Teachers

My time in elementary school was average. I went to a religious school in Georgia so when I stepped out of line there was definitely corporal punishment involved. My time  wasn’t great, but it wasn’t horrible either.

When I started 7^th grade things took a sharp turn for the worse. My mom couldn’t afford the tuition for the Baptist church-affiliated school she wanted to send me and my brother to, so she made a deal with the Principal. I was told that I would be the janitor of the school and stay behind every day to clean the school for a couple of hours after school let out each day. This involved vacuuming, taking out the trash, mopping, dusting, etc. for a few dozen rooms in three buildings. I didn’t realize at the time how wrong this arrangement was. I was just 12 years old.

The other kids in school gave me a hard time about it at first, but when 8^th grade started and I was still the janitor, they kind of eased up a little. Feeling sorry for me, I guess.

My relationships with my teachers was a little strained as a result of this arrangement as well. Sometimes they treated me like a student. Sometimes they treated me like an employee. Sometimes I felt like they were behaving toward me the way they would a colleague. At my age I was just confused by the whole thing, but definitely had the gradual suspicion that I was being taken advantage of.

Anyway, this went on through the end of 11^th grade. As you might expect, I developed a great deal of resentment towards my Principal and almost all of the teachers in the school.

As an adult I have had to deal with a lot of what happened then, processing the emotions involved, getting over all the resentment and bitterness surrounding the situation. I think I’ve done a good job with that so far. But, in light of recent events, another aspect has been brought to mind.

Had there been, God forbid, the sounds of gunfire in the hallways or from other rooms in the building, I am confident that they would not have hesitated to bundle us all into the closet as quickly as possible to get us out of harm’s way. In fact, I am pretty sure that they would have laid down their lives for their students.

Maybe it’s time to let go off whatever resentments I’ve been holding on to for all these years. Those teachers that I had so many problems with so many years ago were just people trying to get by. They were just doing the best they could at the time.

Today, I can honestly say, I am grateful for all the teachers that I’ve had in my life. And, teachers everywhere, have my utmost respect and admiration.

in the lee

there is a key

that fits a lock.

the tumblers click

like the ticking

of a clock.

there is a time

that fits in between

what is mine

and where I stop.

there is a boat

that sits in a lake

fighting the current,

waiting for a dock.

there is a place

that we call home

no matter what we face

in the midst of our family

we can always feel alone.

the time to leave is before

the heart becomes stone.

for there is more than one key

more than one lock,

more than one face,

more than one clock;

more than one boat

looking for a dock.

there is time a to keep going on

and a time to stop…

there is more than one place

to call home.    

time out of mind

we count our seconds

add them up to minutes

mix them in an hour and

cook them into days.

disregard the signs that

point to yes. assess your

need for more days and weeks.

mind your own business and

find your blessings in months

and years. dis-enroll me from

your plan. you have tied

the hands on all my watches.

you are out of time. you have

bound the hands on all the clocks.

you are out of your mind.

we are not made of days…

our souls find their fair share

in the essence of forever and ever.

it is only our bodies that

mark the passage of time, you have

replaced the peace of eternity

with a restless intensity…

an insensitivity to the times:

you have no time,

you have no time left for me.

Instead of understanding, or

even listening, you have elected

to construct your own hell, and

it will be too late to find me,

when I am nothing but your

missed opportunity, a victim

of your malicious matrimony.                                  

ringing


mind-numbing, body tingling

my whole system is still singing,

stinging

with the sudden vicious visit

of the Holy Spirit.

i am trembling and shaking, skin

sending shocks along tender limbs

bowing low

under the weight of ornaments…

church walls all vibrate

with memories

of the echoes of bells.

shoes shuffle slow through white powder

piled high on the sidewalk.

legs e x t e n d as we step past puddles…

as we increase the distance

from the place of peace,

the whispers,

the wisdom,

the freedom,

can still be felt

if we are hoping to hear it

if we are willing to listen.

 

jbh

12

13

2012

Undark

In the dark
In this deep blue
of me and you,
We can see
a spark of life
if we are willing.

When the weight
of the firmament
surrenders to a singularity,
a slender filament:
Heaven filed down
to a sharp
impartation
of the Spirit.

Yet there are promises
that come true
if we are willing
to hear it.

This line that pierces the night
goes by many names.
Call it Truth.
Call it Hope.
Call it Light.


11.25.2012
jbh

Rip

Punished by the waves

the pushing the pulling…

the surfer is a bulb

burned out on the neon sign

that says “Jesus Saves.”

The only shelter is a shelf

of rock covered by a thin

layer of sand near the shore.

He slams faith-first into

the unseen unyielding floor.

Hard to tell the difference

between hell and his story;

unconsciousness is not

unfamiliar territory.

Another crest sends shards

from his board across

the damp empty beach

splinters from a cross:

salvation slightly

out of reach.

Like saltwater

in dry lungs,

the truth seems clean and cool

before it fills and kills.

A crab taps Braille

on the sand right by his head…

a sad, slight epitaph.

This broken bridge

that spans the space

between land and sea

is the last thing

he will never understand

and the truth

has finally

set him free.

jbh 10.22.2012

the end

Reality is fragile and unravels

in loose strands

of human understanding,

in strings of theory.

All we can do is ask why…

Pulling at pieces of skin

are the pins

that fix us to a flat black plate

next to the effects

of the butterfly.

We are bending and blending

and bleeding.

Speed is no longer needed

at the end.

The argument has never been settled

the tensions never cease.

So tempting to believe

just what we see,

when the truth has never been so easy.

Even bereft of emotion

sin stains, still colors my perception:

just a pigment of my imagination.

