Poetry and Prose

If We Could Shape the World

If we could shape the world...

Imagine if by our very thoughts, 

colors came into being

shapes trailing behind our fingertips 

splashing, dripping, swirling

If a whispered idea brought thought into motion

liquid swirling, swirling around us

If a gentle breath gave wings to tinkling laughter

And sparks danced at our fingertips

A sweep of the arm spreads dazzling stars in the heavens

Twirl, and the earth is in motion.

What if love had the power to create,

And hope brought morning, light and song?

If we could shape the world

By the force of a drifting thought,

By a whimsical notion,

What would happen? What could we bring into being?

Shame! Shame! Shame!

For the power of our thoughts overcomes us!

The depth of our wickedness overwhelms us!

For by the power of a thought, a passing notion, 

We have brought death...

Anger and fear bring lightening and darkness as thunder shakes the earth.

Thorns choke out life. And now they are real,

No longer just words in the air or ink on a page.

Pricking, tearing, bleeding,

We cannot imagine them away.

What has become cannot be undone.

If we could shape the world -

No, let it not be so!

The power to create is too much,

our minds too flighty,

Our thoughts dart from one idea to another

without time for growth or development.

A half starved thought shrivels and wilts 

at our neglect.

We dream big, we scatter our grand ideas into all of time and space

Believing we can better this place,

Yet there is not enough of us.

We bring beauty, yes, but also death.

Can one exist without the other?

Can beauty endure without suffering?

Will all we do be tainted?

As we demand that our Creator allow us to create

do we know for what we ask?

Our gracious Creator knows the extent of our weakness

And in his mercy, limits us. 

We cannot shape the world, 

nor all of time and space

But he allows us to paint on one another

to bring joy and life

and pain and sorrow

Our thoughts guarded by the silence of our lips,

We must choose to open the windows to our souls

And partake of each others' beauty.

We must choose to close the gates on our reckless thoughts

to protect one another from pain.

But don't stop creating.

Paint and sing and laugh and imagine!

Let the fullness of our Creator be reflected in all that we do

Though color does not drip from our fingertips,

We can still shape the world.

Beauty is marred.

I sit and look at the trees, some bare, some still green, many seemingly dying, brown brittle leaves clinging tenaciously, rustling in the wind. Others have supple, bright leaves still –  crimson, deep fiery orange, golden. But passing. When I was young, I hated winter, for the bare branches seemed dead and despairing, the joy of life gone. Now, I see the beauty of the intricacy of the branches and twigs, entwined yet separate, each little bit part of the whole, creating a delicate, fragile wonder that somehow survives the bitter winds and snow to bud and bloom with joy once again. Yet there is a certain sweet sadness about them. A loss, a longing, a yearning, a waiting. Death has come, in a way, and the wait for renewal will be long and trying.

The bouquet in my hand is a bright splash of color and joy. Pale golden maple leaves, scarlet berries with soft pink leaves, a branch from an evergreen bush; it brings a smile just looking at it. The leaves were gathered from the multitude scattered under the trees, blanketing the earth, warming it from the chilling winds. The berry branch I plucked from a vibrant tree, the evergreen broke off the hedge. But further inspection, a closer look, a prolonged glance, reveals the leaves are dirty and bruised. The berries are flecked and blemished, the edges of their leaves growing brown and brittle, the vibrancy of life fading. The tip of the branch is jagged, torn.

Yet it is beautiful, the colors contrasting; brightening up what could be a drab existence. In a way, the blemishes make it all the more beautiful, for would it truly exhibit beauty if it were perfect and flawless, garishly bright? Might they look like imitations then? Cheap imitations that lack the quality of true life. Life involves bumps, scratches, bruises. Pain, healing, scars. True living involves getting soiled and dirty. Being buffeted by the winds, roughly brushed by the careless, pecked at by the birds - pain. Beauty is found in true life.

Beauty is marred. But it is the marred that is beautiful. Some of the most beautiful people I know are those whose appearance would be judged by society as unappealing to the eye, holding little worth. But their hearts shine forth as of warm gold reflecting the light. For that is what they are. Some of the people considered most beautiful are hard and cracked inside, bitter, selfish, ugly. Unfit to be seen, yet they are flaunted.

The marring makes it beautiful, proving itself tried and true.

The marring makes it beautiful, something delicate that barely survived.

Beauty is marred. Because this earth is full of dangers, pain, sorrow, suffering. Beauty is marred. But one day it will be pure, untarnished, unblemished; and it will be true, not imitation, but pure, real, and holy - wholly true. 

Castles in the Sky

Castles in the Sky,

edifices in the air

constructed so eloquently, so passionately,

yet so far away.

A puff of wind, 

a gust, 

shakes the foundations.

Dreams etched in the clouds

crumble in the face of reality.

But don't stop dreaming. Never stop dreaming. 

Dream of what was, and what is,

And always of what could be.

Paint those clouds with the brush of imagination.

Shape those clouds with a flair for adventure

Let your hopes and dreams rise on the winds and meet the sunrise

Let them dance in the halls of unfallen snowflakes, dewdrops, and rain

Let them soar on the rushing winds of the storm

And float gently, merrily, on dustmotes.

Let not your hope be lost

With the tinkling, tumbling, falling of broken dreams.

With the glistening fragments of broken dreams

New ones may be formed,

A mosaic of what was, looking forward to what might be.

Let not not your hope fail.

That which is broken can be made whole

Build anew sparkling Castles in the Sky.

Diamond.

Diamond.

            Beautiful.

                        Hardened.

                                    Sharp.

She puts forth an image of beauty.

She harbors a hurting and tortured soul.

So she builds a diamond wall.

Dazzlingly beautiful.

Seemingly impenetrable.

Look through, if you like.

Dirty little secrets lurk in the corners.

Bold, blatant ones dance glaringly in the center.

Bitterness steeps the floor.

Anger thickens the air.

But if you strain, if you peer further in –

Fear. Longing. Loneliness.

Sensing the invasion, the glass becomes dark. 

Challenging. Defiant.

I dare you. I dare you to come close.

Please don’t try – a quiet plea.

It all might shatter.

The façade. The hopes and dreams.

The fears, insecurities, bitterness.

It will all be exposed to all.

Nothing fills, so I try everything.

She is bruised and broken,

Afraid the wall will crack,

That she’ll be found flawed.

But chip away at the wall

of diamond ice

 with the fires of the Holy God.

The Living God.