Something I Cannot Summon

I crave the fire

The flames again

I crave desire

I call The Name

The time has come

And has been coming

The time for passion

The season's change,

And Oh, My God,

I have been running

But you've seemed always

Out of range,

I crave the fire

The flames again

I crave desire

I call The Name

I find myself

In need of you,

In want of you

And your burning love,

My efforts cannot

Hold a candle,

However hard I huff and puff,

However much I push and shove,

I crave the fire

The flames again

I crave desire

I call The Name

I'm looking for

The overflow of heaven,

The Spirit's fire,

The pent-up flood,

The living-water-table rising

Filled up from the heart of God,

I don't want hype

Or human effort,

I want God,

Or shut up shop

I don't want something 

That I cannot summon,

I want something

That I cannot stop

I crave the fire

The flames again

I crave desire

I call The Name

When You're Young

When you're young,

You can squander good will,

Thinking that good will fill,

Your days,

But count the ways'

It's only 'if's and 'may's

And, if it may be, the will, will evaporate

With youth's haze,

The hand retracted

The unreturned gaze,

When you're old,

It's all silver and gold,

A gaze is as good as a hand to hold,

And good will grow still,

Like fast moving mould,

Whatever the source, you can't turn it down,

That you take what you find is wisdom's crown,

For fewer and further between,

Will you find the will

That's good

And clean,

And you cherish it

It is your King and Queen,

When you're young you scoff at it,

Like it's something obscene.

Not Alone

Are you tired, all you introverts?

Are you worn out and spent?

Are you constantly hounded?

Wondering where your alone-time went?

Are you sat there at the party,

Asking when's okay to leave?

Polite smiles on the outside,

While inside you want to plead,

'Please, please, please, please

Please can I go home?'

Introverts I want you to know,

That you are not alone,

And that's the problem.

Introverts, we feel you,

Introverts, don't moan,

We'll all gather 'round  you,

And hug away the alone,

I want you to know, 

That you're never on your own,

Introverts, we love you,

There's no need to groan,

Introverts we're here for you,

 Introverts, you're not alone,

And that might just be the problem.

BFF

Thank you, thank you,

Thanks Bunkfest,

For knowing that this

Was the right time to invest,

In words and people,

And all the poets were blessed

You know, Bunkfest fringe,

You're my new BFF,

At the start I wanna say thanks

Get it off of my chest

Bunkfest Fringe

You're my new BFF!

On Prayer

Kyung-Ho was a prayer warrior,

His lips made more sound than the words that came out of them,

I strained to hear, the broken English,

I could hear his tongue moving more than the breath that came over it,

A whispered supplication to the Father Almighty,

I strained to hear but the words were not for me.

This prayer was not performance, nor posturing, 

The audible weight of the words so light,

They barely grazed the air they passed through,

So gentle, if it were a wind, it would not move the pappus from a dandelion,

A blade of grass would remain unstirred.

I thought of him, as one of those hibernating creatures,

Who could slow their heartrate to untraceable pulses,

On the edge of life, itself,

Teetering almost into death.

Don't die, I thought,

Don't die.

I did not recognise the strength,

I did not perceive the passion,

For that I needed volume,

Or tears.

Some indication of power and force.

But Kyung-Ho was a warrior,

One evening, when our community gathered,

For a teaching session on prayer,

And the family of nations presented themselves there,

The teacher asked for intercession,

Prayers for the lost.

A man of experience, 

He asked the Koreans to pray in their own language, for once.


I stood under the waterfall of noise that night,

The words that poured out of  those two men,

Washed over us,

Washed over our senses in wonderous, thunderous waves,

They woke us up,

We were swept along, senseless and uncomprehending, with the force of them,

My heart stirred from it's depths,

Tears cascaded down my cheeks.

The passion was undeniable,



And Kyung-Ho was seen at last,

Revealed like the son he was,

That he'd always been,

But by me, unseen,

And reflecting on it, years later,

I concluded that this perception of mine was the real change,

Not his volume, not his passion,


Spiritually speaking,

In whispered English,

Or cacophonous Korean,

They had never changed,

Kyung-Ho was a prayer warrior,

And his soul was a mountain.

Elopement

Can an ant elope

With an antelope? 

Because it can't elope 

With a cantaloupe.

18 Years

18 Years

Today my grief becomes an adult

It takes responsibility for itself

It is self aware

It understands to a greater degree its' impact on others

It is less pained than in it's infancy or adolescence

These days there is less screaming

But the loss has formed me,

Like a missing limb affects your gait 

I am who I am because of you

And because you are not

For the longest time 

Memory was pain

And grief halted everything

But these days

Grief is fruitful

And my memory is sweet

With a sharpness

That brings focus.

I will not waste 

This taste

This aftertaste

Of You