Rock Writers’ Guild

Lord, I am on my knees so often these days,
but not to pray; instead doing my daily
rounds of this temple to you, my house.
Scrubbing floors, wiping a small wet nose,
weeding, tying and re-tying three pairs of shoes.
Each day’s work is nearly lost in the next day!
Morning’s looming over me like an oppressive hand
waiting to bring me down to do it all again.
Sometimes I lift my head, briefly, to see
the progress of the great work all around me,
the kingdom forcefully advancing on the land
wrought out of stone by violent men.
They lay charges in the ground and rend
more work in an hour than I could chisel free
in a multitude of days!  Their ways made straight,
their monuments of accomplishment casting shade
to rest and refresh the pilgrims of centuries.
But, Lord, you’ve given me such small tools
to make my way with!  Sometimes I long
to fling them petulantly down and moan,
“I can’t go on without doing something grand!
Without more than the chipping, repetitive work
you’ve laid to hand!”  I struggle to understand
the necessities of my post and the Plan
you have laid sternly, lovingly, before me-
size not always being indication of importance
I know.  But I wonder if young Michaelangelo
felt this when rendering a knuckle’s intricate lines,
painstakingly obeying a glimpse of inner vision,
endlessly tapping out the details of creation
like a man blind but drawn to a distant land
whose shores most people will never  see,
whose significance none but You could understand?
 

I once thought love was going to save me;
I am no longer convinced anything is.
I live in fear that my last breath will find me
hanging by my fingertips to a God that can’t exsist.
Don’t desert me!  Lord, if you desert me I’ll be back
to not having any answers, to groping in the rain,
to standing in the emergency room with no bandange,
no morphine, no gloves- nothing for their pain
but an entirely inadequate love.  I am furious
with the church, with myself, with the pastors;
every book on the shelf copyrights The Answer,
but they are all, none of them, the same!
My only confidence is that I must never be
confident.  Pride sets the toe on the bread on the mud,
and we sink swiftly.  I have no ready response
to scoffers.  I can only offer this: if any man
in history can save this stinking place, He can.

I found my way to him unknowingly,
groping like a blind beggar at the door
of a palace, blinded to my own infirmity,
unaware I was poor.
The healing of birthright came swiftly,
like the sword of dawn slicing the veil
of loveless poverty and my damnation
to an ordinary hell.
Since then, ceaselessly, the swelling flare
of his glory has inundated my brain,
reducing me to an offertory lifted upon
his name.
Now, consumed, all places once sought I see
through a splendor of light, his lovesick pain
illumining the idle desperate world that knew me,
living blinded again. 

It was ominous, luminous
onerous, humourous,
habitable, eatable,
rancid, forgetable,
fetid, effulgent,
acclaimed, plain, or portable,
ineffable, precious,
odd, risque, hoary,
savoury, mauve,
declasse, ordinary,
despicable, animal,
vegetable, miserable,
absolutely enchanting
from the first to the last…
and say, by the way
Darling, why do you ask?
You wrote it?  How lovely!
(Well, what else could I say?)

A little help for those searching for the perfect comment…   - AW

I am constantly amazed to find
in people I have most admired
for their serenity and joyful peace
the mark of a tragic, intolerable grief.
Outwardly their friendly faces shine,
and they process serenely over life
as a clipper over choppy seas,
taking the ups and downs at ease,
patiently enduring fortune’s whims.
Somehow the pain doesn’t scuttle them.
For some their scars remember a day
when half their life was ripped away,
miraculously missing anything vital,
or perhaps not.  Others’ scars tell
of a burden carried far and well
but cutting the bearer like broken shell
and no relief in sight.  What heals
these terrible weals intolerably inflicted?
How does the survivor ever suplant the victim?
I can sympathise with those who turn
to drink or drug, or who form
an impenetrable shell about their hidden shame-
the tender, constant imprint of their pain-
but how to explain the ones that ease
like sunlight over the waters, turning
wound to fuel, or else to ballast, balancing
their keel in ugly seas?  They brace the breeze
eagerly, full sails spread above their grief,
seemingly steadied by the weight within.
The man of peace was such a one,
striding across Galilee to join
the world and people he had borne,
which God’s word birthed through him.
How he loved them! But the race reserved
as his since the foundations formed,
suddenly, terribly, turned away,
became blighted, killed, went feral, savagely
wrecking all he loved, all he had made.
What could he fear after such pain?
What grief weighs against total disaster?
No wonder he could balance on the water.
Seeing the sum of love destroyed will either slay
or give a supernatural power to stay
through anything.  Having borne
pain the joy we find is not easily torn.
Once, in darkness, we learn again to sing,
even death cannot strip our wings. 

