| A Poetry Reading (of sorts) My university hosts an event similar to a talent show called Hootenanny. It often features skits, bands, and solo performances. Tonight it shall feature my poetry. I shall be, from memory, reciting four short poems in a dramatic and exciting fashion. The following are the four poems I shall be reading, in order: flammable
my heart is flammable
and you are a strike-anywhere match
being scratched and we wonder why
we burn with passion
but I'm too young for foolish vows
or maybe too old to take them lightly
a ring on your finger might melt
(or be tested) and
I'm afraid the dross
will outweigh the gold
I told your heart a secret
then tried to hide it from you
keeping it behind your back
like a gun in a hostage situation
and I'll keep you placated
with smooth words in a soothing voice
the heart is the seat of emotion
where you sit as the
queen of all you survey
I'm your warrior
but forgot to protect you
assailed your tower
and forgot to rescue you
I'm storming your gates
(with thanksgiving in my heart)
entering your courts without the permission
of those authorities
in heaven and on earth
that need to give it
my love, she is a pure fountain
to drink from or to douse
my burning heart
my love, He is a strong wine
to wash me clean of
my iniquities
I drink deeply from the fountain
when I should only sip
and sip from the wine
when it should flow through
my veins and arteries
intoxicating my heart
and making it burn
with a passion so pure
for the One who created passion blessed are the shallow
if there's a standard to follow
by God, we'll follow it
(and never mind whose
coattails it rides in on)
call it the divine right of majorities
(e.e. said it first)
to suggest and enforce
because name means nothing these days
(lest it be combined into a catchy nickname)
and beauty's only press-deep
we're a generation of cynics
that believe everything we hear
and follow the trend or
anti-trend
or "do our own thing" (how very indie)
Q: why do you lie, cheat, steal?
A: it's what one does. Reflections of a Cynical Senior
Holding hands is a short step from hell
In the same sense that sex is repressed
And saved for procreation.
A man's only a man if he can
Make that first step
Over the chasm that marks
The removal of a rib
From the side where blood and water
Flow like wine
Over your head and mine.
Postmodern is a dirty word
Made worse by overuse
And abuse by the church.
Haven't you heard?
No one's subjective anymore.
We keep adding on posts
To a meaningless word
To build a fence between
Ourselves and the world.
Hasn't sunday school taught us
Everything we need to know?
That every answer is Jesus
And every great divide
Is marked by a cross
That acts as a bridge
And we are exultant stick-people
Crossing from cliff to cliff.
To quote the scriptures as I come to the end:
"This too is meaningless, a chasing after the wind." if this is You, then I am not.
my bones have been broken
too many times and the tiniest touch
of your grace destroys me.
I am brittle and I cannot stand
on broken legs, so if you are a crutch
then I desperately need you
to support this frailty.
minor miracles are the best
kind and the mundane and
miniscule shout as loud
as the stones when I am silent.
yet I can't fight against this
relentless joy that fills my skin
despite the endless holes of sin
that pierce my side like a spear.
if this is grace, replace my heart.
if this is love, cover my nakedness.
if this is hope, open my eyes.
if this is faith...
so then, this is faith.
I could use some prayer and encouragement. Mayhaps, I shall post a recording of these four poems at some point also. There's the possibility of being filmed also. I might be able to post video in some way, shape, or form. |