It all comes down to this

Grand epics and great songs. Forgotten things that will never be remembered. Remembered things that should be forgot. Majesty and might. Glory and power.

And yet, underneath all these tales and adventures there is one great yearning that binds us all together.

To shake off fear and embrace all that could be. To trust without shame. To know and be known. To love and be loved.

There is an hill upon which a god once died, stretched out on wood between earth and sky. Look there and see the answered yearning. Blood that saves. Death that brings life.

Love Incarnate.

Doubting Again

Remember what you told me that long ago day after I pushed you down the hill and then came tumbling right after you? That moment as I watched you careening down, I could hardly breathe for excitement and elation and fear. You’d come back to me and I’d just shoved you away. I plummeted down that hillside with no thought except you. I could have flown.

You told me that death cannot stop true love. I’m holding you to your word. Because you’re lying there on that bed, not breathing.  You promised this was just a delay.

Please be right.

Curator of the Kiss Museum

Over here, we have number five. A precious moment between two… Excuse me? What was that?

I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen. I have to interrupt our tour for a moment. We have just reached the top five kisses since the invention of the kiss. I, as the Curator, personally rated them the most passionate and the most pure. However, I’m now receiving word of another kiss that has just occurred which appears to have surpassed even these.

I’m sorry, what? Oh really? A farm boy and a princess? You don’t say. Well, I’ll take a look at it straight away.

The Sick Room

She opens the bedroom door, quietly. She doesn’t want to disturb the two people inside. She needn’t have worried. Her father-in-law and her son are utterly engrossed in the story being told. The older man reads from the book open in front of him. Her son, still dressed in his pajamas because he’s recuperating from being sick, sits forward on the bed, mouth slightly open in intense concentration.

She smiles to herself. She had almost hesitated asking the boy’s grandfather to come. But this was the story her husband heard when he was sick. Now it was his son’s turn.

Resurgence

I spent my whole life clawing my way to the top so that I wouldn’t have to feel this ever again. This clutching fear that stops my breath from leaving my body.

I haven’t felt this since I was a child. The bully down the street laughed at me and beat me up. Just because I had six fingers on my right hand. I swore that next time I would be the one laughing. I killed him. And I laughed.

Now this man who says I killed his father won’t shut up and won’t die. And the fear is back.

Salute

The fighting is over, the battle is done

The boots are marching away

“Come on, let’s go” they all now say

But you still lay there on the ground

For you have paid the real price

Those back home, alive and well,

Little know that your death knell

Has tolled this final sacrifice

And all the tears that they will weep

And all the stories they will share

About you and them and when and where

Will not awake you from this sleep

For it was us you died to save

So I, the free, salute you now,

The brave

Busyness

I know we’re all busy these days. We all have people to see, places to go, things to do. But let’s not compare our levels of busyness, friend. I will win every time.

My country is turning 500 years old and I’m in charge of planning the party. I’m getting married and I have to arrange the wedding. Once I’m married, I have to figure out how I’m going to murder said wife. And then I have to find a way to blame Guilder, my sworn enemy, for the death of my lovely wife.

You think you’re busy? Oh please.

Empty Spaces

I said goodbye to her three years ago. I went to seek my fortune so I could marry her. When the pirates attacked, I didn’t bribe or blubber. I simply asked to live. When he asked me why, I answered honestly. “True love.” And I thought of her. And he let me live.

I can’t complain too much. I’m learning to fight and fence. Exploring the world of poisons and their uses. The time is full.

But every night when I am about to drift off to sleep, I think of her. And the empty space inside envelopes me again.

The Sicilian

The first thing you should know about me is that I’m Sicilian. Not Italian. Sicilian. Yes it makes a difference. Although, I would imagine you wouldn’t know that since you thought that Plato, Aristotle, and Socrates were actually men of intellectual worth. They aren’t. They’re morons.

The other thing about being Sicilian is that death doesn’t frighten us. Some men aren’t afraid of death because they have nothing left to lose. I am not afraid of death because there is no way I can lose.

Let’s drink a toast to that, shall we? This wine that you’ve brought looks excellent.

The Giant

Momma had never taught him the business side of things. She took care of all of that. The booking, the money; that was all her side of things. He just had to show up for the fights.

When she died, his steady income vanished. He wandered about Greenland, looking for any sort of employment. He fought local gangs for charity but that only paid so much.

And now this short man with the long name stood in front of him. An opportunity to start a war. Money and something to do. He figured it was the best chance he’d get.

