W.M.O.

Over Christmas Break, some friends and I went down to my grandmother's cabin in the swamp. As usual, the cabin's still breathing sweet memories of my many firsts as a kid.

My first swim in a river. My first deer. My first taste for home cooking. My first love for the family that I was with.

The more I go back, the more I miss it. It burns wondering about what my grandfather would have thought of the person I'm becoming. I'd just like to know how much more or less we'd laugh together. Personally, I feel like we'd be so much closer, and it almost made me angry that we aren't able to be.

But that's just me being selfish. He still lives on in that cabin, still swims out in Jones Creek, and loves more passionately than ever in the stories my grandmother shares about him.

Our God was so comforting with this during my last night of the trip when I couldn't fall asleep. I still love my grandfather, and I'm so happy the Lord lets us grow closer.


This is a poem I left in the creek where we scattered his ashes:

i find it difficult
sleeping in the house that
trembles at night
to the crack of a lion's roar

even though i've heard it said
that you ran around most nights
leaving bed sheets cool
and homes awry
with a print of absence

but wasn't it your hands
that carved this mantle
that hung this fixture
and talked to this pillow?

rather the thought of you
letting down tangles of
i love yous to your daughters
and desks covered with children
make shape for the mane i remember

whether you're here and hidden
or gone and poor riddance
the old annuals and
home with its tremors
again has me singing
the loved hymns you used to write

A Happy Birthday to My Dear Cousin

Sympathy for the Scientist


hold your summer fun
in teeth
only, you call them rivets
imagining the deflating rate
-the loss of a brother,
the combing of hair beginning to thin

remembering to never let it leave
any loss for your art
while knowing your brush
to always weigh even
with the matter that made it

Noah

It's been a dry semester. Usually, my shoes are filled with it; the grass is most often bent by its weight.
But it's been kept hidden for some reason. Not that we should ever forget our sweet memories. Of dancing with it because a dance is appropriated to those without shame.
I cry remembering the time I watched myself first stained, then made clean in the same moment. Neither shoes nor grass cared to warn me of such duality.

But how worshipful is the grass that makes a life out of growing and clothing itself in the Rain?

The Times, They Are A'Changin

So, life's a bit bizarre.
Growing up, I always thought I'd follow my family to school in Georgia, yet I ended up in North Carolina. I always thought I'd be strict, organized, on time, yet I'm scrambling at all ends just to make deadlines and meetings.
And most recently, I always thought I'd be regarded as an athlete, a collegiate runner, yet I'm now just a college kid trying to understand what his identity has been all along.
I recently decided to stop running here at Wake. And in no ways can a nine-word sentence explain how hard that was for me. It's been something that I was wrestling with for so long, but I had the hardest time surfacing my thoughts or feelings on it.
I couldn't figure out why God was changing the plans that I thought He and I had discussed and agreed upon. Yet, I knew He was telling my heart that it's time to let go and follow Him.
It's not a decision that I liked wholly, altogether. It caused me to have conversations with my parents and other people that I worried would made me look like I wasn't strong or good enough to finish what I'd begun. But God is so comforting sometimes.
The night I was going to call my dad on the phone and explain things to him is cemented in my mind as the most nervous I've ever been for a conversation. I thought he'd be disappointed, embarrassed, and just thoroughly angry. Instead, I think it was the most loving and consoling he's ever been. He was affirming in his support of me and my relationship with my Savior. I know that God wanted me to make a bold decision for Him, and He so quickly answered with His protection, love, and grace in my dad that night.
And so times are different now. I'm trying to focus on how I can be most effective relationally with people here and how I can continue to pursue my God on a daily basis.
God has been so consistent in revealing His intentions in all this. So now I don't worry about if things are changing from the course they were originally planned for. I'm trying not to worry about certain claims that say the God of the Old Testament doesn't quite line up with this God of the New Testament. The God I know is steady in His love and grace. He is consistently affirming me as His creation and son, and just as equally, He's pushing me, testing me to grow in my faith and trust in Him. And I believe that He's so sovereign in whatever direction He's pulling me in.

"I think God just.... Pooped on Me?"

This summer I've been working at the church that I typically attended throughout the school year. It wasn't my original plan for this summer. During the year, I had master plans of living abroad, loving those I couldn't verbally communicate with, fighting to make God known where His name was cursed, and then finally lying down to a warrior's rest each night under stars that beamed at my existence. Essentially, I was to be Indiana Jones with a Bible.

