The ascent of Stan

It started as a poem, about a tree fort, on a leaf, but turned into stomping grounds for my new caterpillar pal.

Down the Loxahatchee

An early morning launch
with paddle and kayak,
she arrests seclusion.

Caught up in the current,
she purely steers
through the interwoven river trail.

The mangrove roots,
like bare flamingo legs,
relax inoffensively on the bank.

Sable palm trees bow
toward her,
giving shade.

Up ahead, an alligator
bathes in sunlight,
cautious of her presence

She ducks below
the golden gate
of a bolstered fallen cypress.

To take her seat
upon its throne,
this river’s sacred empress.

Creation

Ocean, clouds, and stillness
stretch out the expanse,
like spotless and untouched canvass,
this sole pair of eyes the brush.

Creatures, sun, and newness
ooze from heart and mouth and hands.

A picture painted
Life created
Nature welcomes man.

Winn Dixie's Gethsemane

I toss as I sleep
like a visitor unwelcome,
haunted by the image
of the man who didn't eat.

The man whose hair was matted
his finger nails dirt filled
With neck deep stained by blood spilled
poorly hid by an unseasoned jacket.

The cashier said, "I'm sorry sir
this credit card won't pass.
The picture is to much defaced
and we can't take that here."

He possessed his grocery bags
like a child to an early mother.
One could feel his hunger pangs
as he surrendered each one over

"Run home; grab your check book sir."
He nodded hesitatingly;
exiting encumbered
by lost hope and false identity.

I wanted to scream my confession.
I'VE GOT THE EXACT SAME PROBLEM SIR!
But instead guarded my wallet
and the cheap grace I keep hidden there.

I kissed him on the cheek,
betraying my own flesh my blood.
Now thirty dollars tie a noose
and overhang my bed.

9/25/08

I was the third person of six in an isle 7 pile up at the Belvedere Winn Dixie late last night. The hold up being a confrontation over a raggedy mans credit card, not totally matching up with his driver's licence. Both cards had been considerably defaced, enough to raise suspicion from the hesitant cashier. Other isles began to open up, and customers began to file into their vacancies. I stayed, content to be in the middle of the ordeal.

The man wore a bright purple ring and his finger nails were dirt filled. He wore no socks with leather slip-ons and his hair was rough and frayed. His over-sized tan jacket contained wrinkles of a likely nighttime pillow. He repeatedly called the cashier mama and stammered when he spoke, his hands shaking spastically at his sides. He mentioned running home to grab his checkbook as if he had something to prove, possessing his three bags of groceries like an early mother. I could feel his hunger pangs as he finally relinquished them from his grip to the apologetic manager.

It was at this point that he looked at me and shrugged his shoulders; began walking toward the door. And it was at this point that i affirmed my selfish and dead faith. "Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed," I said silently, as he walked out the entrance, his shattered hope and false identity evident in the way he hung his head. And there i stood, holding my hand over my back pocket, guarding my wallet, along with the cheap grace i keep hidden inside of it.

I turned as i slept, cringing at the realization that I had betrayed grace for thirty measly bucks. Now I play Judas, and would give anything to buy that man his groceries. What will it take before my greed costs me far more than a few dollars.

"You gotta go with traffic man"

Recently I've been attempting to conserve money and save our planet by riding a bicycle. So far, its been real good, thanks to Trae-pal,who graciously donated a Raleigh road-cruiser to my cause. With its purple shade and 21 gears, that sucker flies, and i mean flies. I've got a speedometer on the thing to prove it. However, the gravity defying speeds turned out to be my demise.

I was riding home from school Friday, booking just over 20 mph down Dixie Highway. Cruising the right southbound lane, i came up to Belvedere Rd, and rather than reducing speeds to avoid colliding with a potential car, i opted to cross over into the far left northbound lanes of oncoming traffic. I made sure no cars were coming my way before doing so, and made my move zooming through Belvedere as waiting cars stared googly-eyed at my dazzling purple speedster. I think i may have even stood up to peddle at this point for added effect.

After passing through the intersection i noticed that no cars were headed my way, so i stayed in the northbound lane. Unfortunately, at this same moment, a man walking, about 30 years of age, was noticing the same exact thing, and also made the choice to step foot in the lane we both deemed safe for traveling. I let out a holler, as did my brakes, sending the stranger into a startling state of motionlessness. We hit, and hit hard, hurling him to the ground, the bike into oblivion, and me through the air.

I guess it all happened so fast, neither of us really had any time to react to the crash. I gathered myself, the bike, and chunks of my ego spread out on the concrete, while he sort of brushed himself off, calling out, "you gotta go with traffic man." We both went our separate ways, and looking back on it, other than a sore tail bone, my only regret is not asking him if he was alright. I think pain has a tendency to make me self-consumed.

