Alliterations

Lots of loopy lemurs,
Coolly chilling cozily,
On a knoll or a knot.
Twirling, twisting tweezers;
Poor perplexed poems.
This is such sport.
For four fore.

This poem makes no sense,
On this we can agree.
But confusion always runs rampant,
On my manic Mondays.
So I bid you hold on tight,
If you’re on for the ride,
For sanity is so far from here,
You’ll have to build a rocket
If you want to return to the sane world.

A Love Story

A tiny little world,

Formed with just a word.

Forms made out of dust,

Their breath just a fraction

Of the One who created them.

Glorious perfection surrounded them,

On a world made for their delight.

But they scorned it,

Wishing instead for power of their own.

They got their power,

But with it came a price,

As does every sin.

Perfection was theirs no longer;

Pain now marked their path.

A living death was theirs,

But still there was One,

Who loved them, despite their scorn.

Their idolatry was their pain

And their lover.

But the Almighty who created them

Did not forget them.

In His love, He sent His Son,

His only Son, slain from the foundation of the earth.

Out of love for the beings of dust,

The Son died a painful death,

The perfect sacrifice for the world.

The Creator turned His face away,

From His beloved son.

Their sins were covered,

But those who knew the Son mourned,

For He was dead and in the grave,

Death had won at last,

Or so it seemed to their finite minds.

But the third day arrived, and with it a defeat.

As foretold from before the foundation.

Death was defeated at last,

And the scars of generations of painful lust

Could be washed away under the blood

Of the One slain from the foundation of the world.

But some refused the gift;

Others took it lightly,

Thinking they were fine alone.

But the Son ascended into heaven,

Leaving men to spread the news,

While He prepared a place for those who loved Him.

When their time in sin-soaked flesh was through,

They would be welcomed,

Under the Son’s righteousness

Into the presence of the Almighty.

But They did not leave those faithful few alone.

The Spirit came to guide and protect them.

The divine Protector, holy and just,

And triune with the Creator and the Son.

He lives inside each one who is fired

By the good news that has been told,

Empowering them to spread the Word everywhere.

The Son, having come once in peace,

Will return again.

This time, however, He will wage war on those

Who have seduced and hurt His people.

Death has been defeated, but on this day

He will fall, and those who worshiped him

Will fall as well, never knowing their Creator’s grace.

But the faithful will come

To the places the Son prepared for them.

May it be said to all of them,

“Well done, good and faithful servant.”

As they enter into perfection.

The marriage supper of the Lamb will come

And there will be sin no more.

But those days in which the Son returns,

Have not yet come.

So go, spread the news He has burdened us with.

For we are His faithful,

And His fire will not burn against us.

The enemy can do nothing to harm us,

But we must pull the others away from the cliff

That gives way to the fire of the Creator’s wrath.

How Can We?

How can we fathom
The depths of the ocean
And the secrets it contains?

How can we dream
Of worlds far away
And stars shining so bright?

How can we laugh
Laugh at sorrow
And laugh at love?

How can we sing
Songs so sorrowful
And songs so joyous?

How can we love
The loves that we had
But cherish those we have?

How can we live
Live without love
Love without songs
Sing without laughter
Laugh without dreaming
And dream without our fathomless God?

Writer's Block

What do you do,

When you don’t know what to write?

What do you do,

When your mind is completely blank?

How do you write,

When it feels like there is nothing?

Well, as for me,

I write about nothing.

That is why

There is this poem.

Oh, what do you do,

When you don’t know what to write?

Trees

Towering high above my head,

Swooping down below my feet,

Glossy green sweeps around my face.

The crunch of last year’s leaves,

Is soft under my feet.

Rough ridges brush my fingertips,

And the cry of birds surrounds me.

Can you hear the sound?