Funny how it didn't end up that way. Instead, I find myself in a rather tame situation. I live in a modest house with a basement. I make dinner for one each night. On occasion, I spend time with friends. More often that not, I spend time writing, reading, or watching romantic comedies.

Domesticated in cages framed by bills, flat tires, and unfinished dreams. I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever fear for my life more than saving accounts. If I'll ever find my way to the peak of a mountain, instead of referencing mall directories. If I'll ever carry a child for miles in the night so that she might receive medical attention and know the security in God's sovereignty.

But leave it to elementary kids to bring me back to reality. Last night, I felt loved and needed. I felt like I was being spread over the youth at church. Strawberry jam thinned over dried toast.

Snaggle-toothed snickers. Nodding affirmations. Tightly squeezed embraces. Yes, my God is alive. He's constantly reminding me of that. He is understanding of my fears, convicting in my disbelief, warm when I choose to sleep face-down in the snow. And sometimes, He makes me feel like Dr. Jones, himself.

To the Blog I've Abandoned

I'm sorry that I walked out on you months ago. It certainly wasn't fair to you. And I know we never talked about it.
But, you see, you were killing me.
I'm not ready to die. The thought scares me all too much. You scare me all too much. So, I left you and began hoarding all my poems, thoughts, and emotions to myself.
It was a wonderful time for me; I was free to write anything that I wanted and never had to worry of what you would think or how you would shudder to bear my mismatched words and phrases. I never had to worry about inconveniencing you at absurd hours, disrupting your dreamless rest with my unruly nightmares.
For it was in this new manner that I found life. Behind moleskinned covers, I made collages with my heart: knowing all too well that it was only myself that could ever make left from right in such a blotted mess. And I began to watch that scrapbooked heart of mine beat more and more with every additional stanza. Bread was broken and received with each new page. Wine was poured and consumed with every drop of ink.
Good gracious, blog, I felt loved!

But, as you can see, I've returned. I've returned for no other purpose than that I realized you were right. It's time to let you take this life from me.
Yes, there is a heart and a love thriving within my journal, but its pulse remains there, bound by thread and parchment. I lived in there for months and fostered this great life. However, the question slowly started creeping in. "If I'm growing this heart of mine, then certainly a harvest must be coming. So, who is it that's coming to pull me out of the dirt and rejoice for the fulfillment that I can help to provide?"
I realized I was my own farmer, and I was suddenly swept with despair. How frivolous would it be to uproot myself? Just another unwashed, unmissed, rotting carrot.
It was so clear. I needed a real farmer: someone to whom I can give myself and will tend to me even after the harvest comes.

So here I am blog. It's good to see you again.

(Genesis 2:8)

A Classroom Setting

I

He paints his words on the wall

In Sanskrit, of course

But the students,

They don't seem to mind

He asks,

Why don't you answer me?

And so we answer,

It's because we don't trust each other

He turns back

Gambling and rolling

With jokes and allusions

I do like him, I promise

II

Bangs,

Hiding her eyes from

Smeared remains of chalk and rights

I pray her name to be wisdom

But fear for the worst,

It's shaping out as Apostasy already

Should I learn too much

And find out that

The fluff and feathers from

My dreaming pillows

Can no more help me fly

Than hollow bones

I do like Wisdom, I promise

Dirty Dishes

Scrubbed plans

Sound like dirty dishes

Shattering on my grandfather's floor

With the whole world awry

I turn on deaf ears

And enjoy the view

So, this is how I find you

Perched away from Madness

Seeing you strikes my fancy

Dates, accompanied with facts, crash

Onto the shore of

Imagined passion and white urgency

I suddenly realize

Walks without you only hurt my feet

Growing without you only makes me taller

Loving anything but you only leaves me empty

In my head

You're a dream

In my heart

You're a pulse

But in reality

You're still a silent murmur

In the midst of

Clamorous dinnerware

Baptized in Gasoline

The other day

God came down

For a visit

And burned a whole

In the chair

Kept and Mannered

He tipped and toed around

To observe peoples' doings

Smiled and sniffed

And back up He went

To continue loving

He was too complete

To be contained

In a chair

A Merry Christmas To You

Like any poor college student, I've spent a fair amount of this holiday season just scrambling around for gifts that my loved ones might appreciate. I feel like I have so much that I wish to give to people that I love, but I lack the financial means to accomplish this goal. On every run, at every meal, I've been trying to figure out what I could get people.

