Bread of Angels

Manna from Heaven

 

 

And they

they ate the bread of angels

that fell down from the sky

that appeared daily

to feed their hunger inside.

 

And they

they walked around in circles

for forty years

but their feet did not swell

nor did their clothes wear thin.

 

But I

I do not ask for the bread of angels

I do not ask that my feet never swell

or my clothes never wither and fade.

 

I ask for your presence to always surround me

engulf me

protect me

lead me

guide me

love me

 

I do not ask for the bread of angels

 

I only ask that you keep my head above water

when the storms

when the storm

come crashing down

My Wandering Soul

My soul is like the wind.

It rushes

strays

blows violently

dances softly

but it doesn’t stay

in one place.

 

Sometimes I wonder

why God moved so far from me

why He wandered down the road

abandoning me along the way.

 

But God is a rock.

He doesn’t move.

It is me who flitters and flies

who scatters in all directions

looking for, longing for

what I have already found in Him.

 

For my heart is unfaithful

to the Lover of my soul.

The One I claim I would die for.

The One to whom

I said

“I am forever Yours.”

 

In me, meekness and humility

do not lie.

A spirit of dissatisfaction reigns.

 

Even though I sometime run into darkness

to hide myself from His piercing light.

His hand is always upon my shoulder

waiting for me to turn around.

 

And when I do,

I see not a hand

waiting to strike me

but arms

that gently squeeze me

and nuzzle me

against His heart,

the heart

that weeps with love for humanity,

His creation.

Silence

 

Suddenly silence engulfs me

and the floodgates of fear

burst forth something invisibly eerie.

 

My vision becomes darkened

no images

flash across the corneas of my eyes

to distract me

from this loneliness

I feel inside.

 

I don’t want to be here.

I need a diversion.

There is only me here.

A me that I have never encountered before.

 

I don’t want to think.

I don’t want to analyze

who is this “I”

and all the pain felt inside.

 

Turn the TV on.

Thrust me in loud, city, traffic.

Activate the garbage disposal,

but do not leave me here.

 

Shield me from myself

because the true me

is not as pretty

as I had believed.

This poem was inspired by the recent episode of the Orthodox Christian  podcast Steve the Builder entitled “Fear of Silence”.    Listen here.

There are so few people who embrace silence. Most people have to have some constant noise. They are afraid to see their real selves.

Everything is Sacred

Everything  is sacred.

Everything is holy.

But to a people with a defiled mind

nothing is sacred;

nothing is holy.

 

Every foot step I take

is upon the altar

of the Most High God.

For everything is His

and He created all.

 

We have abused and maligned

His gifts, His handiwork.

We have shredded His masterpieces

and have tried to eradicated His Image.

 

Yet His Image

lays inside every human.

In some, that image

is buried under miles

of vileness

incased in layers of rock,

but it is still there.

 

Nothing can fully destroy

the Image of the Lord

in the one who was

made in His Image.

 

Lord, cleanse me.

Break my hardened heart.

Let your image be revealed in me.

Love Without Conditions

Somehow I find myself
standing before You
raising my filthy hands
towards your immaculate light.

My face, hands, body, and feet
are sullied by my thoughts
by my transgressions.
Each day I wallow in mire.

But my mind is deluded
I do not see the mire.
I cannot fathom
that my shower of love
is filled with the muddied waters
of wanting something in return,
a sea of ulterior motives.

For one cannot truly love
and want something in return.
This is not a lesson I have learned.
For most of us want something,
love in return, honor, friendship, or respect.

Lord, cleanse me a sinner.
Let real tears for the love of humanity
pour out from my soul
to the point that even the
soles of my feet
are purified from within.
Let me exude Your love.
A love that asks for nothing in return.

(3-8-09)

Lost

Today, I found it
stuck under the table
next to discarded gum
that had lost its taste.

Yesterday, I found it
in the bottom
of the garbage
stomped on
and stained.

Last week, I found it
abandoned in the attic
cast away
for the next
generation to find.

Last month, I found it
under my bed
swept into a hidden place
out of carelessness.

Last year, I found it
buried in the trunk of my car
placed there with thought
but forgotten over time.

What we long for most,
search for most,
ache for most,
is everywhere present
and fillest all things.

Where will you find
your abandoned Hope today?

The Other Side of Gray

“Gray is the color of Hope.” -Irina Ratushinskaya

 
Ashes from an explosive fire
Discarded, tattered newspapers, left to rot in the streets
Neglected pavement crumbling underneath your feet
Storm clouds threatening to pour upon your head

This is gray, the image of sorrow, the picture of grief.

Gray is the color of murky waters, the unknown,
the realm where nothing is quite defined.

However, like everything examined clearly,
Gray defies expectation
and unveils another side.

Gray is a mixture of black and white.
The first color one sees,
after having hit rock bottom.

Gray is the color of
shackles being removed from a prisoner.

Gray is the color of
having your basic need meets
after losing everything in a catastrophe.

Gray is the color
of an alcoholic choosing to step away from the drink
for yet another day.

Gray is the color of today, a color of the present,
but it is a yearning for tomorrow, for what can be and what will be.

Gray truly is
the color of Hope.

Poured Out

Massive, majestic, monastery bells

pealed out over the hills and the valleys.

 

Caught unaware,

my heart beat rapidly

while my eardrums

threatened to explode.

 

My world froze in place

and I caught something of the Divine.

 

I could see

my bottled prayers,

my jars of salt tears

smash violently upon the earth.

 

Turning into smoke,

they rose upon the clouds

into Heaven.

They arose as incense,

billowing out the perfume

of a desperate soul.

Prayers of Hope and Perserverance, VIII

The white wash has faded away
leaving behind a flaking substance
that crumbles with each slant of light.

What others have praised
now resembles a tomb
not with rotten flesh
(for that would show
that something was recently alive)
but with bones of stone
(showing that if life was once there,
it had long ago died away).

My whole life
has been one
of redressing old bones
of beautifying graves
of feeding flesh
but not the soul.

 
But I know
that somewhere
amongst these scattered ruins
something remains alive.
Somewhere a flame burns dimly
flickering wildly in the wind.

Prophesy
I say prophesy
and these bones
will be brought back to life
and the tomb
it
will be destroyed
forever.

Tired

I am tired of this grayness
that never seems to go away
that clouds the sun’s rays
that lurks around every corner
like a robber
waiting to steal
every ounce of joy
every ounce of strength
from one
who has the misfortune
of passing by.

I am tired of
the constant rain
whose pelting drops
not only dampen
the streets of the city
but also the hearts
of the people
making them moldy
and unable to love.

And I am tired of
the mud
the mud that attacks me
as I cautiously trod down the street,
the mud of confusion
the permeates
the mind of everyone near.

But though I am tired
and worn out in this foreign land,
You never tire of me.
You are forever faithful,
forever true.
Your compassion never fails
and Your joy consumes
my frail body,
my frail mind,
my frail soul.

__________________________

This poem was written in Ukraine during a dark time for me.