What if it's You?

What if it's You?

What if it's Your hand that ties up

my stomach in knots?

What if it's Your net that catches

my breath at the throat?

What if it's Your choice

leading my will to submission

like a lamb to its place

in the fold?

What if it's you?

What if it's your eyes

I'm supposed to gaze into?

What if its your arms

which are meant to caress?

What if its your well

that is meant to refresh me?

What if it's your guidance

I am meant to attend?

A Student of Letters

I stare at the letters

I still haven't said,

though Rome has unlocked

their exotic sounds.

My palate could test them,

swirl the mixture of flavors

around on my tongue.

I could finger their rhythms,

like sight-reading a solo

for clarinet.

On my own,

I could sound their phonetics

like a student in grade school

learning to read.

Teacher,

you still haven't taught me

your name.

My Surprise

You amaze me, did you know?

You tell me things no man has ever said—

save one, my dad.

He’s seen the worst of me and still he says,

“I’d marry you.”

And yet, that is one threshold

we have never crossed.

And I am grateful

because this means that I am free

to cross that line with you,

Querido.

You sneak up on me, love—

in the shower as the water trickles

past

and pools in puddles at my feet;

while awake at night, imagining;

as I drive along the freeways

of the city,

silence blaring from the radio.

It’s like a beating on the inside,

my organs all at once arrested

by the sweetness of your words

remembered.

Asombroso.

You’re like a treat too-oft enjoyed

which leaves a cavity,

empty

but for love’s enduring pain;

or like the tickling of my feet that’s felt

like Phantom’s fingers

somewhere along the hipline.

I can’t escape you.

Dulce.

You could be the next

uncovered Wonder of the World

the way you take my breath

away—

brilliant as the Lighthouse built

on Pharos,

majestic as the celebrated

victory of Rhodes,

influential as the Pyramids’ remembered

dynasty.

Poderoso.

Your faith astounds me.

In its infancy compared to mine and yet—

matured beyond what I have yet to do.

Many people on the other side had called me “missionary”

just because I wasn’t with them.

But you—

No one pats your back for bravery

and yet you go

selflessly to give that some might see,

like Peter, Paul, or John, the Savior’s

right-hand men.

Fiel.

Shipwrecked

Lord, what are you up to?

I want so much and yet

my desires float away like driftwood

on the currents in the endless sea of time.

I thought I could apply

to grad school this year

but I've missed November's deadline.

Why not chase my dream to where it beckons

from far along a distant shore?

"Korea's not the place to hang your hat,"

I heard You whisper

as I began preparing for my move.

If You were to extend the call, I'd go--

and yet the day

the festival of kimchi pride was held,

my own reaction

to familiar smells surprised me.

I found myself there thinking, "Oh, Korea!

If you e're need support, I will uphold thee,

but I do not now believe I'll e're be with you."

It is too beautiful a place, indeed,

for such a derelict like me to mar

its fair complexion.

Beth Moore addressed the issue yesterday,

referencing Paul's shipwreck found in Acts.

"Take courage, men," she said he said,

for I know fully from the Lord the vessel sinks

but your lives will this day be spared."

My ship's been wrecked!

What brought me here has been destroyed--

and now I watch You,

watch You watch me stay afloat

atop this restless

endless

sea of waiting,

waiting for Your lifeboat's rescue.

Arrested

You have the right to silence--

to contemplation in

inaudibility.

The right to seek attorney--

wisely to solicit Counsel's side.

The right to forego further questions--

to curb communication if in too deep.

These are the Miranda Rights

of those who are arrested

by Desire.

I hear the siren 'fore I

ever spy the lights--approaching,

it intensifies, its frequency a

steady rhythm.

My heart pounds louder

at the sound, the muscle seized

with urgency. Dare I

raise my head to witness as

my new life marches in?

The siren slows its whine to rest

behind me as

the officer steps forward. "Ma'am."

He doesn't have to say

what's coming next, the truth

that floats between us like

Hope's unborn

yet unabandoned child.

Desire swiftly turns me 'round

to grab my wrist

and place it firmly 'gainst

my lower spine. I wiggle free

in protest.

His fingers tighten once again

to wrestle 'gainst my will to

stay unconquered.

Anticipation hand-cuffs, sinking

teeth into my skin, and renders

motionless my arms.

My arms relax, enraptured,

unable to resist. It feels delicious.

