Blank White Sheet

I long for the weight of this blank white sheet,
A field as yet unsown, to be lifted from my shoulders.
I pry back every rib of my confined heart
To seek what hides in its depths.

I mount the wind as it blows across the field,
Before it leaves, a train without its passengers,
The stops ahead each slowly descending slopes
To find a rodeo bull caged in his stall.
I clamber up his side and we wrestle
Until our words are written in the dust.

I will scream at the top of my lungs,
As my small fingers brush the crop of new summer wheat,
Leaving as I run muddy footprints
All over this blank white sheet.

(Thank You to my beautiful soon-to-be-wife for helping me craft this one).

The English Hillside (A Resurrection Poem)

The contours of His grace in hills reside,
In rock and pool and sky earth’s beasts abide.
Down watered crag creased streams tumble and roll,
By rounding hills and boot clad feet they stroll.
The thumping feet downward the dirt firm tread,
As strong winds buffet, turning white cheeks red.

What once deemed good by Word now dragged below,
At peak or depth eyes catch no glimpse of woe.
A mountain’s slumber hidden from our stare,
Its mottled face in time suspended there.
A bruise upon the face of cool cracked earth,
From high cast down by tree brings life of curse.

In valley low humbled eyes will yet see,
This Word wrought scene show forth His majesty.
His hands no path or lake or crag erase,
While men the lines of stony hills they trace.
These mighty mounds of splendour will awake,
When earth and sky meet in more glorious fate.