Tag Archives: death

I Don’t Want To Ask Why

Your favorite color was purple,
Because “there’s no rhyme for that.”
Your humor was a sure pull,
My heart stepped right into your trap,

You were the violet
Crushed by the heel,
I asked the universe,
Don’t make me feel
There was something to be done,
So you could be saved,
Any explanation,
Or something to say,
I
Don’t want to ask why.

I was caught watching your stormy life,
Hating it, waiting for the end of your ordeal,
Under his sick psychological knife,
Wishing for your freedom to be real,

But You were the violet
Crushed by the heel.
I asked the universe,
Don’t make me feel
There was something to be done,
So you could be saved,
Some explanation,
Or something to say,
I
Don’t want to ask why.

But I want to know
Why we couldn’t be free
Why we couldn’t escape
from our chained history
Why I loved you so
I want to know
Why my heart has a hole,
Why was the answer, “no?”

And why?

Why

You were the violet
Crushed by the heel
I asked the universe,
Don’t make me feel
There was something to be done,
So you could be saved,
Some explanation,
Or something to say,
But I
Don’t want to ask why.

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When Love is Sleeping

There are no perfect words to say to you,
No blessing, compliment, or sweet refrain,
If I could say it, it would not ring true,
As words are not enough, cannot explain.

Stronger than any fast-tempered alloy,
It grips tighter than love, possesses me,
My very soul is longing for your joy,
And wanting, at whatever costs may be.

Though I could die to purchase happiness,
I’d rather stay and rest in your delight,
The grave, infinite cold, but your caress,
Leaves me warmer than lit-fused dynamite.

So why, when I need you, is the door closed,
As if my presence, burdens should impose?

Signs

Sent for three days and three nights
On an all-expense-paid trip
Jonah was whale-puke.  What a sight!
Not to mention, a smelly drip.

“Behold, My Servant will be
Exalted and lifted high.”
Fine sarcasm it seems to me,
Is God’s sense of humor that dry?

Sometimes I think it is, but
In Jonah’s case, perhaps not.

Only the sign of Jonah,
Offered to validate Him,
Jesus promised and delivered,
When hope was growing pretty dim.

Sent for three days and three nights,
To the belly of a grave,
Facing gruesome death and its’ frights,
Rejected, on mission to save.

So, did the earth feel nauseous
’til it vomited Jesus?

Matthew 12:38-45, Isaiah 52-53, Jonah 2:10, and yes I know it was a “big fish,” not a “whale.”

Last Sacrifice

The Ark of the Covenant was covered with gold,
With angels’ wings covering the top, the “Mercy Seat.”
The mercy seat was blood-sprinkled, tradition of old,
So sins could be forgiven, and God and man could meet,

Hidden in antiquity from Babylon and Rome, and hidden very well
The Ark of the Covenant sat under the hill, a secret no one would tell
They called it “Jeremiah’s Grotto,” a cave under an average looking hill
And though no one will tell, to this very day, the Ark is under there, still.
At Passover, the people still celebrate the shadows of the distant past,
Deliverance from slavery, freedom from Egypt, the covenant still lasts,
The people acknowledge their sin by sacrifice, a special meal is prepared,
And the promises of God are remembered, as four cups of wine are shared:

This cup sanctifies, we are set apart, truly,
This cup is deliverance, we have been set free,
This cup is redeeming love, His power pays sin’s debt for us,
This cup is restoration, God takes us in His Arms, and holds us.

When Jesus lived and walked among us, no one really knew Who He was,
We had moments of wonder and revelation, but, “Isn’t that just Jesus?
He’s one son of Joseph the Carpenter, only another average man,
He’s not that special, we saw him grow up from childhood, just like us, human.”
Some loved Him and felt His generous grace, others only knew deep, jealous hate,
And hate took one of Jesus’ friends’ hearts, and kissed Him by a garden gate.
The Seder meal was different this year, Jesus passed the cups to his friends,
Explaining each drink, with ancient texts, as tradition held dearly defends:

This cup sanctifies, You are set apart, truly
This cup is deliverance, You have been set free
This cup shall be redemption, I’m paying my blood for your sin
But the last, I’ll drink with you another time, when I come again

Justice demands a perfect sacrifice, to balance the scales for our sin,
So after the kiss and the hasty trial, Truth spoke, and hate seemed to win,
The offering was made on an average hill, above a hidden cave,
An average looking man gave His blood, to save those He could save
The sky darkened, the sun unwilling to shine on the horror men devised,
And the average looking man wept for us, finished his mission, closed his eyes,
The ground shook, cracked open, revolted at the blood’s purity,
And the blood of atonement sprinkled from the rocks down to the Mercy Seat

The Ark of the Covenant was covered with gold,
With angels’ wings covering the top, the Mercy Seat.
The mercy seat was blood sprinkled, tradition of old
So sins could be forgiven, and God and man could meet,

This cup sanctifies, we are set apart, truly,
This cup is deliverance, we have been set free,
This cup is redeeming love, His power pays sin’s debt for us,
This cup is restoration, God takes us in His Arms, and holds us.

Exodus 37, Leviticus 16, Matthew 25-26, 

http://www.hebrew4christians.com/Holidays/Spring_Holidays/Pesach/Seder/Kadesh/kadesh.html

Lines

He was the best father a young boy knew,
Same as saying the boy was the favorite son.
They traced the lines on each others faces

With index fingers, as they aged, and he grew.
Wrinkle, growth, scar, from what they’d done.
Both noticed the slow, small changes.

It was good, as good as the best father could do,
There was food on the table, laughter, fun,
Until boy became man, and men became strangers.

Now he traced the best father’s face like he used to
But no finger traced his face, that race was run,
No smile answered, to crease deeper places

And the favorite son wept, said, “Goodbye.  I love you.”
He went home with his wife, and his own favorite son,
Hugged them both, and softly traced the lines in their faces.

Morning Glory

Morning Glory, 4/2/2012, Michael N. Johns

The Star of the Morning is a pentagram, rolled up in a tight, deadly ball,
I pour a cup of bitter dark; enough mornings will kill us all,
She blossoms and screams of voodoo, dreams, and demands I do her will,
As if vowed “I Do” were somehow less true than the day she cast her spell,

But I still call it true love.

The morning glory wears a purple robe, displaying her curves, magical,
With toxic seeds that grow like weeds, pretty mirrors, hung off the wall,
When I first saw the blooms it was my doom, if beautiful things could kill
The vines were cut and the doors were shut; should blessings feel like hell?

The blessings are still true love

Kikyouzaki Murasaki grows, her edges sharper than knives,
But beauty, fragrance, put us in her trance, no release, for the rest of our lives.
True love and life last until they have passed, like a bullet train downhill,
Soon the light will trim, and the glory dim, faster than anyone can tell.

Spring dawns blossom to true love.