Life Revolving Around a Three-and-a-Half Year-Old
My son’s cheeks were pressed with corners of his grinning
As he told me he that he could “make the room move around.”
I said “okay” and so he started spinning
And then said “see” when he fell and hit the ground.
God’s Choice
Jesus was hanging out upside down and wet
Long before the blood and sweat
Went splintering through eternity
In hopes that we would learn to see
The value of a person through this choice,
To start the savior’s life without a voice.
Unproductive
While there are things I should be doing
I’m unproductively pursuing
Nothingness that gets me nowhere
And when the day is done there
Will be nothing to left to do
But sleep, or count sheep trying to.
Baby on the Move
I might not crawl now,
But I know somehow
I’m going to make it to that Christmas tree
And pull on things not supposed to be
Pulled on by the likes of me.
Very soon you’ll find me
Scooting where I want to be,
Like moving toward the Christmas tree
Instead of my somehow
scooting backwards now.
Advent: Waiting for a Baby’s Crying
Tree lights twinkle, sprinkle joy inside my eyes,
Awaiting Christmas, when their lights will be out shown.
The joy illuminated by what we’ve anticipated
In the Son who comes to love us as His own.
This specialized event of grace, renewing every year,
That allows us to displace the race for packages and hear
A baby’s cry that saves the world so we can celebrate
The birth of One who’s in the womb this advent while we wait.
Forever Sunday
Do you think God invented Monday?
The mental connotations of this one day
Are far from that of any given Sunday.
I propose that God invented Monday
Despite that fact it happens to be one day,
That is for me, a never-see-the-sun day.
I’ll work inside a dark room all of Monday
Feeling like the weekend’s short by one day
Wishing to myself that it was Sunday.
Regardless whether God invented Monday
I’ll keep working for the Lord until that one day
That I might live in His Forever Sunday.
Advent: Jesus Heist
Sometimes Christmas looks more like a Jesus Heist
Than a celebration of Christ.
A boy is busy wrapping arms around his presents
When he should embracing His presence,
Consuming Christ in preparation for His coming,
His entering the world and summing
Up God’s total revelation
For our endless contemplation
Of the anniversary of Christ’s birth,
Of God made man on Earth
So that we might have light again,
But instead we check off lists and then
Never have a chance to anticipate
The savior we wish to celebrate.
Christmas arrives and we give each other gifts
Never giving ourselves lifts
In our own spirituality,
Stuck in secular commonality
That makes us wonder if a present pleases,
While we never gave a thing to Jesus.
Parental Superpowers: Magic Lips
If my child has a boo boo
From random sibling violence
I draw that child close
And use these Healing Lips of Silence.
If someone thuds or falls or slips,
Or hits their head upon the table,
The problem’s solved with magic lips
Pre-pursed, ready and able
To stop the crying by release of
A parental magic potion.
A blend of spit and parent love
In super hero motion.
We Don’t Grill Babies
After stuffed animals and baby dolls were shown,
As exhibitions of my son’s playing.
It’s likely my voice contained a confused tone
At the wonder of what I was saying.
My son was grilling dinner on the ottoman, it
Took me a moment but I thought a minute
And after rationalizing “yeses”, “Nos” and “Maybes”,
I came up with, “we don’t grill babies.
You can grill animals ‘till your heart’s content
But a baby who does not consent
Cannot be cast on the flames of a grill.
To be disposed of at your will.
In fact, a baby who does consent cannot be killed
Simply because the two of you willed
It to be so. Human life contains value.
So grill a tasty animal pal you’d
Like to eat instead
Of pretending the babies are dead.”
My wife gave me a smirkey smile from the other chair,
Loving me and the words I chose to share
With our three year-old who was grilling
Babies that no one should be killing.
Mid-Calf Tube
I will only wear the mid-calf tube from this day on.
I will throw out every other sock I own
And I’ll forget them when their gone,
Pretend the mid-calf’s all I’ve known.
The marvelous mid-calf tube, sweet foot pocket,
Blissful blazes of bleached glory
Busting eyes out of the sockets
That look on to this bright story.
The story when we retire all our other socks.
Is this that day, or is this just the buzz we
Chatter about when we talk
So we can dream of that white fuzzy.
That future memory that’s not so distant
If we’re consistently persistent
In our standards for our socks.
When we go out on our walks,
Or go to the grocery store
We shouldn’t have any more
Mismatched temptations
Yielding pairations
Of socks never meant to go together.
Time constraints should not force a pair.
I dream of a day where
It doesn’t matter whether
I have my eyes open or closed
When I go in the sock drawer.
What are we pre-pairing for,
When we could have proposed
The solution long ago.
It’s time to rise up and take action
Join this mid-tube faction
And Throw out every other sock we know.
BonjourPoetry 