Poppies
See the poppies grow
by the wayside.
Announcing summer’s joy
against a passing snow.
Their glistening ruby
red infusing blooms,
do tame the stark and bitter
winds, each flower to obey.
As love’s messengers
they dance before our eyes,
with warm vitality
and hope which long endures.
Hear them sing
of coming days so bright,
an end to frigid winter’s night,
a balm to sooth the dreary.
See the poppies grow,
within their petals healing,
and marvel at their beauty
against the snow.
~FS
This, for those afraid of the grave–
and who among us isn’t?
(moldy, wet and dark with images of worms,
and creepy things)
But what of light, and breezes:
imagine the grave, up in the air—
a crystal-lined prism cut into the sky,
rectangular and brimming with brightness.
Up into this portal we are raised,
from which our souls emerge,
resplendent, on the other side.
Passing through this open door
we enter into the vastness
of our new home.
Perhaps this is so–
as we are lowered into the earth,
we are also lifted up,
through the crystal doorway.
Grave and doorway–
mirror images,
reflected about this life
on Earth.
~FS
Everything
begins its life veiled
beneath the surface
and hidden from view.
Cultivate your inner soil
through prayer–
before the plant is seen,
roots are growing
below the surface.
The field that appears fallow,
or barren,
will bloom in time—
the persistent farmer
eventually harvests his reward.
Words are the clothing
our thoughts,
and motives wear
when visiting others.
But we disrobe entirely
in the presence of
The One who made us.
There are no clothes
to hide our thoughts
from Him.
Our forebearers
picked forbidden fruits,
but we through prayer
will bear the hidden fruits.
~FS
Pray first
and pray always–
every good thing
springs forth from the fertile soil
of prayer.
Prayer is the mother
of all virtues,
and the womb
of all noble thoughts.
In prayer
we reach out to the Spirit,
and His Fruits
are placed in our hands.
There is no thievery
in prayer.
It is supplication,
and a gift of mercy—
freely given.
Prayer is a fertile field,
filled with wheat,
flowing in waves,
sun-drenched and golden.
The very Bread
of Life
is risen in the ovens
of prayer.
Pray first
and pray always.
~FS
Am I the spider,
or am I the fly?
Busily making my webs,
or being trapped by them?
Layer upon layer of silky threads,
wrapping, encasing, and hardening.
Ambitious and industrious,
dizzy and nauseous.
Round, round and round,
spinning, spinning and spinning.
Am I the spinner,
or am I the spun?
~FS
Like longtime friends,
these habitual sins,
again and again,
make their home within.
Closer than family,
they know us innately,
fond of their company,
we invite them to stay.
We know that we shouldn’t,
we said that we wouldn’t,
we may act like we couldn’t,
yet we’ve made them co-tenants.
They people our thoughts,
doing away with all oughts,
we gave, and they got
to scheme and to plot.
How long will they stay?
At least they should pay,
here day after day,
but what can I say?
We’re housemates you know,
‘round the fires warm glow,
these sins and I show,
that we’re friends here below.
All greasy and comfortable,
neck deep in our meals,
gluttons ‘round the table,
we like how we feel.
In the basement with despair,
sucking out all the air,
while I play solitaire,
through dirty windows we stare.
In the pool, on the patios,
my lusts dance and carouse.
Images from daydreams,
let out giggles and screams.
Feeling popular and famous,
these crowds intravenous,
with raised glasses they cheer me,
in my mind it’s a party.
Overhead and around me,
pride’s my structural framing.
With self-love as my floor,
vanity’s my front door.
Mine is a tower on a hill,
flashy and glittery-gilt.
Specters of fame and of stars,
fill this house made of cards.
My guests are all clamorous,
freeloaders and odorous.
They are having a ball,
while I trip and I fall.
And of vice these are many,
each one costing me plenty.
Though their promises generous,
my debt’s growing more onerous.
I’ll kick them to the curb,
where they’ll no longer perturb.
But oh how entirely absurd,
that I find I’m immured.
The need here is great,
I should not hesitate.
My house is unsound,
but I find myself bound.
Looking for an ally,
to crash this mad party,
a Spiritual Strongman
to put this intrusion to an end.
He’ll send them off packing,
with a thorough tongue-lashing,
give my house a clean sweep,
then I’ll have a sound sleep.
Once my house is set right,
from its devilish plight,
and my mind is set free,
from this demonic jamboree;
I’ll give my house a remodel,
with thoughts godly and noble,
and through self-discipline and prayer,
this fixer-upper I will repair.
~FS
How can we possibly hear
the quiet and still voice of God
and understand the promise of eternity
amidst the shrill cacophony of death?
My senses are tumbled and my mind reels
at the constant, steady drip drip drip
of the loves I have lost lost lost.
