Free?

It is a rush not a roar.
Eyeless, gazing upwards.
Dozens of lipless mouths
Locked in foaming grins.

I smile back.

They gnaw night's thumbnail till it's
Cracked and lost its
Will to shine.  It's frac-
tured pieces turned to
Playthings of a surging
Darkness.  A deflated nightlight
strangled with invisible fingers.

This creature my offer of peace.

There were no words in the
Crashing rush.
But after the thunder came a
Still, small voice - "come,
Come drink of the
Water of eternal
Sleep."

The softer he spoke the louder his
Urgings rang in my heart.

Years of temptation,
Nights of torturous dialogue
Reduced to a single word -
"Come," and again, "come."
A gentle "come", a soothing "come,"
A motherly "come," an inaudible "come."
Each one directed to a specific,
Empty chamber of a lost
Heart.

I thirst for this water to
Quench my lungs.  I leap to
Embrace this savage, I jump to
Wrap my arms around this
Intangible figure.

Till at last it holds
My body tightly, squeezing
Her in a lover's embrace.
In a frenzy filling it with
Itself till I am full of it.

The muscles relax in its hold,
And the body floats in the arms
Of a rush not a roar,
As the still, small voice hums a
lullaby.

waiting

Banners High

Life’s Lens: The value of freezing miniscule moments of reality in a convulsing world

         The “main point” of photography is tied to its primary ability; the ability to speak – to communicate through silence.  Every photograph says something without cluttering the paper with empty words.  And in many ways photography speaks more to the photographer than to the viewer.  A photograph can tell a funny story, sing a goofy song or dance a jig.  It can whisper words of love and mouth the sweet nothings of poets.   It can divulge well-kept secrets, solemnly deliver words of war and peace, and shed dry tears while choking on grief.  

            I believe photography, like any other art, possesses the ability to speak directly to the heart and soul of those exposed to it.  Recently, I have been grappling with the elusive term “Christian art.”  Being more heavily involved in the theatre program here this semester, I was forced to confront my understanding of a Christian’s place in primarily secular art fields.  This fueled my searching flame kindled last semester during a discussion attempting to define what it means to be a Christian poet.  Time and time again I have arrived at the same conclusion; as Christians our art should convey truth.  Consequently, I believe the main point of photography in our lives is to speak truth.  While this may appear to be a broad statement, I hold that the implications for a Christian run deep.
            Beauty for beauty’s sake is not what I believe photography is all about.  Nor do I think truth for truth’s sake is necessarily sufficient.  While this sentence may seem contradictory to my previous statement allow me first to expound.  When I say “truth” I do not merely mean “factually correct.”  Instead, I am talking about “truths” like the sinful nature of man, the reality of love, the existence of hope, the brokenness caused by loss, and the cruelty of a world reeking of self-absorption.  These truths, these small moments of pain and joy, untouchable by science, are what I believe photography should capture.  If there is injustice and suffering, a photographer has the ability (and responsibility) to alert the world to it.  A photograph portraying unfathomable sorrow should do so with the intent to eliciting sympathy, action, and hope.  As Christians we do not need to be dismayed by the devastation in the world but can acknowledge its existence while still offering the hope of a remedy. 
            Personally, this is how I hope to use photography if I have the opportunity in the future.  I would not only use photography to remind people of pain but also to provide a spark to ignite warmth that has been forgotten.  Photographers have the power to communicate and are thus responsible for their “words.”  I think the bottom line for me is that I cannot fully commit to something without seeing its purpose.  I need something more than an aesthetic arrangement of pixels.  While I know others may say that by portraying beauty we are acknowledging the beauty of God’s creation, this is personally not enough for me.  I also know there is no one right answer.  Photography is personal and thus uniquely individual.  But I guess you could say that for me, photography cannot be merely a well-written story; it must have a moral.

            For me, photography is a form of self-expression.  In my photos I hope to convey truths I see in the world.  They may be small truths, but they are mine in that they are seen through my eyes.  Someone else could convey the same truth I am portraying in a completely different way.  And this, I believe, is the beauty of photography; it is the personal expression of universal truths. 

Letters

I sifted through the yellowed
stack. The unmistakable crispness of age
scraped my fingertips.
Still sealed, forever sealed, this unread
holy-ground stamped with too
precise a care.
The muted ripping – breakers
crashing on some distant, undiscovered shore –
Paper grating on paper – flattened
waves scuttling back across the sand –
I blink – the heart revealed to
human eye.
Thoughts transposed, not transported;
the unnoticed glance, unexpected touch,
the soft excitement of wishing transferred from
heart to paper instead of
heart to heart.
My fingers drew with less
exactness of patient detail the
strokes arranged in ink:
“Remember that time it
rained on us, walking back from the
store? Or what about the
time – “ I stopped. Before me a
collage of “times” too
meaningful to a human
heart to be
blasphemed with impure eyes.
Where one man sees a rainy day
this unnamed writer sees
a “Time.”

I returned the paper to its
home, resealed it, and
understood too well
Letters never sent.

Kim

No love, no warmth was hers.
She was a ghost among the living,walking the halls unnoticed.

She sought love, bargained for attention,

And bought concern.

In solitude she cursed herself,
hugged her legs with scared arms.

She offered her body to lovers of sex,

And auctioned it off for abuse.

Tomorrow they will bury her.

A tombstone will mark the spot.

But no one will mourn. No one.

The rope that adorned her throat

Heard her final sobs in solitude.

