Works Of A Wordsmith

Shedding skin like serpents
Rubbing all the rough away;
Slithering softly round to take off
All the crusty hardness on my heart.
I finally weep in weary longing
Lying quiet at the feet of Him
Who bears the scars where I have struck
In anger at my plight,
I wait for Judah’s lion claws
To reach into the core inside where I have
Hidden, hiding all the flaws
That really He has always seen.
With anguished cries I still submit
To Love behind the stripping of my lies
And beyond the pain a sweet, sweet fragrance
Rises as the scent of petals crushed
Beneath the heel that bruises< &#8212>
Joy in sorrow bathing dancing feet< &#8212>
I find the child inside the dragon
Trusting in the gentle grip that holds me
In His everlasting arms.

Seems wakefulness is a curse of mine.
Well or ill, I lie sleepless—
Staring at the ceiling, checking the time, mind going…
Slow or fast, just going…
Tonight it is illness and a song that sings
Of Christ’s love for me and His arms
Open wide reaching for my company,
While all I can do is cough ceaselessly,
Longing for quiet rest.
Ah, Lord, I cannot understand either of us—
Your mysterious ways and my confused, willful ones.
I am tired…
Of circumstances, of uncertainties,
Of doctors and counselors and friends with advice,
Of responsibilities that keep me pushing on and on and on…
I miss the tangible sense of your presence that once I felt
And while I long to lay my burdens on you,
Somehow, I don’t know how any more.
Someone said the other day to let you carry me.
That, too, is beyond my abilities.
So, I sit here, pen in hand,
Trying to make sense of it all
In some vague hope that getting it on paper
Will bring me understanding
…Or at least momentary surcease.
This, I have come to know again—
Married or no, it has all come back to just you and me.

I write the dreams of angels with my pen
Like cascading waterfalls streaming across a blank page
Words… letters… mere symbols of sounds
Which bear poignant meaning only to those with
A listening ear… or perhaps an attentive eye.
I sing the songs of mute souls, brushing my pen across
The heartstrings of those who cannot weep
Until tears flow like laughter bubbling out of a delighted child.
Blank “white� stares up at me sometimes like a red flag in front of a bull—
Challenging me to reach inside my core, to draw out a drink for the thirsty.
Sometimes I find only desert sand, but I still reach
Pawing through memories and emotions,
Thoughts and ideas flitting just beyond my fingertips.
If I sit still long enough and wait patiently enough,
I am rewarded with rich treasure—
The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
The words flow then, like a fountain, as angels
Paint their dreams across my heart.
My pen moves in its own rhythm, dancing to an unheard beat.
I am aware of the hearts around me
Longing for the drum to play their song
Sing their sorrows, utter their longings…
Each one wishing to be known by another.
It is a lonely existence sometimes, this dreaming with angels.
As I write what others feel, I find myself set apart.
Where is the soul who will hear my silent song—
The inexpressible longing for “other� to meet with me,
To understand me, to tell me I am desired and accepted?
My Creator comforts me when I can be eased by no other—
Whispers that destiny, though not yet seen, is still real… and imminent,
If I but let it come, flowing through my pen as the gift that it is—
Reaching, touching, healing through me,
Sometimes to me, but not for me alone.
So, I keep on writing the dreams of angels,
Letting myself take flight on the wings of words…