OK, Lisa. You’ve inspired me. Following are two poems I posted on my blog which almost noone has ever read because I don’t tell anyone about my blog. So, here goes…I’m feeling naked already.

———————————————

My heart overflows with passion and revelation…yet, it’s illumination remains concealed, failing to fulfill the commission of influence;

My mind craves knowledge and feverishly pursues understanding…yet, it is fundamentally deficient of wisdom and discretion;

My will is, by all evidence, unyielding and tenacious…yet, at it’s core, it is unbearably feeble;

My spirit serves joyfully and tirelessly without concern for recognition…yet, my ego silently and veraciously hungers for admiration and promotion;

This is my Foolish Notion: The source of my strength is built upon the substance of my weaknesses. My Father inexplicably and incessantly loves me. In trusting without uncertainty that He designed me perfectly and completely for His pleasure - I am not a mere recipient of His mercy, but His expression, of His glory, for His purpose. I will forever be humbled and honored to be a foolish and weak thing redeemed for His passion.

If I had no voice to proclaim Your greatness,
Every cell of my being would declare the awesomeness of Your creative power.

If I had no legs to dance in passionate expression,
My spirit would yet whirl in ardent praise in the presence of Your Holiness.

If I had no hands to lift in surrender to You,
My heart would, in an instant, relinquish it’s rhythm upon Your entreat.

If I lacked senses to see, hear, touch or smell,
Your existence would still be unmistakable, undeniable…irresistible.

The insufficiency of my faculties, therefore, is of little consequence.
What is physical is mere illusion, what is spirit is the true reality.
My sole possession, my will, considers both and reckons between the two.

As I pursue Your Spirit, embracing Truth, worshiping what is unmistakable…I am increasingly in awe of what I can not see, but, yet can not ignore. And, I’m forever humbled by the revelation that You, a Being so infinite and complete, find me as I find You….irresistable.

Here is a Christmas poem that I wrote for Ed one year. I share it with his permission.

I have wracked my brain in a search to uncover

The perfect gift for my friend, my lover.

He doesn’t wear jewelry except a wedding ring.

I keep coming up empty. I can’t think of a thing.

His closet is full of nice looking clothes.

He doesn’t really need any more of those.

Lots of books around for him to read.

I’d better ask the Lord, “Just what does he need?”

So, I got myself quiet and I started to pray,

Before too long, I heard my Father say,

“The most precious “thing” that you can give

Is to love this man for as long as you live.

This world is full of folks who are insecure.

What he needs is a love in which he can be sure.

He knows he can count on My love from above,

But I gave you to him so he would have earthly love.

Not a love that would fit him into your mold,

But a Godly love that would let him unfold,

To become a new creature with colorful wings.

To be free to grow without any strings.

Hold him tight enough to let him know

That you love him enough to let him go.

And always release him into My loving hand,

For it is I and not you who will grow this man.”

So, there is no box with a pretty red bow

That could hold all my love and help you to know,

That I want you to become what God wants you to be.

By that, the greater gift comes back to me.

Your Christmas gift is the love that I bring.

It is much dearer to have than a store bought “thing”.