Empire State

Standing above the city, we are demigods 
Close enough to hear the sirens
Near enough to see the people walking
Far enough that the sirens just sound like music
And the people just look like toys

Lady Liberty off in the distance asking for the huddled masses so they can breathe free
Do you see the smog and the haze and we can't breathe at all for the shame and the sorrow that clings like bloodstains no matter how many times we scrub at it
The huddled masses are here, my Lady 
What are you going to do about it?

The Swordsman

He hates waiting. His whole life since the age of eleven has been spent in studying nothing but swordplay. He worked for a mercenary warmonger to pay the bills but that was only temporary. And after twenty years of waiting, he’s ready for this journey to end.

His enemy stands in front of him, goading him, taunting him, bringing up all the old memories that ache even still. He sits on the ground, bleeding from a deep wound in his belly, lifeblood seeping out of him.

But revenge that has been simmering for twenty years is impervious even to death.

elasticity doesn't always prevent breakage

The curtain falls. I leap to my feet, applauding. 

The credits roll. I sit in the darkness, utterly transfixed. 

The book concludes. I hold it in my hands, a different person than I was before.

“That’s it!” I say. “The arts! Words! Shows! Theater! Film! That’s where my heart is!”

But then I go to work at the hospital. And there is a patient who is crying in fear after the doctor discloses her diagnosis. And I hold her hand, listen to her speak. And she stops crying.

How many places can my heart be without it breaking into pieces?

Billows

And there it was. A vast expanse of water, blue and grey and stretching far out toward the edge of the world. And I, so small beside it, watched it lap the sand.

Lub-dub, lub-dub flows the blood through our hearts. In-out, in-out flows the water on the shore. There yesterday. Here today. There tomorrow. The heartbeat of this old planet, keeping time forever. Capricious and constant. Ancient and always new. Full of beauty and terror. Majesty and comfort.

And the salt sea spray drenches my face and the waves soak my feet and all is right with the world.

Changing Colors

We are a melting pot. We are. Mix all the colors in together. Don’t hold back and don’t be afraid.

The colors of our skin might not change but perhaps the color of our heart should. Or perhaps shall we move beyond color? Perhaps shall we see hearts and minds instead of just this outer covering?

Judge the character. Let the dreams become reality. Let the differences encourage complement not complaint. Let us join hands as sisters and brothers. Let us jump into the melting pot feet-first.

Just think how boring life would be if we all were the same. 

Tenuous

I know the promises. This light momentary affliction gives way to an eternal weight of glory. These faded trappings fall away.

And there it is. A far green country. Beyond the storm and the sea. White shores. The kingdom on the other side of the glass. A tree of life and a river of healing. No sun and a world bathed in divine light.

It is a tenuous thread that keeps me here. Mud pies are tolerable in their time but look at the mess. Caked slum dirt all over my hands. I’m ready for the holiday by the sea.

Salt Water

They say that salt water cures everything. Tears. Sweat. The sea.

I’ve cried more tears than I can count. I’ve wiped my brow over and over again. I’ve stood at the edge of the ocean, knowing myself small at the vastness of its pulsing waves. And my problems remain.

But there’s the story of the Man walking on the sea. The same Man who cried at the tomb of a man dead four days. The same Man whose sweat one night dripped like blood onto the garden ground.

They say salt water cures everything. I think they might be right. 

Life as a Mirror

It’s funny, isn’t it? The way our brain tricks us into thinking certain things about ourselves. Sometimes it’s things that make us look good. Other times, it’s things that make us look dreadful. But then I borrow another viewpoint. And what I thought about myself shifts radically. Perspective distorting, adjusting the image. It happens so often and so frequently that sometimes I don’t even know what I look like anymore. Maybe I don’t even know who I am. Maybe I’ve lost myself. Because if I lose my perspective of me, I might get lost.

My brain is a horrible mirror. 

Narrative Folk Pop

There was a keyboard, a guitar, a glockenspiel, a ukulele, a cymbal. The twinkle lights hung in the background. The table prepared in the back with coffee and tea and tulips. But we didn’t come for coffee or twinkle lights. We came for your music. The music that spins stories like magic. Songs of people and trains and hope and flowers and hope and grace. Harmonies united around truth, illuminating wonder, drawing back the veil.

When you sang of silver chairs and far kingdoms, I don’t know if you could see my smile so wide it made my cheeks hurt.

In The Storm

Dark thunderclouds drenched the sailors with torrents of rain. The wind gusted powerfully. The small boat listed side to side. The men’s muscles ached. It had been hours. Still the sea fought them.

Then they saw a figure, walking on water. The storm frightened them. This terrified them. They turned to each other in abject horror. “Is it a ghost?”

Sensing their fear, He walked over to them. “Don’t be afraid. It is I.” He climbed into the boat. Then the storm ceased.

He addressed their fear not by calming the storm but by reminding them of who He was.