Writer’s block
Is simply
A fear
That the words
That come out
That get put
Down
On paper
Won’t do justice
To the images
Floating
Around
In your head.
That what you
Write
Will be lost,
Will not mean
Anything
To anyone
But yourself
If you’re
Lucky.
But do your
Best
To push the fear
Away.
Let the words
Out.
Taking the chance
Is better than staying
Silent.
Category: poetry
Easter
Humble wood,
from the bark of a simple tree.
Seemingly innocent, but this
is where You died for me.
The bark nailed together,
You nailed to it.
You did nothing wrong,
but here, You paid my debt.
You were mocked and laughed at,
cursed at and jeered.
You could have saved Yourself, but You stayed.
So my name could be cleared.
To the tomb You went,
locked behind a stone.
But here, You wouldn’t stay.
Your place is on the throne.
Three days later, You conquered
death and the grave.
All that suffering and torture,
so that me, You could save.
No greater love exists,
than what You showed me here.
You tore down every wall.
You took care of every fear.
Sin has no hold anymore,
death has no power.
All my thanks goes to You,
my Lord, my Strong Tower.
If I Had
If I had
Tried it first, earlier
in life,
I would have had more
Time,
To be better.
If I had
Never quit, or given up
the dream,
I would have had the
Chance,
To be the one.
If I had
Never tried, at all
to compete,
I would have never felt
The heartbreak,
Of never being enough.
If I had
Chosen this, instead of that
aspiration,
I might have more
Answers.
Or I might be even more
Lost.
If I had,
Or if I hadn’t…
Would I still be
Who I am
Now?
Cap
It’s mostly royal blue,
With some fading along the edges,
From the Arizona sun, over time.
There’s a simple white letter,
That’s not so clean anymore,
From red clay dirt, with age.
Salty sweat trails peak and plateau,
Showing the highs and lows
Of a season, of a life.
What’s its purpose, why
Was it made? Only for protection?
Only to shield? To shade?
It protects more than skin,
But knowledge, wisdom, a
Love for the game and those who play.
It shields from the storm,
When the game, life, gets hard,
Absorbing the pelting drops with ease.
It handles the thunder, the anger,
Holding together as wind rips through,
Still there when the gusts are over.
It shades a smile, a grin,
A laugh bigger than life,
A person who loves his profession.
It’s mostly royal blue,
With a simple white letter,
It protects, it shields, it shades—
And it’s more than just a cap.
Shot
Sometimes you take a shot
And get lucky-
Everything fits and looks just right.
Other times the shot
Needs some editing, some revision-
Before it works according to plan.
Sometimes you simply miss
Completely, utterly, fully-
And are left with crumbled pieces.
But sometimes what you make
Out of the pieces, from the mess-
Is better than what you had hoped for.
Is better than what you had planned.
Choose
How do you choose
Between—
Two people,
Two lives,
Two dreams?
When the choice changes
Everything—
That is,
That was,
That could be?
When your heart aches
For each—
Possibility,
Probability,
Prosperity?
But your head longs
For logic—
Security,
Stability,
Sensibility?
Which is the right, which
Is the wrong—
Direction,
Decision,
Destination?
Or is the mistake
Simply—
Not choosing
Anything
At all.
Little Things
It’s the little things
most don’t notice.
An ear, flicking
Listening,
To what you say.
Whether it’s voiced.
Or through movement.
Or not at all.
An eye, blinking,
Thinking
Of what you want,
Warm and soft, full.
Or cold and distant.
Empty, unforgiven mistakes.
A muscle, twitching,
Reacting,
To something small.
A reminder of how light,
How soft, sensitive,
You need to be.
A muzzle, blowing,
Searching,
For anything you might give.
Breathing into your palm,
Or your ear. Putting you
Back
together.
It’s the small pieces of
Themselves.
They so freely give,
To replace the pieces
Of our own hearts
That go missing.
And it’s these little things,
Most don’t notice.
Maker
Imagine the carpenter
Hovering over plain, shapeless wood,
Running His finger tips over the surface,
Picturing the piece He’ll create.
Take a look at the artist,
His hand curled around His brush,
Selecting each color, pressing each stroke,
Treasuring the image on the canvas.
Be sure to watch the
writer,
Chewing on the end of His pen,
Crafting the story, choosing each word,
Feeling the narrative as it unfolds.
Do your best to fathom,
How it looks when all of these combine,
Into one Master, Creator, Maker,
The God who doesn’t make mistakes.
Picture Him hovering over
every piece and part,
Selecting each shape, each color with care,
Crafting every detail of every day,
Writing each moment, choosing each word.
Wrap your head around this truth,
And hold it deep inside your heart,
Even the pieces you don’t like,
Even the story lines you can’t understand,
Are still a part of His masterpiece.
Are still a part of His perfect plan.
Reflection
Reflection,
Of what is there,
Or of what you wish?
Showing you what’s real,
Or showing you what could be?
Does it show just the current,
Or is the past seen, too?
Can it go beyond the physical,
Or are emotions beyond its grasp?
Is it solid, smooth, easy to reach,
Or does the cold glass leave you fragile?
Is the pool quiet, still, at peace,
Or do ripples tear it all away?
What do you see, that’s there?
What do you want, that’s not?
Either way, just hesitate, or blink,
And it will all be different.
Barn
It’s not much, but it’s everything.
The small, metal building.
It’s quiet, except for the soft
Chewing, and snorting—contentment
Saying more than noise ever could.
The world can’t reach her here,
No negativity, or questions,
No stress or doubt. It’s only
A place of peace, of dreams.
And unconditional love.
Life gets left behind, as soon
As her feet cross the threshold.
Her heart beats with purpose
In the place where hope can be held,
Even if everything else stands against it.
One Word at a Time 