Escape

I’d like to drive away

Down a winding road

Across state lines

And let them wonder where I am.

Or hit every store

And spend all I have

Buying things I’ll never use.

Maybe stand on a corner

Somewhere

And scream

Until I have nothing left.

Or simply

Speak my mind

Plainly

To those who need to hear it

For once.

Hyperbole

While seated in my pew

Early Sunday morning,

I watch the crowd come drifting in.

I turn the pages of my hymnal.

Lyrics flash before me

                O for a thousand tongues to sing

                My great Redeemer’s praise

Snippets of worship

                Were the whole realm of nature mine

                That were a present far too small

More than lyrics –

Poetry.

My mind goes back to high school English

And all those clever literary devices

Such as alliteration and metaphor.

Hyperbole, she taught us,

Is exaggeration to make a point.

Strategically used

The outrageous can paint a picture

And bring understanding.

Just another tool

Used by these hymn writers

Or so it seems.

But this is God

The Father of all

The Creator of the universe

Beginning and end

(and everything in between)

Holding eternity in His hand.

So I wonder

When it comes to God

Is there really such a thing as hyperbole?

Is it even possible to exaggerate

Anything about the One

Who surpasses all?

As the music begins

I rise from my seat

More than ready to join my voice

With a thousand other tongues

And sing

Of love so amazing, so divine

And offer my soul, my life, my all.

Starting Over

Looking out the window
At my lawn,
I decide that it’s not quite right.
Too many dandelions,
Crabgrass and clover,
And patches of brown scattered everywhere.
I don’t even walk barefoot
Through this grass,
But protect myself with sandals.

The soil is weak from past neglect.
And then there is that
Chemical treatment
That didn’t quite work.
I even tried tilling it over.
That helped
For a while –
Until the first frost.

So I think
Maybe I should move.
New house.  New lawn.
Plant my own grass,
Just the way I like it.
I’d do my best to tend it well,
And I would watch it grow
Thick and green.
And I would run barefoot
Once again.

Scars

We all have them
In different places.
Maybe we don’t remember when
We got them.
Mystery bruises
That appeared the next day,
Even though it really didn’t hurt.
A nick here or there,
Paper cuts
And other annoying things
Faded by time.

But I have a wound
That is no mystery.
I remember clearly when it came.
The time was hard,
The hardest I’ve ever known.
And this scar,
It hurts to touch it even still.
I wince whenever I see it,
And the pain stabs my heart.
But I fear that over time
The pain
Will begin to fade,
Leaving only a tough, callused scar,
And I will lose all feeling.

Creekside

(For Damon)


In the middle of a crowd
You can get alone
            Just to listen.
            Just to be.
You’re taken away to a quiet place.

            Barefoot
You step on stones made smooth
By years of cold water
That trickles down from up the mountain.
Sure, deliberate steps
And a spirit that is still.
            Skipping rocks,
            Collecting pebbles,
Thrilling at the feel of water
As it tickles around your ankles.
Little things you see
            Fool’s gold,
            A small snake,
All manner of interesting insect –
Things that go unnoticed
By we who admire the water
As we pass by and say,
“Wouldn’t it be nice to stop and stay
            Sometime.”

            You’re alone.
And God can talk to you
Because you have chosen
            Just to listen.
            Just to be.

Profile

While looking through photos
Posted by a mutual friend
I saw you.
Not you, really,
But your name tagging your image
Among the smiling faces
From a reunion for the Class of …
It doesn’t matter.

Because when I saw your name,
All I saw
Was my middle school tormentor,
The one who knew my every weakness
And even created a few,
The one who named me after those weaknesses,
The one whose voice remained inside my head
To discourage me
Long after the end of the school day.

I have hardly thought of you
For years
Only if I happened to drive past your old house
On the way to mine.
And I feel certain
You would never remember me.
(You likely forgot about me
The moment you got off the bus
Each day.)

Curious
I found your profile
And was surprised.
I saw not a pimple-faced bully
But a man.
A husband, a father,
A successful entrepreneur,
A friend of many.
Photos of fishing trips,
Children, puppies, your new home, and date nights.
Lists of favorite things,
Some the same as mine.

I won’t request to be your friend.
But it’s nice to be reminded
That anyone can grow up.

Servitude

The best of servants are barely seen,
Rarely heard.
We quietly come and go
And are only noticed
When a mistake is made.
If we dare to be absent,
We are not missed –
Only the task we left unperformed.
They do not see us,
Look into our eyes,
Sense what we feel.
Eyes down
Quiet steps
Hushed voice –
Do not disturb the deserving.
For them is the dinner prepared.
In their honor is the party given.
We wish them good rest
As we turn down silken covers
(Mint on the pillow, the sweet life)
And slip up darkened stairs.

In our humble quarters
We turn down our own beds
And fall quickly to heavy sleep
Knowing not to expect a mint.