And I finally realized that for so long I have not been giving myself to people lately. For so long, I've been off in my own world, and now I'm back home and faced with the realization that I've displaced myself from many relationships that I treasured with radiant pride. It kills me that I've left so much unsaid. I want to apologize for all the lost calls. For all the unsent letters. For the missed shows. For innumerable blank stares. For skipped meals. And especially for unspoken prayers.

I promise that it's not that I've lost emotion or heart towards you. It's just that I was so worried about finding myself that I knew I'd compromise who I was if I bent too heavily to other people during this imperative growing period. But I miss you now. I feel like I've found myself, and I wish to share it with you. I want to know your hidden mysteries with a stronger conviction and sense of wonder than ever before. I'm sorry for seeming so withdrawn, but it's just because I've been shaking the snow from my hair and warming by the fire. But now, I promise you, I desperately want to sit on our familiar couch and share life with you.

So I hope this finds you sitting in a circle of friends, watching old re-runs of A Christmas Story. Or maybe you're sitting at your worn, wooden desk checking up on the world while your dog lays her head comfortingly across your feet. I hope this Christmas season you see past the cartoons on T.V.and through the commercialized wrapping paper. And lastly, I hope you might be kind enough to receive me and my heart for Christmas. Albeit nothing impressive, it's all I have to give.

Not In Love With The Modern World

In my world

I'll draw people

As a collective branch

Clipping away any

Pluralistic, divided sects

I'll slip past

The waves breaking on my knees

And take the long way round

My sleeping Calypso

Because I've lost my straining need

For an enemy

My world, my globe

Formed by no other's fancy

Will blink and yawn

Scattering stardust on the

Restless dreamers in feathered beds

Of warm memories and distant futures

And here I leave you, world

Spinning and steady in my love

Stoically knowing you'll never love me in return

For I only meant to create

And watch as your heart

Tends to its people

How sweet is the smell of

Raindrops pattering on rolling harmonies

If We're Not Careful, We'll Bring You Down

Did you know that he lives among us?

Walking with a clipped stride

Through crowds of people, crowds of thoughts

Lying stiffly on his back, he winks at Orion

Recounting with repeated ease

Requests followed by stares, ill wishes, and pitied avoidance

I like to watch him

As I sip coffee

In a café

In the warmth

He paces the same sqaures

Over and over

And I beg him

With my eyes

To join his brother

My eyes watch

His rhythmic pace

I feel his fallen arches

I feel his heart of stone

Tears swell

And my eyes flutter

"Just come inside"

Eyes on the door

Waiting to see myself walk through

But you and I both know

That we won't ever meet

In a clean well lighted place

Sing Along to Songs You Don't Know

Lately I've been really bothered by things like Facebook and other easy accesses to finding things out about people. It's so easy to quickly accumulate all the knowledge one needs to know about another person. I could easily and painlessly find out about a person's actions and involvements by rifling through their pictures or asking others about that person. These new forms of social networking have frozen my people skills and fostered a selfish desire to know others almost in order for them to know me. Maybe this is all stirred by insecurities found from a new college experience. But either way, I'm not having the fellowship like I used to.

This understanding has slowly hit me over the past couple of weeks. I was feeling different and my interactions with people were colder and only full of words. I do miss people. I miss staying up late and sharing stories and dreams with Aaron. I miss your confirming smiles. I miss my heart.

Then it all started to make a little more sense. The plot took a back seat and the attention to detail flourished. Lately, I haven't been seeing peoples' lives; I've been trying to hold their hearts, after I offer mine, of course. I love sharing a walk with Gabby or Alec because I forget that I have a cell phone. All I know is that people are wonderful songs that I can't get out of my head. I wish I could explain my joy when Howard, Jake, and I go exploring. I wish I could describe the colors that poured out of the phone when my sister called the other night. But then I'd be perpetuating the impersonal data swapping that has people shackled to their computers within their colorless walls. So please, go on and let your stories pour out of you; people are waiting to catch them.

I Remember Running Through the Wet Grass

I ran like a kid again today. For the first time in many years, I wasn't afraid to scream and jump without worry. And, of course, I ran, eyes closed, through the rain because my heart was on fire.

