The Thundering of Chariots

Awed and confused we watched
beneath the elders of dawn,
distracted by the sudden darkness and mad clatter
of the terrible chariots of rain
thundering down our rooves and onto the terrain,
trees buffeted and bowed by the wind’s wet whips.

The rain rained its blows
within the storm’s sudden throes.

The awe and sound in our dawn
was distracted by the rain
racing down our rooves to its uttermost end
where the splayed leaves tumbled in the wind.

And I heard the screeching singer in this wind
within the tree’s bantering branches
and I saw the helpless dawn
rise like a watcher of the land,
sadly aware of the thundering on our skinny rooves
and rain-torn earth where the waters rose,
where trees bowed beneath the storming hooves.

I feel the Lord in our land;
There is no cleverer One in the branches of the universe.
Yes, I hear the sound of His chariots thundering our land.

And here within the
elders of time, He hurls the dawn;
He rises before us in our awe;
He walks through our
rains and winds surveying the land.

I hear the Lord; He thunders Himself through our skinny rooves,
throughout our stormy earth, through the darkest of our dawns
that remain strapped to the raging waters of our now.

And when we call to His will,
our fears and storms are calmed.

Listen,

I Hear God’s mighty chariots thundering
throughout the earth so buffeted and bowed
by its wind-blown sundering.




The Curiousest Seesaw of them All

Ah, the illustrious lights of our ever-illustrious times;
Ah, the busy little bees whispering in our elephantine ears
here and there and everywhere:
the songs of power, the rising towers,
the chiefest outrages of our times.

Yea, Verily, yea, they sing our
rising songs and stats,
our stately diplomats
and eternal plaintive ditties:
“ah, but this and that.”
“Ah, but also that and this.”

Such it is; such it is;
tis the curiousest seesaw of them all.

Today an unforgivable smirk says
(It says everything in the world, it does)
“I shall sit idly by and
Tempt and tease, tease
and tempt and tempt.”

We sayest in return:

He and she: “No, nay, and nevermore,
Say it isn’t so, say it ain’t so!”

She and he: “By electronic uvulas,
by giga-belly buttons incongruous,
what an unmitigated outrage, that.”

The boggled of us,
the curiousest seasaw of them all.

Truly, these are the giga-bellies;
they glorify the seesaw,
upside, downside.

The boggled of them.

For
no it ain’t so,
No, nay, nevermore for
the whole tip-to-tip
atom-meet-atom
thing of us is all upside, downside
with all philosiphication
and useless contemplation with our ears like elephants
and the love of popularization and fickle sycophants,
and piles of other things sitting idly
on this tip-to-tip seesaw
stretching its long beam
across this all blue-green strip that is.

Tis the curiousiousest seesaw of them all.




The Sea of Light

To the left drifts the glowing star
promoting the night with its oblong light
caressing the dark with a deep, deep rite.

We see the star, the star, the oblong star,
the longish memoir from beyond time’s time,

beyond the cosmic jar
of the speckled, swirling galaxies of light.

We see the glowing star,
here and here, there and there;
we stare there and here,
within the blowing seas of sand

at
the unseen devil in the constellations,
the gelatinous dragon with his hideous secretions,
the struggle with our Sea
stamped on our stars.

Of the star we watch,
we magi of the light,
classified before time’s time,
yes, our sights are on the light.

Beyond the glow, we watched with all of the
night’s inanimate riders of the oblong winds;

As such here and here, right and left,
we see the star in a sea, a sea of light,
classified beyond the first watches

of the time in time we watch,
our sights on the light to the left;
yes, our sights are on the Light.