Once taken in, Anticipation

so swift resigns her post, unbending

wrists so that A Dream recaptures

them for fingerprints. Examining

each tip with gentleness, he

quietly caresses each by each--

the touch exhilerating.

When finished, he escorts me to

Desire's cell, in order

to await Fulfillment's bond.

Adjustment

An array of books—

both read and reread,

unopened and unfinished—

stand erect between metal bookends

that were never sold in the garage sale.

Larger books, peers of the first,

rest wearily against a wooden slat

two perches down.

The august shelf,

what some in this library occupy again,

speaks its age

through chips in dulling whitewash,

yet another relic from the fundraiser.

Air surrounding the assemblage

smells of must and cat urine,

pungent witnesses to time's relentless passage.

Diagonally opposite the structure,

a pair of bunk beds guard the entrance to the room.

A purple blanket drapes the lower bunk,

its year-old wrinkles dismantling its elegance.

Above the color,

crinkly plastic stately covers tucked-in sheets,

protection from those clammy nighttime visitors.

Between the weathered denizens

squat two newcomers,

oocheguk stamped sluggishly across

their crumpled flanks—

keepers of some unfamiliar treasure.

Outcasts,

left defenseless in the family room’s dark corner,

here they sit rejoicing in the surety

that their mission

to transport their charge to safety

has been righteously accomplished.

Welcome home.

For Things I Know are Meaningless

In Scripture, Simon Peter said,

“Thou art the Christ,

Son of the Living God.”

And what was Your reply?

“Blessed are you, Simon,

for this flesh and blood did not reveal.”

Like Peter, I have been awakened

to the truth of who You are:

the Christ, Anointed One,

slain Lamb who now lives.

You make all things new.

You have made me new.

I am alive to God,

no longer slave to sin.

I know how You meant life to be—

poured out like a drink offering.

I know You desire to reconcile

through my hands and feet.

“Oh taste and see the Lord is good,”

the psalmist wrote.

I have tasted; I have seen.

Will I now seek to fill myself with another?

Will I turn my back on all You’ve shown me?

You have chosen me, Lord.

Will I now choose to reject that

for things I know are meaningless?

a prayer of confession

originally written spring 2005

Creation

So you couldn't swim with big fish, eh?
I know that I could not have,
either.
Thirty poems in as many days
seems strange
the more you contemplate it.

It takes a lot of work to birth
that many independent thoughts.
For that is what you do when you create:
bring to life new things
which as of yet have been
inanimate.

Creation is deliberate in its process.

Scripture says that "in
His image He created them."
So what is it from Father God
that we reflect?
Well,
what is it that God does but make things new
from all that once
was desolate?

And that, my weary friend,
is the only vision that for me informs
the poem.

ETDFK

I feel a sense of thoughtfulness

as I contemplate the end.

Not sadness, really,

not regret.

And surely not depression!

Reflection?

But neither

do I feel a sense of immanence.

The mystery surrounding ETD is that it's that:

estimated, undefined,

unsure.

I'll know the moment that I board the plane

which instance stands corrected

on the shore of time.

The one regret I have is that I haven't

been acquainted with the language

past

the indispensability

of market jargon.

Lion

To JDL. You will always be my twin.

When I was six years old,

I pretended just to be

a lion tamer.

And my twin brother, Jason,

was the lion.

We would go outside to play

in our backyard’s tall grass.

I would walk around,

swirling pathways in the blades.

And Jason would obediently follow,

crawling

on his hands and knees.

We didn’t like

when Grandpa’d mow the grass—

and cut away our secret hiding place.

We played Lion in our room

when that occurred

until

the grass grew long and green

and we could step into our luscious world

again.

Procésses

When you sit to start writing procésses,

you know that your father assesses

everything you will say--

be it March or in May--

But what will he think of the messes?

a silly little limerick written especially for my friend December's

St. Patrick's Day Limerick Contest

A Reflection

From sitting in the middle of a big pile of picture books.
From scrumptious mud pies and lopsided sandcastles
from my own private beach.
From carpet, windmill, and Johnson grass
and all the little creatures that hide there.
Helping the crepe myrtle trees shower their soft pink flowers
all over the ground.
I am from runaway pigs, playfully stubborn steers,
old blue jeans, dirty boots, and a purple baseball cap.
From John and Stephanie,
From teaching, ranching, and the great outdoors.
From hard work, good manners, and more chores.
I am from Lutherans and Baptists
The Lord's Prayer, books of the Bible, and the twenty-third Psalm.
I am from small-town living with an emphasis on family values.
I am from playing the piano with Grandma at my side
and curling up on Grandpa's lap when he sits in his big brown chair.
I am from a small corn patch and tall golden sunflowers.
From watching a beautiful sunset, listening to the cows graze,
and laughing as my little dog
jumps through the over-grown grass.
I am from those moments....
a leaf of my family tree.

