Sometimes...

This is one of my favorite poems I've ever written. It speaks of my experience in relationship with God--how in the morning it is so hard to turn from anxiety and a production-mindset to the restful relationship with God. It parallels my longing for connection with God and the "unfaithfulness" of my heart to live authentically and dependently in that desire. The whole thing makes me feel so immature and out of control--this poem arose from that frustration. I really love how it resolves in the end. Those words still come to mind for me randomly in prayer and thinking.

Sometimes…

            Sometimes it’s overwhelming to think of

               this incomprehensible thing that I am swept up in.

            And sometimes all I want to do is bury my face in your cloak—

               just to be close;

                 I lay my head on your chest

                     as we stare at the clouds and the sky.

            Sometimes worry holds my day like the Reaper,

               ready to seize her in the purity of morning.

                 a passive release to the ruler of my life,

                     who scars and pains my first moments.

            I am a jealous and passive lover.

                                          : :

                    

            Sometimes I wish to take the rays of the sun and

               swing on them like Tarzan,

            a boyhood dream: to climb them without burning my hands…

                    so much effort to get such a bright thing.

                     Instead I lay on the grass, and let them pierce my epidermis.

            Sometimes, when the day is gone, I mourn her—

               for I never got to say, “Hello,” and

            she’s too unfamiliar now to say, “Goodbye.”

               this sense of insecurity keeps me from pursuing her

                  and wooing her; to tell her of her beauty,

                     and truly how much she means to me.

            Imagine instead, myself with confidence,

               a strong forearm pressed against the small of her back.

                    My fingers brush away her hair

                     and our hearts pulse

                        there in that moment.

           

                        But, oh God to what end?

                           Everyday, I die. The day spins like silk

                        and I, like slime, sputter and dry in the gutter of my own mind

                              She, like lavender and fragrance of rose

                                 and I, like the ashes

                                    that merrily repose.

  

                        Sitting still next to her, my legs swing,

                           feet click as they hit.

                        Can a child be with such an ancient lover?

                           She will pass me and pat me on the head saying,

                                “How adorable, you in your suit.”

            That piercing smile, she meant

               to be sweet—oh how I hate it!

                           “Dearly beloved” matters nothing here,

                              I am the deer and she the huntress,

                           this melancholy chase is the piercing arrow,

                              and the blood my flowing sorrow,

                                 in her hand the knife that guts me,

                                       and my skin she wears as a final mocking…

            Oh that day, that year, that time is stopping;

               on that day, my love; my final mocking.

            I am a jealous lover so, I live the jealous lovers woe.

                                          : :

            Sometimes I sit with my head in my hands

               and remember that love is backwards,

                  and beckons, always backwards—

               settling beyond the end of days.

                  this fragrance of a different time,

                     of wood, earth,

                              of sawdust and shavings.

            Finally, a place where I my suit forsake,

               as if her womb travailed,

            the day is a mere servant here,

                                             and I am a son.

               the pulse of infatuation calms

                  and a strong arm surrounds and speaks,

                    “Peace!    Be Still!”         and         a          great          song

                         arose-in-my-soul,

                   and-beat   deep-er   than-breath    can-go.

           

            I am a lover still, but love I know.

                                       : :  

            Sometimes I gather all my moments in the fire and

               burn them to know you now.

            (Sometimes I gather all my moments in the fire and

               burn them to know you now.)

Isa 66:7-9; Rom 8:22-23