She’s Going to Dance

She’s Going to Dance

For years she was
Hidden in a body that refused
Refused to move, run, talk
Her motions and voice muted
Muted by Adam’s curse

Even so
She saw
She tried

Soon
Her eyes will be wide open
Her voice released
She will see her Savior and she will sing to him with clarity and praise and intention

She’s going to sing

 

For years she was
Hidden in a body that refused
Refused to talk, move, run
Her movements and gestures broken
Broken by the ravages of disease

Even so
She moved
She tried

Soon
Her feet will not fail her
Her legs unbound
She will run to her Savior and she will run with speed and skill and delight

She’s going to run

 

For years she was
Hidden in a body that refused
Refused to run, talk, move
Her balance and elegance shrouded
Shrouded by years of incapacity

Even so
She dreamed
She tried

Soon
Her frame will not deny her
Her body transformed
She will dance with her Savior and she will dance with beauty and joy and grace

She’s going to dance

 

 

 

*This poem was written in honor of and inspired by Shawna Scarborough.

 


You may also enjoy these original works from Rambling Ever On:




Where I Will Throw Sticks and Rocks in the Waves

I go, then,
to enjoy one of those under-the-evening-
out-of-the-exhausted-daylight-hours moments.

Here is a freshly laid table of
half-eaten desserts and nameless cups of coffee
with the streams of
night flowing toward us
like clouds of sawdust,
with a streamlined echo of animal sounds with tedious edges.

With the darkening dark,
it is an enhanced evening,
an overwhelming experience,
it is a table of love
greater than the daylight hours.

Oh, how I long to ask what it is
that ties our streams
to the virtual world,
that temporary visit.

All the hours,
in they come, out they go,

All the hours.

So I go to enjoy one of those dreams in the evening,
the warmer hours of night,
to this selfsame place wherein is a freshly laid table of
cups of coffee and panels of bread and literature and la-la-la-ing
streaming into an irreplaceable night.

This is the world,
this, this the setting of shops and airports,
this world of words and people and trees,
this trying stream of animal sounds
beyond the table, this indispensable, tedious
cold cloud of sounds.

This table that sits before the growing darkness,
It is an enhancement of our evening.

Yet in the end,
this is not a lasting hour.

We are but experiencing a
stream leading to a joy
beyond all manner of daylight hours.

Oh, how the evening
of these temporal worlds
lengthen;
how the hours prolong
these temporary visits.

Oh, how I long for forever docks
where I will always throw sticks and rocks
in the rick-rocking waves.

 

———-

If you enjoyed this, check out these other original poems!



I Don’t Know Your Face

I don’t know your face.
I know the shape of it. The curves, the lines, the beautiful contours.
I know the idea of it.
But I don’t know your face.
It is hidden to me.
Not always.
Not forever.
Just today. Right now. In this moment of strife.

 

I said words that were beneath me. Words that made less of you. Painful words.
Words ill-fitting and ugly. Unworthy words.
I said them. I meant them. I hate them. I hate myself for saying them.

 

You are no angel.
Your imperfections are beautiful and heartbreaking.
You are mine. I am yours. We take turns hurting, biting, maiming.
That is not who you are. It is not who I am.
It is who we are together.
Not always.
Not forever.
Just today. Right now. In this moment of rancor.

 

You said injurious words. You raged and quaked and yelled.
Your words have broken my heart. They made me feel small. Insignificant. Impotent.
You said them. You meant them. You hate them. You hate yourself for saying them.

 

I love the all of you that I know.
Some parts are hidden. I have kept things hidden as well.
We share those hesitantly. With fear and trembling.
We hold back. It protects us from shame. From rejection. From loneliness.
Together, we reject that shame. We know this.
Always.
Forever.
Today. Right now. In this moment of healing.

 

We made promises before. Promises for then and forever.
We are one. Bodies, spirit, hearts. Knitted together by holy words. A holy vow.
We said them. We meant them. We love them. We love each other for saying them.

 

 




The Progression

The Progression

 

I.

I took my icy water in white cups
when we sipped the evening’s streams
beside the round lava rocks
freezing our forest with dreams.

 

II.

I take tiny cups
with icy water from the evening’s wells
when we dip them with deep
dips in dreaming wells

beside my tick tocking clock
on my mantle of bells.

 

III.

I dip them pell-mell,
the white cups
in the dipping well
of my deep dipping dreams

and
I think thoughts,
and thoughts and droughts,
beside the lithe, long legs of the thinking tree

when I dip my pen
in deep letters
that aren’t the words I mean to say.

