living glass
breaking, being broken
but belonging to a
broken Hand of grace
which Hand gathers
glass and gore
to heal with blood the bleeding
His brokenness grieves and
blesses broken things. 

Digory

He is the Adam of the worlds
This resonates
like music in a vast and ancient hall
there is no such thing as isolation,
change may magnify as well as mar-
the ringing of a bell in Charn
may toll the death of one gold Lion
in a universe a jump away
for worlds are not so stable as we think

Yet what is Charn?
the dying world
ruled by immortal death,
frozen suns, burning ice
red lights in brilliant darknesses
the rage of deadly fire found attractive.

I am the calloused hand
clutching one cold hammer
waiting for the tone to wake the beast.
Listen to a bell to char the ears
Let go a hammer chafing in the hands

Where in the worlds is left to me but
the ground beneath His paws
on which the tears
of His compassion fall? 

We Throw

A stone cannot be
thrown
into a river without the
rings
rippling from the centerpoint
the reference of the change
of surface broken
underneath now
another stone
settles

we are pebble gatherers, my friend
why do we fear so much
the breaking of the tension
on the surface of our souls?
let the stones collect and swell
in safety underneath
and then our banks may overflow
as rivers run to meet the sea. 

Unhidden Human

On the street the women come and go
speaking of grapefruits and tangelos
of children with colds and clothing with holes
on the cold street they bare their
souls, we do not meet
but we acknowledge what we are
and soundlessly we speak
the mutual tongue unangelic
something human something
treasured dropped among
the dirt and dust
of daily dealings things discussed
while what
we try with violent struggling to hide
is thrust
unwittingly into the open air
displayed, expressed, advertised
like clothes we wear,
We cannot help but be ourselves
without effort little knowing
our true selves
how beautiful
how broken
and oh,
how loved.