The most precious gift that I will give

Is the promise to love you as long as you live.

i wrote this one day when i was thinking how great my savior is. and how he is more than just my savior. be gentle. this is from my heart. and sorry about not capitalizing things. its my thing to type in lowercase. i hope you enjoy!  

invigorating…
a smile creeps across my face. i am at peace in my soul. i gaze out the window at the sunshine that peeks in through the curtains. i love it. i absolutely love it….
enticing….
he is calling me. my heart is longing for more of him. for more knowledge. for more love. for more grace. for more love. just more of him.
soothing….
the music speaks to my soul. it calls to the opening up and releasing of that which is holidng me down. i am not a prisoner to myself or my mistakes. i am a new creation and i can do all things through christ who gives me the strength.
beautiful…
the way he makes me feel when i am alone. the way he puts a smile on my face. how he just loves on me. how he encourages me, how he keeps me strong, how is lets me be me and doesnt want me to change.
i dont have to be a prissy lady for him. and i love the fact that i am his girl no matter what.
i just fell and he picked me up and brought me back in.
my hair pulled back as i sit and ponder the love of my savior. and how no matter what my circumstances, he is always willing to hold out his hand….
and love on me.
and lead me.
and dance with me.

(Disclaimer) This was writen on a very lonely night,on a very long first season of Dawsons Creek. My deepest regrets and sincerest apology to the estate of DR Suess.

O’me O’my theres this lump in my bed,

Its quivering and snoring so I know its not dead.

Its lumpy and bumpy and sometimes a grump,

But I’m madly in love with this cute little lump.

It must appear in the middle of the night,

Cuz its always there in the morning sunlight.

Its nothing I dread, this lump in my bed,

It just quivers and snores, so I know its not dead.

Its a dainty little lump, just a small mound,

with hair sticking out of the covers in a pretty little crown.

I pat it and kiss it and bid it good bye

and go off to work with a tear in my eye,

knowing it will be gone before theres a moon in the sky.

Tonight all alone I will go to bed,

knowing in the morning there will be a lump in my bed.

It will always be here this I don’t fret,

Its the greatest little lump I have ever met.

When all is done and all is said,

I’m madly in love with this lump in my bed.

Composed by Ed shakeastick Andress

Perception - (1)obs:  CONSCIOUSNESS  (2)a:  a result of perceiving:  OBSERVATION b:  a mental image:  CONCEPT  (3)a:  awareness of the elements of environment through physical sensation  b:  physical sensation interpreted in the light of experience  (4)a:  quick, acute, and intuitive cognition:  APPRECIATION  b:  a capacity for comprehension       syn see DISCERNMENT   

