“God is love,”

the Scriptures say.

But “God is spirit”

and his body is not present with me,

only his intangible soul.

I cannot touch or hear or see

and he says I am blessed for believing anyway.

But I long for the animal comfort

of a heartbeat beneath my ear,

an arm around my shoulder, holding me up.

Or to hear affirmations, declarations of faithfulness,

whispered, murmured, spoken aloud.

Not just pages of red letters,

not just tears blurring an empty ceiling,

not just crying out with no reply.

The glass is dim, the mirror dark,

and all I have is a promise,

not yet attained.

I cannot touch or hear or see

but this present distance must suffice for me.

On Writing

The pen, the brush

Written in life’s blood

Written in quicksilver

Thin pages spun from sugar

The heat, the violence

The pen flies but can’t keep up

The paper tears, melts, dissolves

The brush bleeds monochrome

My thoughts rise up, a wordless wail

Like a wild horse, I try to break those thoughts

Bend them to my will

Make them lie still upon the page

Force them to behave, to communicate

To reach into your mind and grip it

Just as they have gripped mine

To help you feel

To help you know

What’s behind my eyes, my smile

The wordless wail contained, restrained

In fumbling words

(This is an older piece, but I haven’t shared it on this blog, so here you go.)