Category: Poems

Pride—

pharisaical,

and truly parasitical,

I feel you cling to me;

dangling from my members.

Like mistletoe,

with a kiss so smooth,

though deadly.

 

Pride—

so serious,

yet ultimately ridiculous,

I’ve let you ride me;

put a bridle in my mouth.

Like a monkey,

on my back you drive me,

and you goad me.

 

Pride—

you’ve put me on parade,

and made me your showhorse:

I jump, I dance, and I prance,

to win the prize,

before my eyes,

manufactured by your trance.

 

You’ll whisper in my ear I know,

a secret tale of fear,

and woe:

you and I are a chimera,

from our head down to

our toes.

 

Oh pride—

What would you do though,

if I no longer allowed you?

 

Without your sweet mirages,

your tantalizing images:

my life no longer just a vapor,

a falsity and nothing more,

if you tumbled from my back and

my proper vision were restored.

 

~FS

We cannot remember,

a time when God walked among us.

Now we are estranged;

some of us determined He is no more.

How the holy have fallen,

splintered fragments of former glory.

The city on a hill has fallen,

its gates broken and destroyed.

How its beauty and youth,

have been plundered and squandered.

We have become content,

with far less than what was intended for us.

We live like babes in a nursery,

enamored by toys and squabbling over them.

We are intelligent and advanced,

yet not nearly as dissimilar to toddlers as we ought to be.

We’ve left our natural habitat among the stars,

and traded the heavens for homes made of mud.

We cloud the clear waters of our nature with sin,

and mar the surface of still waters through busy-ness.

 

We do not see our God with us—

Is He with us?

Does He walk still among us even now?

Is He standing here with us in plain sight;

in Spirit and in Truth?

We no longer see spirit,

and no longer know truth.

 

We seek our God halfway,

in measured increments on a Sunday.

We wait to get serious,

until the hour of our death.

We hope it will not come too soon,

we are not ready, have not prepared.

Give us just a little more time,

and then we will change our ways.

We live today as if it will last forever,

and treat forever as if it will never come.

 

If we could only remember the time,

when God walked among us—

We would not then settle for anything else.

 

~FS

Sunny Vader—

Little known cousin

of that dark villain Darth.

Hippy love child,

born of the stars.

 

She dances to the

music of the spheres:

a galactic gypsy,

with nebula daydreams,

and starfire drum circles.

 

Her days are like diamonds;

crystal pure and sparkly.

Her nights are as rubies;

molten and incandescent.

 

Sunny delights—

at the rumble of the thrusters,

rocketing her tumbling through space.

The hum of a phaser,

her pink light saber,

both put a smile on her face.

 

Her helmet’s adorned

with flowers and paisleys.

Her gloves are both sequin lined.

And when she puts on her black platform shoes;

she always has a good time.

 

Each year in the spring,

as Darth roams the galaxy,

sowing his chaos and violence—

Sunny sips a nice absinthe,

makes sachets of hyacinth,

and funkily bides her time.

 

Summer is when Sunny begins to shine,

leaving the Jawas and Sand-folk behind;

skipping the heat of Tatooine,

hitching a ride in a limousine—

sharing a seat in the stretch spaceship,

hopping the galaxy with the cool and the hip.

 

She’s Sunny Vader—

Peace.

Love.

And may the force be with her.

 

~FS

Life,

so young and fragile,

barely emerging before interring.

Tender and soft,

then lost.

 

Rosy cheeks and dimpled chin,

so fresh and cherished.

Warm the heart and the spirit,

like sunrise or a favorite glen.

 

Then all retire,

bringing shadows,

and darkness,

once again.

 

Yet in this flickering light,

we glimpse at beauty,

and dear life,

the magic of unfolding,

incredible, awe-inspiring,

so sweet and ever pure.

 

Then sleep eternal;

You,

of innocence and trusting—

 

Until we meet again.

 

~FS

I long to live always

as one dwelling

in oneness with creation—

 

Feeling the surf surge

within my own breast;

and not to merely watch

the waves as they crash upon the sand.

 

I want the wind to blow

through my lung’s branches,

in unison with the limbs of the fir and the pine.

 

Inhaling with each exhalation,

sharing breath and life,

with the trees—

 

Sweet camphor breath,

fragrant and sanguine,

all our lives intertwined.

 

I long to rest amidst the grasses,

under the golden sun,

and to feel my mind’s meadows blooming,

within the fertile soil of God’s eternity.

 

Feeling,

in stillness and peace,

the sharp edges of our calibrated time softening;

the ebb and flow of each day’s light,

like a lullaby to the soul.

 

~FS

Thank you Lord.

You’ve given me pillows,

for my mind to take rest—

gentle, fluffy emptiness;

clouds of stillness.