Rogue Waves; a myth? I think not

For the first time in a while, the Atlantic took a deep sigh long enough to allow some friends and i to get out on the water. Several lobster even came out to play, and thanks to sir alex, we bagged three of them buggers.

Satisfied with our catch, we headed in, cleaned them up, starting back down the beach toward my car. rather than carry my kayak back, i chose to paddle it along the shore. with nowhere to put my lobster tail, i put it in my pocket, removing my car keys, placing them on the center console type deal: a decision that would haunt me until, well, I'm still kicking myself.

A quarter mile paddle or so, i wound up about 10 feet shy of directly in front of where the beach opened up to Clarke Ave. Bad decision number two told me to turn the boat away from the shore, to paddle a few more feet, leaving the port side of my meager vessel completely vulnerable to nothing other than a two foot rogue wave, which sent both my awkward flailing body and my only set of car keys into the three foot, sandy, shell-filled abyss. i was literally a step from shore but my keys were quite literally no where to be found. two couples drinking corona watched and snickered as i dove down several times, coming up with handfuls of frustration. one guy recommended that i sift through the sand. awesome.

I guess the world would be a much different place if we all did things smart the first time, but i can't help but wonder.

A few hours on the sidewalk and a pretty penny later, i had a new key, and one more reason to never underestimate the power of a rogue wave.

Summer thoughts

A clean shirt
and blue jeans
Sit softly on my skin

A warm meal
and cold water
Are my daily routine

I am the rich man
I am the rich man
I am the rich man

My head's full of dreams
i've got plans to live them out

My pocket's full of opportunity
and I am not without
anything that i need

I am the rich man
I am the rich man
I am the rich man

I always said God dwells in the poor
But will i ever see
Because i take all my meals behind a front door
And i lock it when when i sleep

I always said God dwells in the needy
But do I give a damn
Because i've got a much flatter and brighter screen
To tell me who i am

I am the rich man
I am the rich man
I am the rich man

Selling all i own and giving it away
I don't seem to know how

So will i make it through the eye of a needle
I often have my doubts

For I am the rich man
I am the rich man
I am the rich man

4-17-08

I knocked upon a door
I walked into a heart
I walked into a fragile wall
Built of all the broken pieces he had left behind
Filled with all the loose affections she could bear to find

I knocked upon a door
I walked into a heart
I walked into a loaded gun
That shot me down and cut me up
Fed me to my lust
Told her this was honest
and Told her she could trust

I knocked upon a door
I walked into a heart
I severed wounds so i could heal them
Greater than the fall
Is the glory of the rescue
But i was never meant to be a Savior

Nolan Ryan... what a guy

I remember loving baseball, and as i grow older i slowly regain every bit of it back again. i remember playing t-ball, and breaking my arm halfway through the season, wanting so badly to hit the ball with my cast. i remember my light-blue jersey with the mobile gas station logo on the front and the number 5 on the back. I liked that number because alan did, but in time i convinced myself that i did because of it's superior form. i remember coach pitch, and wearing the pathetic helmet to play the pitchers mound. If it was so dangerous why didn't the coaches wear one too?

I remember minor league and starting to actually pitch a baseball. It was then that alan and i began to throw the ball around in the front yard. I would pitch from the mound of the edge of our driveway to alan, who sat 15 paces away on whatever cooler we found in our garage. if we got really ambitious, he would pull out an old face guard and bright orange leg pads, sometimes even turning a life-jacket backwards to serve as a chest protector. it was in that front yard that i was taught to throw the ball fast and straight, and then to put my middle finger on the inside of the seems and snap my wrist as i delivered the ball. I kicked my leg out far and at the last moment i bent my knee up parallel to the ground, and then pushed it forward. I saw Cory Trent do that, and i thought he was really cool. Alan called the pitches and i delivered the cheese, (that's what Mr. Cline always called it).

I remember the majors, playing for Professional firefighters and paramedics, wearing a maroon jersey, still number 5 of course. i wore high black socks and pulled my pant legs up just below the knees. I remember my first base hit as a 9 year old, a fast grounder down the third base line. I rounded first and saw my coach Todd Kenney's clap his hands and say nicely done behind his dark beard, and remember wanting so badly to do that again. more than anything, i liked catching a throw in from the outfield and slapping my glove down for a tag. the next 3 years i pitched more, and remember hitting a left handed batter in the lower back and making him cry. maybe that is why i always had a slight fear of being hit by a pitch, simply because i knew how capable i was of accidentally doing it to someone else.

