Cornerstone

There is but one brick we build upon
There is but one house we're safe within
And the wind, and the wind
Cannot find its way in,
No, the wind cannot find its way in.
There is but one we will call I Am.
There is but one rock upon which we stand
There is but one reason for our love,
And there's but one armor we can trust.
And Satan, and Satan
Cannot find his way in
No, Satan cannot find his way in

Jesus Christ, cornerstone,
In your love, we find our home
Cornerstone, Jesus Christ
Your empty grave, it promises life.

Smile-Face Pictures

The pictures from those days hang crooked
on the wall before the stairs, all smiles,
all oblivious to the paychecks that didn't pay,
the night after night with heartburn and lying awake.
Their dusty frames and glass contain momentary joy
that sometimes stretched like a rubberband across days
or weeks, but sometimes snapped and slapped back,
cracking like a cup and spilling it like a sink.

And now it seems we don't take any more pictures
and I wonder if we still have momentary joys or
are we jaded like jewelery from China?
I don't know, but on the stairs, I remember.

Winter Decisions

Do I write patterns or do they write me?
Pens leaking ink on my chest in circles,
arcs and angles, like a labyrinth, I move
according to the will of dead-end streets,
one-way signs, road construction and whispers.
God knows my patterns shift to the music.

And we find ourselves in my car, music
playing top forty when you look at me
Eyes, planets that plead we speak in whispers.
We've spent since March circumscribing circles,
sketching our rules made on walks through old streets,
and finally, silently, I will move.

The patterns we've sewn say "Make the damn move!
Stop looking for stop signs in the music!
Kiss for God's sake in the lights of these streets."
"Fredericksburg in winter," you say to me,
As I admire how your hair encircles
your face and moves with the slightest whisper

against your jacket, loud as our whispers,
voices barely swirling past. The car moves,
grumbling tires spinning their tight black circles.
Thumping pot holes, our disjointed music.
Your hand, finally, stretches to find me,
fingers lending warmth to frozen streets.

Until when thankfully we leave the streets
and lend flesh to the heat of our whispers.
I watch FOREVER pass in front of me
as the pattern of your red lips removes
any doubt you doubt, and with the music,
I close my eyes. The light leaves pink circles

throbbing on my eyelids. And fear circles.
You see, the pattern returns to these streets,
where even in embrace, doubtful whispers,
tickling my brain like the theme music
of Prokofiev's wolf, seem to warn me.
Yet I hold fast when the melody moves.

We move past circles, yet still use whispers.
We pass dead-end streets, we decide our move.
Past patterns? Music that does not move me.

Life Like Winter

Clouds slip so slippery through skies with winds whispering
Hellos and a good bye, a hi and some see you laters.
And though the sun advances toward sunset, the east remains blue,
while to the west, gray rules the day due to an advancing winter,
Cascading down the Appalachian Mountains, gaining momentum
and moisture, and planning to huff and puff and blow
The dead dogwood tree in the back down on the neighbor's fence.
Nothing a chainsaw can't handle, except fingertips resent it.

chase

Sometimes my phone is ringing
But God leave a message
I'm busy sleeping

But You won't!

There's a message on the mirror in eyeliner
But I don't have my glasses on yet,
I just open the cabinet.
I search for something that might cure this diseased
Clay jar of a body that covers me,
But the more medicine I seek,
The more I miss what You would have me see.
And when I do see the black letters on the mirror,
I realize that before I see myself,
I have to look through You.

Sometimes my ears are ringing,
So God leave me alone
I'm busy screaming

But you won't!

This may be a chase
It may go on for days
But I'll never escape

I'll return with dirt and grime on my face,
And I'll return to the mirror and the scribbled word "grace,"
I can't believe how dirty I've become,
I can't believe how dirty I've come undone,
And now clean, I don't ever want to be apart again.

This sure was a chase
Yeah, it went on for days
But I didn't escape

And now I'll never run away.

Before That

The morning arrives on the heels of the night.
The leaves emerge green and the tides ebb and flow,
and yet before that You were there
and You whispered the world into existence
Oh God, You're awesome, You're amazing, You're everything
Jesus, You're savior, You're Father, You're everything
The verdict arrived on the heels of my crimes,
I was sentenced to die, I had no hope for my life,
and yet there is grace, You took my place
Upon the cross, my sins were washed away
Oh God, You're awesome, You're amazing, You're everything
Jesus, You're savior, You're Father, You're everything.

SHARPIE

we write all these things in black sharpie/thinking they might carry more meaning/their thick black lines scrawl across the page/and the countertop beneath repeats what each word says/cause it bleeds through/like a band-aid on a severe head wound./when you read, you have to believe/these fat-walled words you can from afar yet still see./my fingers are stained with ink/and no matter how much I wash this damned spot,/it won't shrink,/and like Ms. MacBeth, I'm a bit concerned,you might say I'm about ready to freak,/but forgiveness is written on the page and has/bled onto the counter beside this kitchen sink.