written by my cousin, Amanda Lanier,
in winter 2005 when she was 9 years old

Winter is the Time

Winter is the time
when nature’s fast asleep,
wrapped in a snowy blanket
beautiful and deep.

Winter is a time
for building men with snow,
for running ‘round with snowballs,
and racing down the slopes.

Winter is a time
to savor tasty food,
to gather ‘round the table
and remember all that’s good.

Winter is a time
to celebrate life’s goodness
like friends and relatives
surrounding us with happiness.

Winter is a time
To gather by the fire,
With cocoa in one hand
And arms around each other.


written winter 2010
expressly for Apple Tree Academy's starshaya gruppa,
the Russian kindergarten's eldest group

*performed for parents, December 25, 2010*

This is Korea

At first light
its towering apartments slowly yawn,
donning heavy coats like stoic sentinels prepared
to stand their guard
o’er this land of morning calm.
At this time, as if on cue,
stooped ajumas appear from every corner,
their wrinkled faces like the veils
of folded origami.

The first to come are farmers’ wives,
known by soundless ways which they
unfurl their street-side perches.
Pulling out their hidden bowls,
they carefully arrange their bunched green spinach
and tangled garlic stalks
as off’rings to the day.

On the street,
littered with its coded message,
the expansive reek of rotting produce
seeps into the air.
With it the inimitable scent
of kimchi
permeates the nooks and crannies,
mixing with unwanted refuse
to form a shroud,
unmistakable and faintly noxious,
that blankets sidewalks like a soupy,
aromatic fog.

Further still, in hidden sideway stalls,
pig’s severed heads are lined up neatly.
Vacant eyes stare into nothing,
as though assembled for the morning
meeting.

At the corner of the street,
the man who sells
his miniature egg-and-batter sweets
is huddling
inside his tiny booth
like an imprisoned hermit.
He witnesses stray taxis race,
their drivers packed so tightly in their tiny shells,
impatiently awaiting
time
to rush into their next arrival.

Motorbikes buzz by on sidewalks, turning
on impossibly curved angles,
at once rushing in and out of crowds
and floating through unmoving cars.
Once, a motorbike rode sideways on a shop’s face
and then up onto the vaulted ceiling
of the sky.

Slumb’ring shops begin
to awaken and uncurl their folding iron gates
like retracting fans.
The waffle girl is first,
but focused inwardly:
Quietly she concentrates behind
her thick black hair,
which covers skin of light-brown cream.
Masterfully, she turns her hot irons over,
like a Vegas dealer issuing
his playing cards
at table.

A group of schoolgirls giggles by,
a solid, uniformed pack,
whose faces are absorbed
by thick, black glasses.
Beside them is a modern woman
walking by on tips of high-heeled stilts,
somehow ignoring shrieks from shrunken feet
as she parades about
in delicate stultification.

Old men,
some of which are toothless
and wobbling unsteadily
as if their legs
were attached to shanty-carts,
set out collecting discard relics
of cardboard and forgotten bottles.
They carry massive, caged carts behind them
like collections of their treasures
from in heaven.

At night,
the businessmen come out
from office cages
dressed in mesmerizing, shiny suits.
After a bit of time,
the soju starts
to leak out of their pours and pools
into confused, disordered speech.
They then become some painful way of being,
difficult to look upon.

Wand'ring into spiraled apple orchards,
the silent currents
of lofty temples rise
up out of twisting mountainside
like vast and holy roots.
One monk chants alone,
his cool, metallic voice
buzzing like electric current
which absorbs all sound
with its smooth, harmonic resonance.

At last, the sun has set
on the land of morning calm.
Off in the distance, blazing
neon crosses rise
up like florescent funeral pyres,
burning holes into the sky.

a collaboration between the author and Brandon Russell
images compiled by Brandon, fall 2009-summer 2010
rhythm added by author, winter 2011