Grass Green Blade

image source:Bing images

image source:Bing images

Dig deeper, plumb
the depths.
Pull out all the nasty
black pieces that
lurk
in dank, covered, pitiful spots.

I’m told, go, go.
Find
great inspiration
there.

I resist.
I lean back against
the pull, dragging my heels.

Must I go?
Do I have to?

My heels furrow-plow the green
back lawn,
trenching straight between the
house and the
fence at the alley.
I stop
under the
pink Nectarine bloom.

I look down. The pit yawns.
Come in. Take a dip.
Dig through
the mire.

What’s the harm? We’re there.
All of us.
We’re there. It’s our common –
ality.
Who is not touched?

There sensitivity waits for
embracing;
understanding yearns
for hugs.
Acceptance replaces
transformation.

My toe slides in, just a bit,
just to speak to humanity’s
need.
Numbness slides up my toe, touches
the ball of
my foot.
Cramp grabs,
tightens. I can no longer see
my ankle.
Writhing snakes touch.
I hear the rattle.

I remember the throb.
I remember the blush.
I remember the shame.
It’s me looking for
satisfaction.
Can’t get no satisfaction.

There’s no joy there.
There’s no overweening
love for another.
There’s no self-sacrifice.
There’s just self.
Grasping,
groaning
self.

Can I go there? Would it help?
I dig; tentative.
Too soon the worms
start across my flesh. My
breath catches,
coughs, sputters, dies.
The pressure
tightens around my heart;
the band constricts.
Panic pushes
red in my ears.
The beat booms, booms,
booms.

My wings are caught.
My flight stuttered.
Any beauty is splayed shattered
on the grass.
It reflects a cracked
splintered gleam.

Where did hope fly?
Where did beauty die?
Where did joy drown?
Did they ever live here?

In desperation I grasp the blade
of grass.
The green life pushes up.
Up.
Not down.
The down knows only sorrow.

I guess it’s my choice.
Which direction
will I push,
will I look,
will I reach,
will I live?

No. NO. N. O. I won’t
take that dive. I
don’t want to drown,
all breath shallow and tight.

I don’t want to
lose all softness of
sweet skin
and come out
shriveled and darkened.

I swim faster,
ploughing through
the air that hovers over
the green lawn.

I look up;
up into the blue
above. It stretches wide.
I see promise, not fracture.

Perhaps I could
tell my perception of the
black cesspool;
maybe I could
say I understand because
I’ve felt.

Must I feel it again?

My ears are
too sensitive to hear
the retelling.

My heart too
damaged by the black to
re-live
it’s drag.

My senses too tuned to its lure.
Pavlov speaks.

I run across the lawn
as a child
squealing to cover the sound
of the chasing hoard.

It shouldn’t be thus.
I had wings.
They weren’t man-made. Their
iridescent glitter reflected infinity
and eternity.

Free me. Give me upward reach.
I stretch my arms up and wide out.
There’s a prison break
waiting, else why
would I even know beauty exists?
Love lives? White purity floats
its banner in the
breeze?

Give me back my wings, great creator
of all. Move
me above the lawn,
above the pull of
life’s undertow,
above the dark
into the light.

Light.
Light.
Jesus said,
I am the light of the world.

You left heaven’s brilliance, Jesus,
You stuck more than your toe
in the morass;
life’s bloody mess.
If I must go into the pit,
show me how to keep
my wings;
keep them shining and pure.

Keep me flying free.
Whole; not factured;
a conduit that points upward;
points to you.
Points with the grass green blade.

Advertisements

Christmastime

image source:kansastravel

image source:kansastravel

Christmastime is here.  Carols on Cd’s and choirs on TV, tear-jerker movies of lost love and found meaning and purpose, laughter at silly lyrics of ‘you’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch’ and ‘No crocodiles, no rhinoceroses, I only like Hippopotamuses’ float across the air, the dark night lit by twinkling lights on houses and yards decked out with clear LED strings around trees, over fences, up chimneys and draped on bushes.  Whole streets are transformed into wonderlands of colors and sparkles and strings of lit icicles along roof lines.

There’s the flap on the media about how much more polite and less threatening it is to say ‘Happy Holiday’ instead of ‘Merry Christmas’ and kids now have Winter breaks from school instead of Christmas break.  They’re still out of school, though, and most of them still go to bed on Christmas Eve all hyped up and excited about those wrapped gifts under the tree.

The politically correct police try to pretend there’s no deeper meaning than Santa Claus and Frosty the Snowman and apparently big business agrees as we’re inundated with advertising to urge us to shop, shop, shop, spend, spend, spend, until we collapse from all the stress and turkey and pie overload.

But there’s something deeper, richer about the last days of December than the other days of any given year.  After all, why do people decorate the outside of their houses, put up trees inside, bake goodies to give away and spend hours shopping and wrapping gifts?  If it’s all just a marketing ploy why does the time of Christmas mean excitement or joy, or peace or any number of other feelings to millions?  Oh, sure, not everyone has a happy Christmas memory from childhood but why do we all long for the warmth, the promise of peace and the happiness that seems to go with the time of year?

How could the world’s people, so different in their customs, their traditions, their histories and their memories all want the same things, peace and joy?  And keep on wanting those things generation after generation, time after time?  And keep on trying to make life less bleak, less dark, less painful.  More filled with light and beauty.  And peace and joy.  Why?

Unless.  Unless, we were made with a soul and a spirit that respond to joy and peace.  Made with a soul and a spirit that crave the knowing that we were made for something greater than the everyday.  That we were made for joy and peace.

It was that same craving that sent those three Wisemen on a road trip, following a star that they believed would lead them to the very originator of joy and peace.  They found that joy.  It came to the world in that tiny baby, Jesus.

image source:jimmyharmon

image source:jimmyharmon

Every year we go through it all again, we wrap those presents, decorate that tree.  Every year we search for peace and joy.  Every year we’re reminded of the real meaning of life.  And if we listen to the twinkling lights, the rustling of the wrapping paper and the faint sound of carols through the night, we’ll find that peace and joy.  Just like the Christmas carol says, ‘Joy to the world, the Lord has come.’  Come for you.  Come for me.