 

IV.

And at last we
forgive our human language,
you and me,

in deep wells beside the round, rocking tree

where I
dreamt of the deep deeps

and the deep,
rocking hum of the earth
dreamt and dreams.

 

V.

And there were round founts
where I froze my deeps with dreams
around round river mounts
in the light of day,

and there were uncovered founts
by the long legs of the tree

when we dipped our pens
in deep letters
that weren’t the words we meant to say,
when nostalgia transpired,

and there was heaven
gesturing toward
its gates all along;

that is all
we really needed after all,
that is all.

 

 




He Lies Laying

The v-like manger-cradle
balanced the babe in a bed
so cold but comfortable
    He lay

in the midst of the struggle
the manger-cradle king
with star-found worship
    He lay

when they saw heaven on earth
in the clouds greater than the sun
between the branches of David’s line
    He lay.

Our winter stars shine in adorned
worship when heaven on earth
    lies laying

grace in the midst of our struggle, the
v-like manger-cradle
balances the babe
    lies laying

love in our cold but comfortable
battle worn defense of the fire
    He lies laying

joy when He lay laying
the venom’s lies left
when we left our sins

and truly
the babe lies laying still.




The Lines of Our Joy

Undoubtedly, no amount of writing
describes the unmeasured happy, leaping joy,
the loudly whooping folks and toys,

the happy days,
the mellow ways
the lays, the lines
streaming the tree of time,

doting time,
times of dreams
and dreams in dreams.

I’ll watch them laugh
all splayed with wishes and
ways of yuletide joy

in the measured time,
doting time,
dreams in tracks of time,

the happy days,
doting ways,
dipped in lays and lines
streaming the tree with times,

And no word or measure
defines our happy times and toys
nor the whistling tracks of our timeless joys.




This is the Church

This is the Church

 

It is the beautiful and broken body of Christ.

It is stumbling, faltering, and flawed. Pray for it.

It is vibrant, triumphant, and redeemed. Rejoice in it.

This is the Church

 

It is sacred and marred. Righteous and erring. The blood of the Lamb covers it all; redemption soaking the ground beneath its feet.

It is filled with sinners, hypocrites, blasphemers, and liars saved and transformed by the grace and love of the Giver of all good things.

Coarse and ugly, it is a priceless treasure. Loud and inconstant, it is the apple of Jehovah’s eye. Timid and afraid, it is the army of the omnipotent LORD of creation.

It is God’s reflected light to the world. The hands and feet of the Great I AM. The voice crying out in the wilderness, calling all creation to renewal. It is the bearer of the greatest mandate ever given. It is the prophets, preachers, and teachers proclaiming truth in a world of lies. It is the lovers, nurturers, and healers extending grace and justice to a world of brokenness. It is the missionaries, Gospel-bringers, and martyrs humbly offering the Bread of Life to the starving.

This is the Church

 

Christ is its cornerstone. It is loved and cherished, sustained and protected. It is the bride of the Lamb, adorned and exalted. The gates of hell cannot stand against it. It is chosen and set apart. It is buffeted from every side, yet it will never fail. It is eternal and victorious, not by the strength of its hands but by the power of the LORD of hosts.

Reject it at your peril. Mock it at your risk. No weapon formed against it will prosper. All those who rise against it will fall. It is God’s holy and established institution on earth, His ambassador to the nations. It is the imperfect representation of the Kingdom of God. It is the hopeful expectation of the perfected union of Heaven and earth. It is to be loved, nurtured, protected, purified, and embraced. It is the bride that is loved with a love so fierce and so overwhelming. A love that did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped. A love that emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant. A love that humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death on a cross. A love so amazing, so divine it transcends all human understanding.

That love has called the Church His body.

His love.

His bride.

Therefore, what God has joined together, let no man separate.

This is the Church

 

Redeemed

Forgiven

Eternal

Triumphant

Loved

This is the Church