It is time

It is a time of sifting -
the wind is fierce,
but the chaff will not remain.
It is a time of refining -
the fire will rage,
but the gold will be made pure.
It is a time of reckoning -
the seekers will find,
and fools remain blind.
It is a season of choosing

Feel like this is the season I, and many others, are going through in our Christian walk. Ridiculously uncomfortable and difficult.

But the end is good.

experimentation...

Ratatat, I am giddy with the fact
That I snorkel in a sea
of seven foot improbabilities.
Waves arrest black beaches cursed
with coral peace signs.
Chill out.

My song is unstoppable.
Oh Great luck,
Don’t steal my faith.
Don’t fold it forgotten
in the cupboard of unused linens.
Don’t leave it unopened
like a pile of orphaned presents.

For I live in a land of Giants,
making life my own.
It’s all mine,
and nobody else in the world can have it.
This is mine,
and I’m not tired of it yet.

Greenman Pagan.
I rule the earth with loud shoes made of rainbows.

Sleeper

Nodding off, slowly. Broad white face, mouth permanently pulled down with the increasing gravity of age. His strong cantankerous jaw dips down until it meets his chest, then jerks back to attention. I watch him play this game for ten minutes. I imagine the soft snores that fill his compact car.
“I enjoy making up stories about people in my head.”
He laughs at me. Wide brown eyes closing into happy slits.
The old man sleeps in his car because he lives alone. He cannot sleep when the world sleeps because his loneliness is thickest in the night, its lisping voice whispering incessantly. He finds peace only at midday, on the side of a busy street, surrounded by walking souls going about their business. Here in the muffled crowd he can sleep. Here there are enough noises to busy the loneliness, to confuse and distract it from nocturnal naggings.
“You’re so dramatic.”
Half-apologetic smile. “Mmm.”

riffing

Shards of dreams stolen from heaven, too large to squeeze into our tiny world. Stuff them in anyway until they crush us like ants incapable of comprehension. Stuff them in anyway until the seams are torn, reality ripped from start to finish. Stuff them in until we implode with light, unable to bear the glory a moment longer.