 

You knew I needed rest

from ceaseless thoughts:

these spectral wanderings,

arid breezes, swirling,

and stirred up;

tossed tumbleweeds,

scattering,

across the landscape of my mind.

 

I lay now,

upon a bed of prayers,

spoken from the lips

of anonymous friends,

and I rejoice in You.

 

My heart is drained of its sorrow;

that festering swamp,

disappearing;

starving the mosquitoes,

who have engorged themselves,

on my misery—

little monsters,

demons of the underworld.

 

My soul rests in You;

safely guarded by Your Spirit,

so I sleep—

I sleep a deep, dreamless sleep.

I am restored by Your mercy and Your love.

I am guarded by Your justice and Your law.

 

What You ordained, has come to be,

and will be forevermore.

Thank you for still waters,

carrying me safely to Your shore.

 

~FS

I sat to play the devil in a game of chess,

what a fool.

 

He gave me the first move,

playing the gentleman.

 

I stepped out in hope,

then paused.

 

He countered with desire,

for a meaningless thing.

 

Too easy I thought,

and made my second move.

 

He responded with pungent memory

of bittersweet misdeeds.

 

Cunning, but my repentance

took his pawn.

 

He then cornered me,

with crippling despair.

 

And in three quick moves he’d conquered me:

lured out with desires,

baited by self-satisfaction,

and toppled by unguarded memory and emotion.

 

I surveyed our game, which I’d lost before,

searching out his stratagem and trickery.

 

“But I notice you have no king.”

I said to my opponent.

 

“I need no king, I rule myself.”

He replied with a sneer.

 

“But you’ve lost before you’ve started,

playing chess without a King.”

 

“And where’s your King,

of empty promises and no return?”

 

When the devil is attacking,

I’m at a loss of what to say.

 

So I prayed for a reply,

that would make him go away.

 

He leaned across the table,

and with his sneery, grimy smile—

 

He repeated his pointed question,

then leaned back self-satisfied.

 

“Have you forgotten my King rose again,

appearing to five-hundred in plain view?

 

There’s nothing empty in His promises,

we both know that this is true.

 

He will be coming back again,

and when that time has come—

 

This chess match for my soul will end,

and with it, so will you.”

 

He flashed a fearful, wicked glance,

in malice, moved his first, cruel pawn.

 

And with a renewed violence,

He announced the game was on.

 

~FS

I read about a peony spending its whole day giving fragrance to the wind,

And I thought to myself, I’d like to be a peony.

 

Then I saw three ducks taking flight and leaving ripples on a lake,

And I wished in my heart, I were a lake.

 

Then I heard a squirrel chattering from high overhead upon a limb,

And I wondered, what would I say if I were him—

 

Would I wish I were an acorn?

Or when I looked into the sky, would I long to be a passing cloud?

 

Might I wish to be the oak I’m perched on,

or to be whisked far beyond the ground?

 

Imagine spending your whole day giving fragrance to the wind—

And still having a place to call home at night.

 

I spend my days doing the business of making a living,

Because living like a peony is a riddle I cannot solve.

 

If I were a lake I would be homeless,

Because a lake has no home.

 

And if I were a talking squirrel,

I’d be richer than my wildest dreams—

 

And then I could spend my days giving fragrance to the wind.

 

 

 

 

~FS

 

Death, my old friend

I’m afraid we are at an impasse.

We’ll just need to agree

to disagree.

 

You come to take all my beloved.

I can’t let them go.

 

I’ll look the other way

pretending not to notice.

You’ll carry on

taking what you can.

 

But know, my friend

this arrangement is not forever.

 

And time will come—

 

When all you’ve gained will be lost.

And all I’ve lost will be gained.

 

Our charade will be over—

 

No, not friends, old death.

Not friends at all.

 

But carry on, death

you hold all the cards, for now

I’ll look away while you take the pot.

 

Take it all

and carry on,

but only for a little while longer.

 

~FS

A mother’s love

is tangible and true.

There is no doubt of it

for the babe at her breast.

 

The love of God

leaves room for doubt.

In our search for

milk and honey.

 

I am as one grumbling

in the wilderness;

descended from those

ancient wanderers.

 

Ripped from the womb

and cast to the ground.

I toil and I till

until Your return.

 

Return me to my womb,

that native land which raised me.

Or lead me across my Jordan,

through death into rebirth.

 

I never doubted my mother’s love:

so plain to see.

But you hide Your love:

I struggle to know it.

 

I was born of flesh,

I see with fleshly eyes.

And I felt the warmth

of my mother’s hands.

 

But You are spirit

known only by spirit.

 

If I must go,

then rip me from this land,

and cast me to the wind:

or feed me manna by Your hand.

 

~FS