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