A Whisper Shattering Everything

A Whisper Shattering Everything

(“But from now on the Son of Man shall be seated at the right hand of the power of God.” Luke 22:69)

That’s the point, and still is.
That’s the point of view that has changed all that is.
The next sound is a whisper shattering everything.
The next question raises eyebrows.
The prisoner was cross-examined and
never backed down. They dragged their
chains across his forehead, their lightning was pale.

Preachers predicted a coming Armageddon,
the apocalypse was just around the bend.
But the universe kept arcing, the word kept
asking
why the world should be destroyed.
Blood up to the bridles and swords flashing
sky to sky while
the Human One
stood in the silence, filled up the vacuum
left panting like rain.
Vacant accusations suspect that God would not
mind
at all
burning up the earth to house all the
flagrant doubters locked into their cells.

Yet the grass still remains soft as baby’s skin
beneath bare feet that only want
to walk home in peace.

That’s the point, and always will be.
That’s the point of view that opened eyes can see.
The next sound is a parched cry from wooden beams
that wipes the slate clean.
The next question announces mortality,
why, o why, have you forsaken me?

And the human one, with the cry of finality
says it is done, finished, complete and needs no
annotation. Sit on the edges of

The world;
it is time gaze again, without/within,
and redefine our fiery rhetoric with
the new world started and being,
finished and headlong,
a creation where the
human one
whispers to power in ways that
shatter everything.

Your Private Disaster

Your Private Disaster

(“He won’t brush aside the bruised and broken. He will be gentle with the weak and feeble, until his victory releases justice.” Matthew 12:20 [TPT])

No one saw your private disaster,
no one understood your tragedy.
So no one came to your rescue,
no one searched the sharpened canyons.

You wore your game face well,
you protected your personal hell by
slack-jaw prayer requests and
avoiding the inquests that were meant
to rein you in. But you never liked the
corrals, did you? Especially when

You could see

The open range before you.

You carried the flash floods inside you,
you erased the lines from your face just before
the grinding days deepened the furrows in your forehead.
If people looked at the layers the angry river left
they could count your history, your sandstone red
and the gray clay that marked your day.

In time they might find the candle you left burning,
the wick slowly dying in the window where you watched
doves dancing with robins looking on. The only way
they might knock on your door, these wash and wear
investigators of supernatural strength,
would be to know you were sanitized head to soul,
and showed fewer callouses and sores than you did before.

You could see

They empty road before you.

And though none came to the door, your candle
stayed lit despite the hordes who stayed away.

One light ignites another light,
one soul restores another soul,
one long and lonely day with
only a phone call to break up the hours.

But the voice, the lift from a minor key,
fills the stone silence with enough music
to, perhaps, end the day with a dance.