it should be enough.

Jesus is mine and all is well, but I want

And sway by the swaying wants of men.

Love is mine and truth is real, but I feel

Less comfortable than before.

Song and story are mine, but true glory

Is not weighty and I think the beauty is me.

Goodness is mine and my hands are full, but I

Grasp the wind and must still learn

That no one else will do.

Here, the heart knows unsettledness: Place evades my certainty

And friends marry friends while I still long for that.

Another tomorrow came, and I have been carried by

Another will, but it all seemed so statically silent

Instead of brilliant with the news of my dreams come true.

Grace, astonish again

When I lean again to feel that it is not

Enough.

saturday's coffeehouse.

Most often, it’s my favorite. Early for the prime corner, I plan to drink my fill of the evening;

But this time’s not the same, from the start.

Customary paper-covered tables for crayon scrawling;

But something about a pencil and journal page is (oddly) more appealing.

3-per-table tea lights, someone’s floor lamp - the glow is sweet;

But the performers up there are almost buried in their shadows.

Good song - Sufjan is a genius of a man. And I had no idea you were such a beast at that instrument.

But most talent doesn’t dazzle. Do they think they are singing in unison right now?

I ask a friend why her face is heavy;

But the crowd’s din is deafening, so she draws a schoolgirl’s hearts and initials to say she misses someone.

Time for coffee, if I can get to it;

But it’s watered-down or something. I drink it anyway, the donut might have helped.

Eye contact with deep eyes across a black-diamond-level maze of tables, chairs, and oblivious others;

But he probably wasn’t even looking at me. Psh… silly me. Of course not.

Time to sit and listen again - or try;

But the instruments are too loud and I just want the busy room to hush. Even a murmur would be nice.

Someone’s announcing a trivia question for a prize –

But either no one’s listening, or no one keeps track of celebrity baby names anymore.

So many pretty people in trendy clothes. I especially like the rolled-up plaid look,

But that’s all of the boys tonight. Just one big blur of flannelled men.

I finger my new beaded bracelet with the silver tree clasp. After 22 years, Daddy’s still my Valentine.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t long for another one. Some days more than others.

Attempted conversation. I laugh a lot, of course.

But it might not be real this time. I just can’t make my life sound interesting enough.

A new arrival picks up the burnt orange Crayola; will this be another friendly doodle contest?

But his face speaks a more serious intent.

I glance down, and see curiously written amidst the table’s sad, scribbled mess:

CHRIST WAS BROKEN FOR YOU.

Next to the most beautifully most Emptied and Alone on a tree.

Strangely stunned, I am drawn beyond the noisy place to the Truth on the next morning’s table.

The image of true fullness lingers as I leave,

Running to drink deeper.

Divided.

Ezekiel 13:14

The house stands gleaming, but underneath

It’s split, creaking and shaky.

Most walls are shredding from rot

Underneath the smeared whitewash of a false peace,

But no one seems to notice.

The other rooms offend,

But it’s a holy blood that soaks them deep,

Throbbing life into the uncovered filth,

And whispering of future glory

When the age of war is done and the pretty dead walls are broken,

Leaving only the true ones forever –

resurrection

The dust weeps.

Torrents cannot heal its rending, for

The Curse fingers its way past elements.

All the breathing fight and collapse,

Souls sighing thunder over the state of things.

Grasped pleasures dissolve to cold ash

As time takes and pain shakes

What was only meant for here

And now – in this dismal labor room,

The sweaty, straining City groans loud for

The last re-making.

the Only for the Nothing.

The sanctuary’s rigid pew kept me still,

But my stormy mind refused to hush.

Thoughts were taken captive by an old friend I thought I’d moved past,

Who seemed to like these Sabbaths best

To bring bitterness to precious things.

Fierce attempts to be at rest and humble fell bloodied again, and grinning arrogance gained a decided seat.

Every try reeked of my unwelcome guest, dead to me – but we still held hands, tighter today it seemed.

No goodness this way. Let go.

Black sin-love was laid ugly and bare in the familiar good law,

And I wept over soul poverty with heavy confessions of need. I prayed to feel it, and it hurt, of course.

“It is sweet to be nothing” is truth, but only as the aftertaste

Of choking down this bitter pill – to ruin my heart-lean on anything plus.

I learned it again today and I only learn it hard.

It’s a Gospel of an Only,

And it’s only for the Nothing.

venture no. 5

It takes shatterings.

Many heavy shatterings, because

The hallowing needs to hush them.

Loud, lying lovers – reveling in jactation;

Fraudulent food their famine feast.

The breaking came and showed beauty to the

Abysmally satisfied. Tenderness wrecked all imitations

Of the real gem –it wasn’t you after all.

Look, this –yesterday’s fallow flounderer now

Heaves for heaven. Sleepless seeker

Silenced by a strange undoing of death

By death.

Still we beg more

Crushing –flint-faced ruin races to

Win over the widening white.

Just –

Rend more busy shadows hard embraced for

A true sort of quiet.