P o e t r y

Prophets

I'm finding myself in a story
larger than any I ever dreamed
living alongside heroes
I have never seen

I've joined on the path
of those whose faith
has gone before
Men and women, a countless score

These characters are living
with words to say
that echo back
a millennium or more

Yet I am also learning
I have another role to fill
It is my voice, used for another
whose story I must tell

To the generations that follow
that they must truly hear
the message that has never changed
"The Kingdom of God is near."

Inhale Exhale

I breathed in hope and exhaled your name,
I closed my eyes and imagined your face,
I reached out and touched his garment
and hoped that his power would explode in my screams
in those dark moments when I see your tears
and your body shakes with doubts and fears.

I breathe in hope and exhale your name
I reach out and stroke his cheek
and catch the tear that escapes his eye,
and when he leans over, to my ear, I understand;
he sees you;
he breathes in promise and whispers your name.

Reading Poetry

What is a poem, but a collection of words?
Black on white rushing forth in herds
Like black sheep steering towards
The unsuspecting

Creativity in motion, bringing
Fresh new perspectives –
Redefining the notions of
This world

The poets move to deep beats
Dropping lines and rhymes with
Dancing feet, jumping legs, and
Jittery necks

Watch out – their meaning hits
Like train wrecks, or falls like
Quiet rain, or stings like scorpions
Or impregnates

Mothers and Fathers birth words
Poets produce progenies
That, stunted or thriving, rich or poor,
Living or stillborn, still have meaning

My Friend Brian Rowe

Just wanted to share a video made by a friend of mine while he was living in Hollywood (he's now in North Carolina. . . don't ask, it's a long story). 

Here's the URL for the video from his Myspace account (you may have to be a member to watch it, I'm not sure).  It's definitly worth the little hassle it may be to join Myspace. . .

http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=883995575

-Kasey

Remove the Veil

Remove the veil
that hides her face
let her see you
in all your loving grace

Remove the veil
so all the world may see
the beauty of the Bride
a blessed purity

Remove the veil
so you may see
the Church you ransomed
from captivity

Remove the veil
that your Bride might be revealed.

Yielding To Grace

I see You coming at me with a shovel
Prepared to dig, ready to go deep
And I just want to run and hide, so I do

I see You coming at me with a needle
Filled with an overpowering substance
And I fear the healing like I fear the prick

I see You coming at me with a mask
It’s gas to make me rest and relax
But I turn my head to avoid the connect

I see You coming at me with a respirator
I see You coming at me with the jaws of life
I see that I’m stuck in this bent wrecked shape

I’m scared of smoke, the smell of gas, and flame
I’m scared of the noise of the machinery You use
I’m scared of the pain that could possibly infuse

But I see You coming at me with a smile
Prepared to connect Your kind eyes to mine
And I feel a softening round the edges within

I see You coming at me with a look of love
Filled with a perfect acceptance of me
And I think for a moment that the fear is gone

I see You coming at me with outstretched arms
I peer at Your hands, and they’re so big and strong
Then I melt in Your chest as You scoop me up

And I breathe a release as I loosen up
And I comfortably take in a fresh breathe of air
And I listen to Your heart as You stroke my face

And I bask in the safety and security of grace

The Groom Waits

The Bride has AIDS
and so the groom waits
for her to be healed
by his free grace

The Bride is a whore
and so the groom waits
for her to return
to her first love

The Bride is not dressed
and so the groom waits
for her to be clothed
in a robe of his own

The Bride is not crowned
and so the groom waits
for her to come beside him
and take her place

The Bride is not ready
and still the groom waits.

"Artist's (anti)Statement"

Sorry, no poetry today. . . just a little rant regarding how serious we take ourselves sometimes.  Directed at no one in particular and for now reason in particular, just something I've thought about from time to time and thought I'd share.

   Sometimes I like my art to not have some sort of pre-determined motive, not to be conditioned according to my preconceived ideas, my vision, or my "purpose-statement". Sometimes art just happens, sometimes it happens so fast that I don't even get it fully at the time of its occurance and it's only once I go back to it and read the words for words and not just the sounds they make that I really gain understanding (or am I just forcing my now determined understanding onto something for which it wasn't there at the time of its creation? . . . I don't know). So maybe artist's purpose statements are good, maybe they can serve a purpose at times, but don't fence me in (sometimes all I've got is rebellion. . . wow, is that ever childish).  Sometimes I just write because the words and sounds sound cool in my head and sometimes they have meaning behind them that I know of and sometimes they mean much more to others than they do to me. By way of metaphor; sometimes I play baseball to win, to compete, or to improve on a particular part of my game, and sometimes I play to play. . . I like to run, I like to throw, I like to catch and I'll make a diving attempt just to see if I can. And so too in my writing do I occasionally write to play. As much as I like Nirvana and front man Kurt Cobain, maybe he was wrong on this one, maybe it's alright to not know what it all means when you write (the song "in bloom" is written, in part, about this very thing). Maybe part of the fun is in the mystery.

Fall Poem

Yellow-orange featherbed
At the foot of a tree
Leaves of glory
Still glorious on the ground –
A soft invitation to me
Fluffed 'round at the
Base of a tree.
Marvelous maple!
Bowed and humble
Brown, with almost
Absent crown for me,
Lowly me, to partake of.
Darker browns and
Rusted reds create
Maroon moods, and the
Leaves that lie, crispy,
Dead, provoke a
Thicker thinking in me.
Sadly solemn, sweetly somber,
And I the wiser
Consider things which
Youthful spring does not
Evoke.