PERCEPTION

IT’S A DARK NIGHT ON THIS SIDE OF THE OCEAN, I’VE MADE MY WAY THROUGH THE SEMI-DARKNESS TO THE BEACH.  THE LIGHT OF THE MOON IS HIDDEN BEHIND OMINOUSLY FOREBODING CLOUDS.  I CONTINUE THROUGH THE SHADOWED SAND SEARCHING FOR A PLACE.  SURELY, I’LL KNOW IT WHEN I FIND IT.  PURPOSEFULLY, I PROCEED THROUGH THE TWILIGHT.  I WIND MY WAY  AROUND SOME ROCKS, MY EYES WATCHING MY FEET ALL THE WHILE- WARNING THEM TO STEP CAREFULLY.  I STOP AND LIFT MY HEAD TO APPRECIATE THE EXPERIENCE.  STRAIGHT AHEAD OF ME I SEE LAYERS UPON LAYERS OF WHITE CLOUDS CRASHING IN THE DARKNESS.  I STAND STILL; YET, THERE IS MOVEMENT ALL AROUND ME.  THE WIND SEEMS TO BE DANCING WITH MY CLOTHING…MY HAIR…THE SMELL OF THE SEA SURROUNDS ME.  I BREATHE DEEPLY TAKING IT IN, HOPING THAT SOMEHOW, WHEN I EXHALE, MY CONCERNS WILL GO WITH THE BREATH THAT HAS HAD ITS TURN IN MY BODY.  I WAIT, REALIZING NOTHING HAS CHANGED.  THE CRASH OF THE WAVES IS THUNDEROUS.  IT ALMOST SEEMS TO BLOCK OUT THE NOISE OF MY LIFE…THE UNPLEASANT… NOISE… OF… MY LIFE.  I STAND STILL FEELING THE COOL OCEAN BREEZE ON MY FACE, ENJOYING THE EXPERIENCE IN SPITE OF WHAT’S BROUGHT ME HERE.  I STAND STILL IN THE TWILIGHT…WIND DANCING THROUGH MY CLOTHES AND HAIR, THE SALT-SEA SMELL ALL AROUND ME, THE SOUND  OF WAVES ROARING IN MY EARS, WITH THE ROUGH WHITE FOAM COMING TOWARDS ME!  I AM FILLED WITH CONCERN.  I WONDER WHICH WAY I SHOULD TURN.  IN THE DARKNESS, I SCAN THE BEACH TO MY LEFT.  THERE IS NO HELP.  IT’S GETTING DARK AND IN THE DISTANCE IT APPEARS TO BE A FOGGY NIGHT.  I QUICKLY LOOK TO MY RIGHT.  I AM GREETED BY THE SAME CIRCUMSTANCE.  I LOOK STRAIGHT AHEAD.  THE ROARING, CRASHING, WAVES SEEM AN ALMOST UNNATURAL WHITE AS THEY CONTINUE TO MAKE THEIR WAY TOWARD ME, THREATENING TO OVERTAKE ME AND CARRY ME OUT TO SEA WHERE I’LL BE AT THEIR MERCY…KNOWING THAT THEY HAVE NO MERCY…NO, I WILL GO NO FURTHER.  I STAND, CONSIDERING MY OPTIONS, FILLED WITH MY CONCERN. PERHAPS, I SHOULD CONSIDER TURNING BACK THE WAY I CAME…NO!  THAT IS NOT AN OPTION.  TURMOIL AND TORTURE AND TIRADES DROVE ME HERE.  I WILL NOT GO BACK THE SAME WAY I CAME.  I REALIZE I AM AT THE END OF MY OPTIONS.  TO GO BACK IS MORE OF THE SAME; TO GO BACK IS CERTAIN DEATH.  TO MY LEFT OR RIGHT, IT IS SO HAZY AND UNCLEAR AND I CANNOT SEE…I CANNOT SEE!…STRAIGHT AHEAD AND I’M IN THE GRASP OF UNCONTROLLABLE FORCES THAT WILL SHOW ME NO MERCY.  IF I TRAVEL THE WAY I CAME, I WILL SURELY DIE.  THERE’S MORE THAN ONE WAY TO DIE IN THIS WORLD…THERE’S MORE THAN ONE WAY TO DIE…YET, I CAME HERE BECAUSE I LONG TO LIVE.  I LONG TO LIVE AND TO THRIVE.  SO HERE I STAND AT THE END OF MY OPTIONS…THERE’S ONE WAY I HAVEN’T TRIED.  Slowly, I lift up my head as my heart starts to listen to a quiet still voice from inside.  In my spirit, I begin to petition my Holy Father on High.  I ask for the wisdom and courage I’ll need to confront what I must…on this walk…through this world…called my life.  A few moments longer, a few whispered words in truth and humility and I leave the beach with the assurance of peace, wiping tears that had flooded my eyes.The world seems changed…Yet, I can’t see change!  Surely, it’s something inside.  The quiet still  voice responds to my thoughts and suddenly I realize, it’s not what I see, but how I see that’s brought such a change to my life.  Suddenly, my perception has changed since I’ve believed on my Lord Jesus Christ. 

11/26/01                                                                                  Hazel Tiller