the cold road

shorn and torn by the wind

walking on a bridge

to a hope unborn.

feet chipping away

at the rocks on the ledge

as we stumble along

the cliff.

we are worn

down in our spirits.

we were warned

but we didn’t want to hear it.

we are coming

together

then running away.

it is never too late

to turn around

but home is so far away…

you say you want truth

but all you seek is proof.

daylight is fading and

casting shadows on the track;

this vision of us is failing and

i wonder if we will ever get back.

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