Suicide they call it—Murder

the reality.

    Murdered by  - - 

Footprint

Tonight the world is weeping, dropping clouds
On weary wanderers who walk without
Umbrella, coat or hat—they wade through shrouds
Of loneliness and days of endless doubt.
A size six shoe breaks the puddle’s surface,
And shakes the building’s one-dimensional
Façade. A skidding car then plants a kiss
Of passion uncontrollable.
The relatives arrived; each wore black.
The pastor quoted psalms—someone prayed
To stir the stagnant air. They dug a grave, a dusty crack.
In earth’s bosom the body laid.
A puddle by the sidewalk holds a view
Of a size six imprint of a child’s shoe.

Salvation

Frozen, white jacket trees
Hear Night’s song—sad, silent.
Slowness of movement
brings man to his knees.
Winter of existence-
bursts, breaks, blossoms, blooms
into vitality – Conquer resistance.
River free again roams.
Noise released, life renewed,
flowers bud, grass grows green,
for Winter’s heart received spring dew,
and liquid roses wash the unclean.
Nature’s beauty speaks with pride
of its’ young master who bled, died.
Lives of winter, pain, and loss,
he turned to spring nailed on a cross.

Matt. 7:15

Today we break the bonds we boldly share
and cut the cords that say we do not care.
Bereft of hope, of love, of hate, and fear
to death the men of earth begin to near.

This sacrifice, this gift we bring is not
an empty grave, but instead the lot
of men in Sodom, flattened, crushed by hate
for God, for truth, for all that trusts in fate.

We bring release to souls that cannot yield
to gods who run their lives. This field
Of blood, this sacred ground is only for
the ones who will not enter by the door.

Through death escape eternal life, and flee
the call of men who force you to be free.
Embrace the truth, forsake the path of night.
The road less travelled by now holds the light.

We live to help the living softly pass.
Their ruined lives now feed the growing grass.
To death be summoned you who wish to die,
But curse us not – we never meant to lie.

Dreams

Step on stars and touch the moon
And dream reality each night.
The sound of silence comes too soon.

Ice-cream truck memories, a lost balloon,
The remnants of a cat-shaped kite.
Step on stars and touch the moon.

Chocolate-mud cakes, plastic spoons,
The falling sun’s no longer bright.
The sound of silence comes too soon.

Flew through summer and now it’s noon,
And what can freeze this endless flight?
Just step on stars and touch the moon.

Each bit of blackness hums the tune,
Transposing shadows into light,
And the sound of silence comes too soon.

Danger across the paths are strewn
To impeded our failing sight.
Each piece of glass screams not immune.
So step on stars and touch the moon.

Can I Forget?

“Gone,” I still struggle with that word.
But the void remains.
Your echoing memories shatter
My deaf world.
My mind’s haunted by your intoxicating kiss.

I thought I’d hidden you.
Suppressed, locked you in the vault
Of forgetfulness.
Was I only a spotless sacrifice
Offered to your idol –
Passion.

Can I forget?

Flowers wilt, romance withers.
A living-death is mine to love.
Again, I’m forced to subdue
Love long locked in cells
Of wishing.
Forced a bond to break.
I stand
empty.
I’m hopeless—
In love with memories.

Cross

For a thousand nights

the men have shed

tears of startling terror

and light is failing

and they can’t see

a reason, not in death or life

and the cross on that hill

holds a candle

so as not to lose them.

They pray for themselves

then for the names beyond them,

so someone trying suicide

in the burning night

will see hope

blaze past like a shooting astral,

so she’ll give a small smile

to the ravisher who flips her off,

and men, here in their sinful prison,
can see life in each nailmark,
each unrelenting hammer
as a friend.

Laodicean Gentleman

Charcoal street, burnt to grey,
Sky’s golden eye wears a grey patch,
And morning’s grey mist hovers –
neither striking nor piercing, but blinding still.
All is quiet. Grey is silent.

Dust grey room, cobweb wallpaper,
Dead bird’s grey carpet litters
outdated ads on rotting floor.
Black and white photo— really just shades of grey.
All is quiet. Grey is silent.

Empty rocking chair stares out
The grey fog-clothed window.
Night’s shadows glide – grey
Specters of a dying world.
All is quiet. Grey is silent.

Grey wisps of thread adorned
His head. And faltering hands
Gripped the grey metallic stick
With fading strength.
All is quiet. Grey is silent.

A grey life spent
Neither black nor white,
Neither wrong nor right.
Grey tombstone stands triumphant,
For ashes too, are grey.

All is quiet. Grey is deadly.

Shadow-Lover

To love and not be loved

In return is, I have found,

The most painful thing on earth.

To worship her shadow,

Only to be rejected with a half-hearted
smile.

I am but a Shadow-lover,

Forced to hope for what

She will never give me:

Her love.

There are no words of comfort to ease my pain.

Only her love can

Free me.

If I can never earn

He affection, I must remain a shadow-lover.

For her shadow is more

Precious to me than all the

Beauty and charm of this
Dim world.

Alone I walk the beach

At sunset.

I glance back to see

But one pair of faded

Footprints.

For shadows , as I’ve learned,

Leave no footprints.

No matter how you love

It, a shadow never loves

In return.

To embrace her shadow,

Oh, if it were possible.

But I grasp at emptiness,

Emptiness as hurtful as the

Chasm in my heart.

Even so, I will always

Treasure her and the rare

Smiles I receive.

So although she may

Never love me,

I will remain a shadow-lover,

Till the end.