Thirty//Thirty 15/30: Song of Psalms

two-faced Janus
talking out both ends
a silver-forked tongued devil
still trying to make amends
a Judas kiss
why can't we be friends

gave you up
hoping you'd deliver
sold my soul
for thirty pieces of silver
but it broke my heart
yah, it broke my heart
maybe it's a start
baby, it's a start

sin it adds up
till it start to compound
blood on my hands
still it won't come out
fall on my knees
to you the Lord I shout

Thirty//Thirty 2014 7/30: I am sinner, hear me roar.

God, bless the rains down in Africa.

The parched plain, choking on chaff
and the ozone of the upcoming deluge
of Genesis proportions and implications.

It is an old wives' tale
of how far away the storm lay
counting seconds between thunderclaps
congratulating bench work
as the ball strikes the bedposts.

Yet make no mistake:
there is truth in the telling.

You can also hear the lion's roar
up to three miles away,
but he could always be closer.
Looking for someone to devour
the enemy prowls around
sampling
a little of everyone in his path
tasty morsels feasting on the flesh
of the Father's children.

Bearded Ballads 10/30: Fishing

Our lives 

intersect like shipping lanes

as poems

trawl the open waters

for words.

Struggling with the

nets all night

but because

You say so,

we’ll let them down

again.

Beginning to break

all for your sake.

Go away from me,

for I am a sinful man.

Laying out the ground rules.

 

I had a show tonite with my new band project Whitman's Ghost.  We're a six-piece Americana/folk outfit that writes all original music.  We've only just begun (four months or so) and we still need to iron out some things, but we've got a really fun sound.  I'm also in this other band (first and foremost) called The Echo & Sway who just celebrated five glorious years.

I'm finding that a little something on the side isn't necessarily a bad thing.  What I am realizing, however, is that there always comes a little bad with the good.  As of tonite's post, I'm in the middle of a four-gig stretch (plus practices) in a little over a week.  Next Tuesday I've got a short fiction reading in Williamsport at Alabaster. 

Long story short: I'm finally coming to terms with a bit of depression after the fact.  Had a really great show tonite, really great, and stuck around to listen to American Opera whom we opened for.  Got home, though, after the second act and all my kibitzing, relaxing with the wife and watching an episode of our show.  Suddenly, I realize that as the credits roll how sad I am.

It's not that there's anything really wrong with me.  I could have talked longer, offered the musician a place to stay the nite, helped close up shop...trying to get a fix on the problem.  The problem is that I'm trying too hard to put my finger on a pulse that is only beating improperly because I'm making it so.  Please, let me explain.

I'm not doing my duty as a christian, as a man of God, as a matter of fact.  Did I pray before tonite's gig?  Nope.  Did I pray after tonite's gig?  Not then, either.  What about five years with The Echo & Sway?  Can say I can recall definitely one.  And therein lies the problem:  the fact that I'm the odd man out in these situations (a third of WG and half of TE&S) is really only the tip of the iceberg.  No wonder my Titanic self-esteem gets ripped apart once things have concluded.

Like I said, we did well tonite.  I can point out positives and negatives, but that's something I do on a minute-to-minute basis anyhow.  With last Saturday's performance, the show was EPIC.  For an anniversary show we were golden.  Seriously.  You can't make this stuff up.  (You could, but I can't embellish that much.)  The joking around, spot-on poems, even getting past the flubs--is was the cat's meow.

I'm no slouch behind the mic.  Could really use an instrument to round things out, but I have fun with what I'm doing, and it's hard to dance with a guitar.  I've been given a gift with voice, harmony, writing.  But it's not from me.  God has given me the fruit of the Spirit and I should be honing it through prayer, praising Him for the gifts He's given me, even using them to show others what Christ has done through little 'ol me.

Plan of Attack

Right before bed, I bring up some silly story idea about a faerie magician who has a monkey wrench blasting rod.  I've not gotten any further than an object and a short paragraph detailing just how said object was being contrived by one whom would be unable to wield such a weapon, due to his fae nature.  This had been discussed previously today with a colleague, I'd have a lot of  explaining to do: the logistics simply weren't there.

Enter wife.  After going on about this at length after prayers (and doing a horrible job of reiterating what my intentions were for the character and said weapon) she says to me:

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Of course." I say, knowing full well she's going to tell me not to listen to this writer-friend of mine, to just go with whatever idea it is that makes it my story.

"I think you should set yourself a deadline for the book."

I'm flabbergasted, to say the least.  That she didn't take the route she normally would, of course; what's worse, she offered something so preposterous that would lead to things like goals.  Time management.  Maybe even...sacrifice.

We bat back and forth the idea of having something ready to send out to a publisher (?!) by Christmas.  At the very least, I can have a nice gift to give this year.  She doesn't fail to point out that this was indeed the goal I've been setting for myself the last two years in a row.

Knowing I'm a bit of a numbers guy, she conned me into my birthday on 08/18.  I tried to jockey for more time.  08/18/18 would be so much better.  For hating math, I'm a little nutty when it comes to repetition [insert weird sounding math term here.]

"Absolutely not," she states, "that would be another five years."

I mumble something about Stan Lee not getting his start until 40, but to no avail.

I suggest we pray about it, but give the stipulation that she be the one to do the praying.  It was her idea.  I try for the impossible, knowing full well that she's not an "out loud" prayer.  We're quiet: I empty my head to listen to my wife, to God and His direction and will for my life.

