Chances

The blower of second chances

The aquireror or unrequited romances,

The stumbler through many death-defying dances,

The giver of third glances,

Blows that landed on him like lances,

Pierced the heart but grazed the cheek like a lover's entrances,

Lazy-eyed love, the languid look full of nuances,

But that the chance is the chances,

Were slim to skin and bone, do none, no nothing to enhance

His days were done long in advance,

His chances blown, like his finances,

Thrown away with all those fiancés 

First second, second third?

What were the chances?

He blew them all,

And off he dances

Two Kinds Of Poet

 There are two types of poet:

Ones who portray themselves,

As an aesthetic of their own creation,

A verbal skin to be inhabited,

A lens through which to view the world,

A better reality,

Then there are those,

Who simply disrobe,

Exposing themselves as formality,

And maybe this is too simplistic

And I like to reduce to the dualistic,

And neglect the nuance of my willful self-deception,

Too caught up in the mirror for my own reflection,

But can you guess which of those is me?

And which I aspire to be?

Crushed

The oil from the olive,

Comes from it's crushing,

From giving foot to the grape,

The will-be-wine comes gushing,

The flour for the bread,

Formed from grinding the grain,

And so the help for the healing,

Pours out of his pain,

If his body was not broken,

Then there was no bread,

There was no wine, nor forgiveness,

Without his blood being shed,

The oil wouldn't overflow,

Without his being crushed,

But the Spirit springs forth from the crushing,

And wells up within us,

The olive, the grape, the grain,

The oil, the wine, the bread,

The Spirit, The Blood, The Body,

Was crushed, 

Was shed, 

Was dead,

And from our crushing comes,

An increase in the flow,

So let the crushing come,

And let the blessing overflow

But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed.~ Isaiah 53:5

Graceline

Grace is the baseline:

The least that you need

And the most you that you'll get,

The bottom and the top,

The bank and the bet,

The minimum investment,

With the greatest return,

Rewards you cant lose,

A wage you can't earn,

Grace is the baseline:

The line that marks,

The courts you can't leave,

Where the game is played,

Where you can't misconceive

The rule of the game,

And the rule from above,

Are one and the same,

The baseline is love,

Grace is the baseline:

Between home plate,

And bases one to three,

The line that marks your way,

The line you'll want to see,

The line from which you'll never stray,

Whatever troubles come,

The line that lead you safe thus far,

The line that leads you home,

Grace is the baseline:

The line that traces the path of words,

Ever present, yet unseen,

Notable by it's absence,

It walks the in-between,

All words ascend, descend from there,

From there we fall and rise,

From the grace-line my poem's written,

Once bitten, twice tasted of the highs,

Grace is the baseline:

Grace is the bassline,

Now, how low can you go?

What are the depths of love,

I'm afraid you'll never know,

The lowest notes you you could ever reach,

you'll never have to face,

The line of love has it covered,

So, drop the grace.

His Goings

 His goings 

Are from everlasting

He was always going to,

And his goings 

Always became comings,

As he'd come, to someone,

Patriarchs blinked,

And in a flash,

A flutter of lashes,

He was come and gone,

Melchizedek made many times over,

A night long tussle,

A fiery companion 

God's servant.

Don't think the thing with the fish was a first.

He's been making goings since the beginning,

Shimmying in and out of history's paper thin membrane,

Peekaboo with adult people,

Instant in their infancy,

Even Abraham, in his dotage,

A sapling, searching for forest-light,

Beneath branches of the ancient of days,

His comings and goings,

His means and his ways,

Found in the fallopian highway,

A suitable vehicle,

He sidled in,

Immaculate,

Infinite,

Instant,

Insistent,

In Utero,

He smiles and turns the key,

Yes,

He came,

Good to go.

Ephrathah

Rachel didn't make it,

Her bones rest by the roadside,

Saul saw nothing,

Though he came so close,

Another man,

He turned, dejected,

The steep slope of his sword,

Summoned him,

Returning to the earth,

There seven sons passed,

But failed,

Fell by the wayside,

The poet preferred to their prowess,

For the suitable successors;

The shepherd shall be substitute,

But Bethlehem's bread,

Was yet to be fed,

The one who would come,

Came from before,

The One whose goings are from everlasting,

The genesis of recreation,

The head of the snake,

Eats the tail of revelation,

Oh Ephrathah 

Never far,

From where we are,

You are by no means the least

Genesis 35:19. 1 Samuel 10:2, Micha 5:2 NKJV

My studies took me to Bethlehem this morning. I am studying the anointing of King David at Bethlehem. It turns out, the first mention of that place in scripture is that Rachel (Jacob's wife) died, and was buried on the way there. Then comparing Saul to David, a thematic contrast between the flesh and spirit, Adam and Christ (As they respectively are types) I found that Saul had been sent there, to Rachels tomb, by Samuel, but not to Bethlehem itself. And of course the brothers were passed over at Bethlehem, in favor of David. David was anointed there, but he himself was a picture, and not the real thing. The bread that would be provided in Bethlehem ultimately, was yet to come, and even now, although he has come, he is still to come. So many nearlys, so many not quites. And it turns out that one we are waiting for (Micha 5:2) IS already, and his goings are from everlasting, and his redemption is only ever just around the corner. Late in time? well, yeah, kinda....

Borne

 The manger,

And the cross,

Wooden scaffolds.

Would hold the weight,

Elevate,

The naked state,

Man and God combined.

On wooden arms,

In wooden palms,

Christ the saviour is borne.