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