But I really hear her.  I almost can't believe it because even though were close, she's got this cold--enough so that this is the first time in five months of marriage that I've seen her prop her head up to sleep--and the humidifier is turned up full blast.

It's faint, but boy-howdy she's whispering a prayer somewhere under her breath, I can hear it.

I'm filled with the Spirit for this woman, for this book, for my God.

08/18.

What's seven months, give or take a couple of days?

Christmas 209

Okay, Christmas is over, but definitely something you can celebrate all year long, right?  

Read this poem at church Christmas Eve because we were in the throes of a funding campaign to buy the building Avenue 209 Coffee House is housed in.  The Common Place raised $10,000+ smackers towards the building and renovation fund in less than a month!

A little history on the poem:  

1.  I rarely EVER write poems that rhyme.  Rhyming is for songwriting.

2.  I wrote this our first Christmas Eve in the shop, while we were still renovating the main storefront.  It was cold and barely lit with candles on a stepladder.

Anyhow, amazing that it holds much more love in it today than it did then!

Christmas 209

through the cajoling Christmas crowd

among the hustle and bustle and holiday cheer

long seeking the star of David

treacherous journey brought us here

our own little stable

calling out through the night

humble, main street storefront

guides us here by His light

we looked for awhile

to find the right place

voted down for the variance

should've seen the look on my face

but council wanted us in

still we waited awhile

now know we're on God's time

remembering, with a smile

busted-up, taped-up windows

and the walls bowing in

plastic bags stuffed up there

where an air conditioner once had been

witnessing new beginnings

like Christ in the manger

there's a King in my coffee

what could be stranger?

the wise men could make it

bringing gifts, so can we

grunt work, management, design

slinging espresso, writing poetry

but all the gifts we can give

they can't match His grace

how to hear "job well done"

see that look on His face

the x in x-mas

stands for the cross that he bore

and we need mas Christ muy rapido

because in Spanish mas means more

commit your plans to the Lord

I learned yesterday evening

pray with me on Christ's birthday

to bring Him into this building

Word

As per last week, you know that Pastor Josh over at The Common Place has asked me to write a poem in the weeks leading up to Advent.  In a stunning revelation, he chose to read John 1:1-14, verses that don't overtly include the Christ Child.


In keeping accord with the theme of introducing scripture to Christmas carols, Josh chose "What Child is This" and focused on verse two.  Personally, I think he just wanted to use the pulpit to get away with using the word "ass."

       Why lies he in such mean estate

Where ox and ass are feeding?

Good Christian, fear: for sinners here

The silent Word is pleading.

Nails, spear shall pierce him through,

The Cross be borne for me, for you;

Hail, hail the Word Made Flesh,

The babe, the son of Mary!

In a stunning revelation, Pastor Josh chose to read John 1:1-14, verses that don't overtly include the Christ Child.  Instead of taking us back to the beginning where Christ was born (in the flesh,) John zips us way back to the beginning of everything to where the Trinity was just hanging out and God said: "Let there be light."  God has a message that he wants to communicate with us, and Jesus is how He wants to get that message across.

Christ wasn't accepted in his time because he taught something different than what the people wanted.  They wanted a king to avenge them by force.  It wasn't what Jesus came to do.  What is the voice of God telling you now?  What has He got to say to you in this moment?

Amid all the hustle and bustle of this holiday season, stop and listen a moment for that still, small voice.

LISTEN HERE!

Here's my poem:

What child is this?

Born

to be the bearer

of our bad news

the burden of the cross

that he carries

the weight

of the whole world

in his hands

pierced by the nails

the physical embodiment

of our sin

my name

your name

your name

his

striking

with the hammer of our conviction.

Knock

Pastor Josh over at The Common Place commonplacechurch.com asked me this past week to write up a poem to introduce Advent.  He's starting this five-week series leading up to Christmas with some sermons pointing to traditional Christmas carols and tying them into scripture and the Gospel.

The poem he had me write was about the shepherds, and I think I hit it.  I've been in a conversation recently with my buddy Ben over at superstarrunner.tumblr.com about Advent calendars and the fact that Jesus doesn't get mentioned anymore.  You often just get candy (or in my case, Lego) and He's nowhere to be found.  Advent is about the coming of the Christ child, our savior.  This poem is a bit about that, and what you do get.  

Anyhow, Josh started his series discussing Luke 2:8-20, or the better known Peanuts Christmas special where Linus lays out the real meaning of Christmas.  Josh brought O Come, All Ye Faithful into the mix and the fact that the heavenly hosts made themselves (and Christ) known to shepherds of all people.

"Worship is gladly reflecting back to God the radiance of His worth." says John Piper in Desiring God.  Pastor Josh says that the attitude behind the gift we've been given reflects back to the giver.

What have you been given?  What've you got to give?

LISTEN HERE!

Knock

The countdown to Christmas

isn’t about what’s behind

door number one.

All of that

is already behind you.

Leading up

to this

exact

moment,

the culmination

of the many rooms

within His mansion.

No room at this inn

is no matter.

Shiftless shepherds

make their way.

Sleeping out under the stars

better than behind bars

of the rooms

that keep us

locked away.

Unending numbered days

far afield,

common as

the countless stars above.

How, then,

did they get to be

the chosen ones

to see the star

of the advent

of the

Chosen One?