scratching

a curious thing happened today -
a certain uncertainty was broken.
when show time came, the ghosts of stages past were nowhere.

the set and audience weren't particularly large
but there was just this something different.
rehearsals drove our lines into memory so much so
that even the accompanying emotions were dangerously becoming thoughtless,
threading the fine line between spontaneity and something over-rehearsed.

nonetheless, it all seemed like a blur
from start to finish, unfolding like nature's clockwork
barely scratching the surface of memory
before it was time to take a bow
satisfied and suitably unyoked

now, how does becoming a totally different person on stage,
help one in life off-stage?
which is more real? or is the reality of either situation equally authentic?

Thoughts through Christmas

Why did the crucial questions fail to sound-off?
Was the fear of disrupting joyous reminiscence by injecting a bit of religiousity so great?
Or was it just an inner dread; a refusal toward being type-cast(to a namesake) that kept my lips open; but inarticulate.

Why do I not sense that urgency from God's children within? Is it just me thinking too idealistically? Or is there something I've been called-to that's causing me this distress.
Yet I know not how else to shepherd a worldly people except to continue being their friend.
My heart glows at a friend's mention of his parent's involvement with ministry. And it lights up with the mention that that was his old church. But I faltered in my thoughts and missed the invitation-opportunity at the turn of the topic. Forgive me.

Sorrow's Acquaintance

being wordless in nature, in a world of ceaseless speech
something comes to mind, but doesn't leave their lips
they're seldom heard; and hardly asked to be
watching from afar; safe from mockery?
where quiet means a sense of dignity
and pleading the Maker's respite;
is the soul's only delight
seeking refuge in
solitary tailspin.