I sit here
in my bathroom,
thinking about the Savior
and
how He has given me
so much.
I sit here
on the edge of the tub
with a notebook on my knee,
the pen scratching the page,
and the only sound
to accompany me
is my own breathing.
in, out.
in, out.
my wife sleeps in the other room
just beyond the door.
I hear her breathing as well.
replicated breaths
in soft rhythms.
a used copy of Bukowski’s
The Last Night of the Earth Poems
rests on the counter—
yellowed pages,
worn and brittle
like old bones.
it smells of
the musk
of its previous owner.
I read
and I’m inspired—
I write
before I forget;
before the idea
becomes a fleeting memory
that I will inevitably
lose to time.
dream or memory?
are they not the same?
two sides of a mirror—
the reflector and the reflection.
curiouser and curiouser.
today was Easter.
What Poetry Feels Like
I went to church
like good Christians do, and
even served coffee to others.
admittedly,
it’s my connection to God—
serving (to me) is the key
to the heart of God.
Jesus came not to be served
but to serve
(breakfast)
((kidding)).
what could I give
to the Creator of the universe
but my time
and energy?
what could I give
but myself?
after church,
we took the kids
to the in-laws
for ham dinner
with
green bean casserole
and
scalloped potatoes
and
toasted buns.
all of it was mediocre
and unappealing.
but food, nevertheless.
followed by
an egg hunt
for the youngest children—
an event that
costs too much,
ends too quick,
and yields
superfluous candy rewards.
thank God
we celebrate
the resurrection of Christ
with M&M’s
and
Snickers
and
Tootsie Rolls.
we may as well
cast a chocolate idol
in His likeness and
fill it with strawberry jam
so that we may
“eat His flesh and drink His blood,”
in candy communion.
call us Levites for doing so—
we live in the desert already,
so we’re halfway there.
but the kids had fun.
we then retired home
where the kids
hastily
brushed the candy out of their teeth
and my wife and I watched a movie.
she fell asleep and I stole away
to read and write
here in the bathroom,
surrounded by nautical decor:
wooden steering wheel above the mirror,
pewter octopi hanging on the walls,
anchor printed shower curtain.
in this moment,
I am struck by
the absurdity of it all.
the things I have
that I could live without.
the celebrations with family
that have little to do
with the actual holiday
they represent.
the copious food
we serve one another.
the things we use
to distract ourselves
from God’s actual work.
all of it feels…
superficial.
and yet—
I’m grateful for it.
here I am—
a middle-aged,
white male
in America,
with a job,
a loving wife,
healthy children,
middle-class home,
and two vehicles.
wealthy to much of the world.
God has done so much
for me
and I thank Him
with
a couple hours of service,
ten minutes of Bible reading,
short prayers,
cheap plastic eggs,
and expensive gifts at Christmas.
what has it all come to?
help me, God.
show me how I can repay you
for all you’ve done.
I don’t deserve your grace.
###
This is a poem from my first poetry book, bearing the burden of existence, available on Amazon.