While the hope of eternal reunion is an image
seen darkly at best through a clouded glass,
I see clearly the path and trajectory of this life,
slipping away, and all I hold dear dying before my eyes.
Prayer binds the wounds and soothes the pain
for a time, but then the misery of death marches on.
I’m a child with little true understanding
and I cannot pretend to understand,
nor can I play games to distract me
from what I see or from what I feel;
snacks and funny movies don’t help me forget.
What recourse do I have here
if I am honest with myself?
Just time, and the passage of time?
There may very well be a future hope
and a life eternal, I do believe it.
But flesh and emotion are howling now.
Perseverance and patience
through the suffering, I can feel it.
Within the ashes of my loss
there remains an ember of love
a small heat with potential to reignite.
I need God’s breath to blow across me again
to bring resurrection and renewed conflagration,
to bring a fire of love that enkindles my limbs,
and enlightens my life while I live.
~FS
Just past midway
upon the journey
my soul slackened its pace,
to find a moment’s rest,
and found a hidden place.
Beneath the trees
among the grasses
there stood a sign which read–
“Be well, and sortle in this place
but not to slumber relaxicated.
To those prone to urbumpkining
dethrope, unbeam and enpeacelate.”
Perhaps this trek had been too dear
my mind muddled from the strain.
The meaning of these words
was hidden from my brain.
I drew closer to the sign
to bring focus to my mind.
As the words they carried on–
“Despair not, Insprevelent!
Philathea aleatin,
bemosphorel intayalen.
All life is made a Sacrament!”
Alas I had a footing
to discern this cryptic writing.
Just enough of native tongue
encouraged me to carry on–
“These words writ for discovery
present symbolic mystery,
what cannot be known mentally
can be unearthed noetically.”
Then I had a glimpsing
and a notion of its meaning.
A still and silent whispering
and a prayer within me stirring.
I mused as I continued on–
‘Perhaps I’m not midway at all
but have barely just begun.’
*Glossary:
Sortle: a gentle rest for the soul; but one that includes a watchfulness and readiness for spiritual battle.
Relaxicated: taking rest to an unhealthy extreme, leading to a sort of intoxication, sloth or laziness.
Urbumpkining: derision or prejudice aimed at others; found often among those living in cities towards people of the countryside, although not limited to these groups; acting in an arrogantly derisive way.
Dethrope: an act of humble abdication; to dethrone one’s pride while simultaneously disrobing one’s self-esteem and vanity.
Unbeam: to focus on one’s own vices for the purpose of becoming virtuous; to ‘remove the beam from one’s own eye and not to focus on the speck in another’s eye’.
Enpeacelate: to actively and intentionally seek a state of inner stillness; to set aside that which creates discord.
Insprevelent: to find inspiration in the created world and see God’s revelation through the everyday things of life; sometimes used as an expression, or exclamation of encouragement.
Noetically: done through the nous or the intellect, but not reason; instead from the heart or the depths of the soul.
~FS
Three poplars rising to the sky
reaching upward impossibly high
towering over this earth and me
they tell a tale of eternity.
Like Jacob’s ladders side by side
these poplars joining earth to sky
or if they’re seen the other way ‘round
like heavenly arms reaching to the ground.
Their crenelated tops swaying in the breeze
sunlight dances upon their leaves
each leaf an angel, each branch a rung
ascending, descending angels in the sun.
Swelling, contracting their branches are spun
inhaling, exhaling like an enormous lung
their breathing speaks of hidden lives
beneath, behind this veiled world of mine.
Beneath the earth their roots entwined
all three sharing one life we find
appearing as distinct entities
these poplars instead, are just one tree.
A symbol of the Trinity
God made for us this poplar tree
the form and symbol very clear
yet subtler made in sun and air.
Around and through these trees the rays
of sun and wind about them plays
the Son, the Spirit and the Father
on full display through states of matter.
~FS
Pride has locked me in a cage, where I sit;
indulging my selfish desires willingly
and becoming bloated by them.
My eyes won’t gaze beyond these confines;
while everything they see
appears as a reflection only of me.
Free me from this squalor that I’ve loved;
don’t let me be the dog
that returns to his vomit.
But let me be the little dog;
who gathers crumbs beneath Your table
and feeds upon Your flesh.
Train my eyes to see only you, O Lord.
My ears to hear only your voice, O Master.
This pride has left me in the cold;
a heart where dwells my vanity
in sweet and sickly emptiness.
Please don’t leave me here throughout this night;
but let me sleep upon Your bed
and feel the warmth that is Your love.
Call me from this dog’s house;
into the Master’s chamber
and let me gaze into Your eyes.
Place me on your leash and lead me;
tether me to Your mercy
and don’t let me stray.
I will wait at the door until You return;
Come to me and let me be
at your side forever.
~FS
Prayerful Life 