Toil.

From dramatic, face contorting,

out of your mind, torment...

To the mundane, can not TAKE this anymore,

everyday bleakness;

comes a ferocious word called:

TOIL.

Must it be my constant companion?

It follows like a shadow of death,

In the valleys of life,

And the peaks of mountains.

Even in the sweat soaked throngs of victory over summits,

Toil is lingering, not far behind.

Even when I am content or even ecstatic,

I can see it watching me from the sidelines.

Waiting for weakness.

Am I not supposed to be comfortable and content?

Euphoric and plump?

Painful toil will be with us all the days of our lives.

We are the descendants of the first Adam.

Ask him of toil.

Ask him of torment, bleakness, euphoria and loneliness.

Ask Adam of separation.

I accept my challenge of toil and hope,

Flesh and spirit,

Cautiously leaning on the promises.

The Good Thief.

A good thief in the night

is like a lamb in lion's clothing.

Not to take possession of things but of hearts.

To steal away from this world of lies,

And give to the rich in spirit.

Who is the opposite of Robin hood 

but The Good Thief.

This world rejects what is to be taken.

But will not want to relinquish, out of spite.

This One of richest spirit is not in need,

But wants the hearts and minds and souls.

This thief is like a lion in sheep's clothing.

Some homes will be gently picked through

Like a antique dealer at a garage sale.

Others will be cleaned out

like a Good Curator in a gallery of clay pots 

masterfully formed, strengthened,

glazed and kiln fired.

Some lonely homes will be left alone.

A letter from God to you and me.

In your beginning,
I delicately formed you in your mother's womb.
A womb that you can not even imagine.
Beautiful and intricate.
But, stern and absent.
And then you were formed by your family.
Left to hold your own, and you did.
And you fought for everything you thought you needed.
You saw a glimpse of me in your adolescence.
You awkwardly sought me in your sin.

And you cried out for comfort when you needed
Mercy and truth.
You cried out for monetary blessings
when you desperately needed spiritual maturity.
And you lashed out when you should have drawn near.
I was watching, just out of reach
from where you wanted to be.
I was the light you could not look at, through the darkness.
I was the love and the hope.
I was the life and the truth.
That you swung your bitterness at, in a drunken rage.
Like an over-sized baseball bat.
Like a warrior's sword, too heavy for a child to hold up.

I am the grace and the mercy.
That you will always need.

Then I whispered in your ear;
and you fell to your knees.
Crying out a drunkard's prayer.
Awkward, clumsy, messy and beautiful.

And then you were like a new born baby.
Needing milk like a baby kitten.

Like a stray dog getting let into the house.

Malnourished and flea bitten.
And I nourished you with every breath.
I quickened your spirit.

You became thirsty and hungry.

And now you are like a sapling
of an oak tree.
And now you are like a adolescent eagle.
Forming new feathers everyday.
And now I will show you my will.
Show you how to trust.
Show you the Way.

You will become like the Son.
You will be the son I always wanted
you to be.
You will be transformed again.
You will be given new life again.
I will patiently bring you new life every morning.
Like you didn't ruin it the day before.
And we will rejoice together,
Like I knew we would from the beginning.

Waiting for the Blink of an Eye.

Watching feels like waiting.

Waiting feels like sitting on the edge, looking for 

something to stand out among the mundane.

Mundane because what I am waiting for is

bigger than any of this.

We have heard whispers of what I am waiting for.

We have been told to watch the skies.

We have been told that we will wish for 

the mountains to roll over onto us.

I am there, waiting.

I have been watching for a decade and some years.

Grown anxious and learned patience.

I have been broken down and rebuilt.

I have rebelled; been dragged kicking and screaming

back to the place where peace can cover all sins.

Reformed into a new vessel.

Even though we have seen what it means for a generation to turn away.

Now I know what it feels like to yearn 

and pant for love, 

like a deer pants for water.

I am listening for the rocks to cry out.

Waiting for the people to turn back around

or... 

for the sky to shout.

Waiting for the blink of an eye.

Although I can not comprehend the the thought of 

heaven without them...

I am hoping for the one thing that will

leave my brothers behind.

I am willing but not able.

Whispers of God and Man.

Face down and reluctant.
Pridefully humble.
Talking and talking like whispers.

Your words truly are whispers,
if I could listen I would hear them.

My whispers are like demands.
Your whispers are like diamonds.

Praying through my teeth,
Demanding my inheritance before its due
is like wishing your Father is dead
is like envy.

Envy is like sin
...is like death.

Death is like...
SEPARATION.

Your whispers are like...
REDEMPTION.

The Eyes of Mathew.

I am Mathew now,
for I have seen the outside world 
without the hand of my mother.
I see differently now into the eyes of my father.
Like a hawk with new feathers, 
looking back at the nest after his first flight.
And he looks differently at me.

I know now what it means to be away 
from my home and my room and toys.
I know now what it means to yearn for home and family 
and to be too tired to play once I get there.
I know now what it means to look into the eyes 
of the energetic and the brokenhearted.
Like a pirate coming home from his first voyage.
Stronger, less timid but happy to see land.

My father can see the difference in my eyes.
He can see the hope
that maybe someday, 
I will be battle-ready.
and his throat closes
and his breath quickens
and his heart lightens.
He knows now, that someday, 
we can be battle weary,
together.

The Matador

Like music entering the room low and slow,
like a thief in the night.
Turning abruptly and announcing its presence with a shout!
Like The Matador to a bull.
Dirt still falling in slow motion,
Anticipating returning to dirt.
The Matador could stand there forever, chest out,
confident and beautiful.
Holding out His cape like a gift.
Frustrated the bull can only react finitely,
with anger and confusion.
The bull, like your heart,
sees the gift of The Matador as a threat.

The bull charges.

Kicking up dirt and dust, bouncing off hooves and dirt and legs.
The Matador waits patiently to pierce the heart.
The bull kicking up more and more dirt with growing frustration and speed.
A fight that has gone on and on and on...
Only this time the heart of the soul is pierced
and the gift of The Good Matador is no trick.
The pierced heart brings life.
The bull no longer seeks to kick the dirt.

Drunkard's Prayer.

God give me the strength to smoke these Lucky's

and get away with it, until the time comes to stop.

God give me the courage to stand up

in the face of this drunk on the street.

Set on breaking me into little pieces

of his own frustration.

God give me the wisdom to know when to start

and when to quit because

God knows starting in the morning with a shot of 'wake-up'

and ending with 22 ounces of 'goodnight' is too much for me.

God give me what I need because

this speed will make my days snowball

so fast I won't know what to see.

God give me the eyes to see the future

and what's behind me because

that pack of wolves growling through the streets

is following me around every corner.

waiting for a weakness to show.

God give me the strength to stand up

and fall down, walk around,

look around, breath

and see because God knows it's all getting the better of me.

God deliver me from evil, inside and outside of me.

I Used to Feel Like Ira Hayes.

Quiet in a room that's booming.

Hold fast to arms of a chair in the middle of the room.

Half empty bottle screaming my name.

Skidding into a beckoning whisper...

Ira... Ira...   Ira Hayes.

Drink myself into a sway.

Drinking into conversation.

Quiet at first across from someone.

Laugh and nod and laugh again.

Half full with intention,

clumsy me, doing okay now.

Drink myself into an interest.

Drink myself into a 'man'.

Drinking into a relationship.

Drinking myself out of a friendships.

Too loud and too angry.

Loving and hating in every sentence.
Half empty of courage,
Too weak and sloppy to keep going.

Drink myself into a coma.

Drink myself out of you.

Drink myself into heaven.

Drink myself out of here.