I moved up to junior league when i was 13 and played my last season of baseball. i always told myself that i didn't enjoy the game anymore, but the truth is that i didn't excel like i used to. i didn't like the fact that it didn't come so easy anymore. i loved the beauty of baseball and the moments that it's beauty brought out life's fullness, even if only for brief moments, but when those moments lacked in my game i lost my appreciation for them altogether. instead of seeing the need for growth, i saw the need to flee from the thing that pointed out my weakness.

i regret how selfish i am, but more than anything i regret how numb i've become toward the grace of christ. derek webb wrote, 'i am thankful that i'm incapable, of doing any good on my own.'

my sin ought to be all the more display of the beauty of christ's redemption, and all the motivation i need to boast in it (grace) above all else.

ben schans talked me and a few guys into hitting some balls after work, and after chasing down a couple fly balls, my old love was rekindled. there's something in running down a hard hit fly ball that will explain all of life's questions in the squeeze of a glove.

5-29-08

The only things keeping me awake are the freshly brewing pot of coffee and the thought that waking up this early might one day make me more like my father. I couldn't sleep last night, as anxiety and fear led me to conjure up irrational fears of dark shadows moving about the house. Ever since i was a kid my imagination has been my worst enemy when it came to falling asleep. I remember mapping out escape routes from my house, for when it was invaded. The men, dressed in masks, always came through windows. I'd usually have enough time to wake Alan. The men would never see us crouched under the bed or perched on the dresser in the corner of our bedroom. My next objective was the wooden Louisville slugger in the closet and a suicide run down the hallway, just waking my parents in time to escape through their bedroom window.

There is something about windows dangit, that provide the hope for escape yet the terror of prodding eyes, still haunting me in an open space in the dark, where my back is not protected. maybe its a fear of being outnumbered or suddenly trounced by a ninja breaking through the sliding glass door, or maybe its the fear of what i can't see, and the thought that it can see me.

Quite possibly the hardest thing to realize is that my childhood fears have never left me and haunt me every time i ponder my future that i don't know the outcome, and that the outcome already knows me. Maybe that should bring hope, but for now i lay awake at night.

*If life is a forest, our hope should be rain
but i think hope is lost in our fear of flames

Haven Gillespie for the soul

That Lucky Old Sun: as covered by Johnny Cash

"Up in the mornin', out on the job
Work like the devil for my pay.
But that lucky old sun has nothin' to do
But roll around heaven all day.

Had a fuss with my woman, an' I toil for my kids,
An' I sweat 'til I'm wrinkled and gray,
While that lucky old sun got nothin' to do
But roll around heaven all day.
Oh, Lord above, don't you hear me cryin'
Tears are rollin' down my eyes.
Send in a cloud with a silver linin',
Take me to paradise.
Show me that river, Take me across,
wash all my troubles away
Like that lucky old sun give me nothing to do
But roll around heaven all day."

The seed that fell upon rocks

Most theologians and commentators over the years, agree that the parable of the sower, told by Jesus, describes the different types of soil indigenous to the area surrounding the city of Jerusalem, however the rocky soil from that parable is actually no-where near Jerusalem, but is in fact in Boynton Beach, Florida, lining the backyard of a house on A1A, near Woolbright. And war is waged against it, as we good men of middle earth attempt to remove trees and shrubs from the soil surrounding the two-story house where enemy rocks have entrenched their legions.

So let this be a call, nay a humble plea, to all landscapers in the universe: that as each plant, tree, whatever it may be, is to be grafted into your natural playground, and the angry horned devils whisper into your ears the temptation to plant them without first removing all rocks from the surrounding earth; fight with every ounce of strength you can muster, or else the 20 year old sons of general contractors, forced to pull out massive Geiger trees, will hate you.

Crazy old Maurice

While driving to work this morning, i experienced the supernatural. As i turned right onto Hypoloxo toward I-95 I noticed an elderly man in a silver Taurus, with a handicapped sign hanging from his mirror quickly approaching in the far right lane. he fiercely merged into the middle lane and then back into the right immediately in front of me. As he sped by, i swear his eyes said, "i own this highway b*%#$."

I've never seen an old man swerve through so much interstate traffic at what must have been breakneck speeds, it was unbelievable. I kept a close distance for a few moments, but the last glimpse i got was of him using the H.O.V lane to pass a Chevy Silverado. I was speechless.

The asthma angel

I've never really thought about whether or not angels can have sicknesses, because quite frankly the reality of the answer to that question has never affected me, however today, the angel i was visited by had asthma, and because of it, my work was given purpose and through it significance.

Up until asthma angel's visit i had been slightly perturbed in my work. As some may know working for Alexander Kaiser almost always involves huge quantities of sand, the largest piles of rocks ever amassed by mankind, and all other thinkable abnormal objects and trash; and lest we forget the wheel barrel, with the name Arora spray painted on the side; yes of course that blessed orange, never flat wheel barrel, to be used to carry whatever material we are dealing with, from one side of the property another. And don't ask my father why or for what purpose, because you will rarely get an answer besides, "because I asked you to do it."