That Western Skyline

On the day he woke me up

I stumbled out of my father's head

Squinting and stretching

It seems my shadow's grown taller

Than I last remembered

And so I ran

Chasing it's answers

Through headphones

Through libraries

I wanted to find the difference

Between the love of a brothel

And the love of a sunset

Can I find a way to give the people

Uniforms with buttons shined

And still escape from

The folds of bodies

Humming and twisting

In convulsed obedience

Solutions so hard to find

After years of being buried

Under old photographs

Yet I hear the ascending choir

Marching through

The death of my sins

I'm walking now

Walking into my diaspora

And stumbling upon a fallen sunrise

Grandfather, Gentle Soul, You'll Fly

Today, my grandfather is going into surgery for his third knee replacement. It might sound like a common place thing, but today is a moment where the world holds its breath as one of its greatest adventurers makes one final attempt, one final excursion over war-torn water, through blood-stained skies. I've never seen John Ficklen as a man to simply accept something. For him to achieve or receive anything it must be through a crucible of unsurmountable distress. He was the Indiana Jones of my childhood. He's the archetypal symbol of undomesticated vitality and raw creativity.

I'm not sure if this disease is something that God has designed for my hero, or if it is something that my grandfather must decide to go through in order to see His face with sparkling clarity. He could easily have chosen to not get this surgery and just have that leg immobilized. Because if this surgery isn't successful, he will lose the leg. But you continue to grit your teeth, Papa. And the beauty of it all is that soon none of us will need legs to stand.

A boy threw a ball into the air

With all urgency and strength

He was not there

When it came down

If it came down

Concern never tripped him

As he walked back to the house

All he ever wanted

Was the chicken noodle soup

That his mother stirred

In her warm, red kitchen

What good is a ball in chicken noodle soup, anyway?

Is That Marionette Real Enough Yet?

If numbers were to go to a dinner party, what would they talk about? "Remember that time we teamed up and multiplied ourselves to 1,125? Man, those were the good ole days." Or perhaps it' more similar to, "I just don't understand the youth anymore. All they do now is play with logarithms, related rates, and other frivolous stuff. Where's the respect these days? No one cares for basic arithmetic anymore."

Honestly, I don't understand math. I wish I did. I sit in class, pupils dilated, trying to absorb the information. But all I can picture is this dinner party. What if I'm supposed to go to this dinner party and introduce the numbers to words. How might they be received? As long, over-stated necessities that never solve problems in life, but, rather, they encourage and complicate issues? What might the words see in the numbers? That they're just simplified cop-outs dumbing down the world's keys to prosperity and vitality? Aren't they just drones leaving vagrant footprints in a world they believe to black and white?

Amidst the bickering and heated tension, I'd like to drop an autumn leaf. Nothing crafty, nothing complex. Just a leaf. Do you think they'd stop jabbering and chewing? Do you think they'd swarm with a realization of shared pain and fleeting mortality?

I'd like to, then, go outside and lean against the creaking oak tree as we silently watch the reunion of two old souls.

With Just Our Flashlights and Our Love We Must Plunge

A smile is on the way

Seen through the window

Reflected in the asphalt

Long nights stretched by

In a strobed fashion

But the crescent moon rises

Spilling laughter on the city

All winter, a picture of it

Was held in front of my face

Showing nothing more than a memory

The photo falls and is forgotten

Because a smile is on the way

It's funny how a picture of a fire

Is quickly consumed in the flames

The Velocity of Saul at the Time of His Conversion

Sway on, my shattered pendulum

Let your hands rest

Weighted and anchored

They're safe in your pockets

The world doesn't need to see the scars

Let fall your story

Its darkness has draped you for too long

Let Love capsize and overflow

He can preserve

He can sustain

Life of real merit

The life of Stephen in his rock-shredded speech

The life of Job in his shattered and shaven praise

Warm hands around the room

Mend out of instinct, out of love

Flowing with time

Synchronized in meter and song

I, too, am a pendulum

I, too, am loved

While You Were Sleeping

Go on, shut those eyes

Sleep through the winter

Grey's never been much for cheer

Roll on into dream now, my boy

No snow to shovel, no heart to mend

You've escaped,and it's time to reap the benefits

Just know that you'll never wake up,

Never take that euphoric long stretch of restfulness,

And certainly never remember the dream

Your wife, she's married

Your home, they found a new hero

Your life, it's a nightmare

Alas, REM calls and who am I to compete?

I'm so very sorry

I wish we could be here when you wake