A creative chaos is calling:

a figment of fiction

all velocity and no veracity

just fragments and friction…

jbh

8.22.2012

The Low Lands

in this valley there is only the sound of nothing.

breathing, slow and steady belies the desperation he feels,

the desperation that is all too real.

caught in the middle of should he leave this place,

(how much more punishment can he take?)

and should he stay and fight for them

(for “me and you”?)

instead of standing at the foot of a mountain,

he is at the foot of two.

in this season of deprivation

sleep seeps away from him like blood from a wound that just won’t close

(and may never heal?)

even the birds don’t sing anymore,

their colorful kind has faded from the forest floor.

where once the noise of animals rustled in the brush

there are now only empty habitats where even hunger is hushed.

the sun has crushed this land

with withering heat

even though it is long past noon

he knows he must decide something

he must decide soon.

Time is his enemy.

for all his power

he is still mortal

and the humanity that he clings to brings him to this…

this barren

somewhere between bitterness and bliss.

The only thing alive in this place

is the light in his eyes.

They are like all other eyes:

a maelstrom of magic,

twin black holes that hold the soul.

His is a mad mix of the violent blue of summer storms

and the gentle green of the calm between.

(those fleeting moments seldom felt yet so serene).

His unsteady circumstances are

a challenge to his balance.

he is on the edge and could fall so easily

has fallen before…

(the dis-ease is called “Always Wanting More”).

He is suspended on the fulcrum

on one end is fullness and

on the other end… less.

He feels so weak

but he knows there is no going back.

in this windless land

limbs never creak

and branches never crack.

He uses the dying light

from another short day

to measure the distance, and make his choice.

He treasures this feeling of spiritual intensity…

and the prayer that is his silent voice.

In sweat-soaked, blood-stained clothes

he pushes aching joints and bruised muscles

toward the head of the trail.

As he begins this next journey

he realizes that it has never been about

peace of mind,

or what rest he might find.

He knows how to climb this mountain.

One step at a time.

jbh

6.21.2012

Go-Letting

Pain comes and goes.
We should let it come;
We should let it go
And not try to hold it.
There is so much hatred in this world.
We hold it close, hold it almost sacred.
Why?
These bad intentions, this bitterness
Bear so much weight.
We should let it go.
The human heart was never meant to hold hate.

jbh

6.20.2012

invernal

the steady spring rain

reminds me of where I’ve been

head down hands in pockets coat buttoned

the clouds are thick and dark

like mother nature smothering

me with a giant pillow—

I am gasping for breath

then suddenly I can see the light as you

rip the sky open with your lightning

let the thunder crash and make

cracks in the firmament

let prayers fly high like

shards from shattered minds

and broken hearts and

punch enough holes in heaven

to leave it bleeding…

as I learn to breath again.

jbh 6.6.2012

At the Altar

I hear the church bells pealing

In prayer hands clasped kneeling

And my broken heart seeks healing

I'm pushing through the smoke of annoyance and distraction

Looking for the fire the feeling of Your presence and passion

At the fulcrum of worry and wonder, find me.

I am reaching for Your hand, Father. Reach for me.

At the intersection of chaos and calm, see me.

I am waiting for You.

It's so late and I'm scared, but I wait for You.

Is this just another celestial therapy session?

Or, is it intercession?

When will the Holiest of Spirits intercede for me?

My hope is an ocean at low tide receding from me.

I am in the street begging for less of this world

and more of You.

I am running through the dark forest blindly.

Find me.

I want so much less of this world and its cursing;

They try to make it look like blessing.

But You are the Song and the reason why I sing.

Hear me.

Thrill me with Your peace, Your Word.

I pursue you wildly and willingly.

After this prayer has ceased, speak to me.

I long to hear Your voice,

low and strong and true.

Find me then,

in strength and in silence,

surrendered and free...

jbh 6.1.12

Tempest

Rain on the roof is proof

that God loves a cheerful giver.

Give yourself to me, be my lover,

The salt in your sweat tastes like sin,

a sigh, a breath of life on the skin

Sends a shiver down a spine, yours and mine…

And thunder has a mind of its own

Moving the ground around our home,

Shaking the windows, doors and walls of our kingdom

A chorus of angels’ battle cries, the war

making queens and kings of us all…

Our eyes are listening to the vision of each other

As the lightning flashes lines of hell

knives of white carving up the thick black night,

and the evening is nothing but

ebony and electricity.

Souls surrender to the music, the movement,

the melody is just right, the harmony tight

closer and closer wrapped in the rhythm

of fingers drumming on skin

hearts thrumming in the summer storm

like wind bending wet limbs,

trees stand fast with branches bowing,

saluting us, giving us honor, allowing,

admitting the truth of us.

The stars hide their eyes in deference

refusing to be a reference,

we only need One light to guide us,

and it is not the moon, that withered

waning yellow circle is buried in deep

piles of clouds and a host of fog and mist…

and this is what I’ve missed the most,

this ferocious, fragile, you and me.

jbh

5.22.2012

Warning: Low Shoulder

Pain is not an obstacle, is not my enemy, I don’t fight against it;

Pain is not my friend,

I don’t embrace the opportunity to learn and grow from it.

I only learn to let it surge, let it burn and let it flow

Pain is a wave that I surf, not a place I call home.

Pain is a teacher speaking cold truth in a vengeful voice,

Pain is not my master or minion, and is seldom my choice.

I only learn to let it surge, let it burn and let it flow

Pain is a wave that I surf, not a place I call home.

3.22.2012

The sunrise was beautiful this morning: mist, steam, and low clouds mixed to form a shroud over the dying night while a veil was lifted away revealing the face of a bright smiling sun. @God: "Thank You."

2.2.2012