Today it was Aloe plants, like none ever seen. Planted into a solid embankment of large rocks, and stretching their fanged arms in every directly, effectively thwarting any potential of digging a shovel anywhere near its roots. I swear they were gigantic, and i snapped two ropes trying to pull them out with a truck.

Anyways, upon pulling the first one out, i dragged it to the road and began working on the second and most vicious of the aloe plants. Near the point where i would have sworn that i'd never remove that plant from its rock filled home, a van pulled up.

He stood just about 6 foot tall, roughly 35 years old; a thicker angel with a shaved head; tan skin and a Spanish accent. I never caught his name but he was a plumber and drove a white van.
I've never seen someone so excited to see aloe plants half way out of the ground. To his surprise i was getting rid of all of them, and to my surprise he asked if he could help me pull one out and load it into his van to take home.

"It helps with asthma," he said, as he opened up the double doors at the back of his van. "Take it to bed with you," i replied to his eager request.

It was then that he removed a shovel from his van and began working with me to get a large section of plant number 2 out of the ground, and it was then that i realized that angels must have sicknesses because this one did. After loading it up into his van, he thanked me very kindly, and went on his way. It was in this moment that i realized that Christ uses the ordinary, the practical things to teach us life's most important truths. He uses the middle aged men with asthma and his delight in aloe plants to reveal that even the mundane and everyday toil is ultimately significant, for while it all may seem like chasing after wind, it is to His glory that i labor, eat, read a book, write, or sleep.

Now i'll never know to what extent landscaping or shoveling large piles of dirt will glorify Christ, but maybe it does, maybe the small, mundane tasks that i perform everyday, are ultimately what helps to bring about Christ's kingdom today. i sure hope so, because sometimes that is the only thought that brings any significance to the all too often seemingly meaningless nature of this life.

Well, all i can truly say is that I've never been so proud to pull aloe plants out of the ground.

April 7, 2008

I've got 100 things keeping me from the the one thing I want more than anything. And must i forsake all things in order to find it, i think so. For while this painting inspires me to live and at that live well, i cannot serve it best without first a house to hang in. I've been storing it in a closet for a month now, and just about every day I take it out and stare into its depth, soak in its creativity, and ache to think that i must return it to its closet home to wait. Wait upon me to find a wall, and not just any wall; this painting deserves a fireplace, or better yet a kitchen table, I don't know; but something permanent-something right, something worthy of its color; but at the current time, i just don't have a house. 

Crazy dream

So i dreamt the other night that there was a girl sitting at a bus stop. I knew nothing of her other than the fact that she was 13 years old. Across the street stood a man with evil intent painted into his facial features. I knew something was wrong as he began to walk slowly toward her, yet I stood on the median motionless, incapable of interceding. With every step that the man took closer to the girl however, she became younger and younger, to the extent that by the time the man reached her location she was an infant, which he picked up and cradled in his arms. Then I woke up. 

Will i ever know

When hunger strikes and I've got food

Do i give until i starve?

When millions need their daily bread 

Should I still pay for college? 

How much good is good enough 

and is that even good enough? 

Does giving just enough for me to still have just enough even make sense? 

Of what worth is prayer when the answer all too often sits in my back right pocket? 

Majority swayed

i'm as constant as a streetlight on a timer; showing my colors to the longest line of cars. that is until there are no more waiting; then i change- but throw out a warning first, i never said I was committed. i almost wish you didn't count on me to be green, please don't choose another route. now i'll entertain those from another direction, but only for so long; like i said before: i'm changing. it's who i am. majority swayed. 

Uncle Pete

just a boy eighteen
the second World War called Pete
join the United States Navy

he spent five years out to sea
with a crew of seven hundred and fifty
upon the dark pacific sea

when off the coast of guadal-canal
they didn't have time to sound the bell
Japanese planes came by surprise

their guns bore down under a shield of night
Pete took his station and fired up the sky
only to see the damage done
only to hear the call of run

Pete, Pete come on get out
Pete, Pete we're going down
there's not much time, before this ship is gonna drown

they closed the hatches just to buy some time
while screams of men still echoed from inside
and pierced the deck, where his best friend laid to die

No, no, no, Charlie boy
don't you go, go, go
it's not your time
we're too young to die

Pete, Pete come on get out Pete, Pete we're going down
there's not much time, and it's time to save yourself

talking about it made you cry
but i saw it all welled up in your eyes
survived a wife, two daughters and a son
we laid you in the ground but your story still lives on

(In memory of Peter Kamstra)