Skip to main content

There is a Notion, Outside of this, Should You Choose it.

“Unless your faith is firm, 
I cannot make you stand firm.”

Ugh!  The ancient practice of originality
Plagues us—
I pray and I forget
Or better yet
I practice forgetfulness
On a circuit track
Like the sun runs it’s course;
So pray I forget.
And pray hard, dear brother,
Because our minds have known 
More than we’ve intended to know.
Scrape the passion
From behind my eyelids and see how
They are closed to the public
All they see is my   f  a  c  e.
Everything I hate
Is what they make of me.
“He’s so serene” “So peaceful”
“So self-assured”
Do not lie to me anymore!” I (yellow)
Cannot escape this three-fold tune.
The future licks it’s lips
A prostitute,
An addict,
A place
Where fears might come true
And dreams are spattered
At father fear’s feet
Like some sort of
We are more religious
Than we believe.
  (that wordless place)
the pen I cannot escape

I am tired of putting meaning

On meaning things.

Crumpled sheets.
Shoe laces.
Double-check mental list.
Think to pause
(note: not pause to think)
me go; me leave

Have we lost our minds completely? Have we completely lost our minds?
Rank to me
The structure of things
And I will show you
What unimportant means

less words
more free

can anyone define freedom for me?
Seriously lacking anything
Completely necessary
For completing,
(It mocks).
Hour stranguage ist empozidle
(funnely you should mention it!)
that’s exactly what I was tinkering
to say I just couldn’t _____ the 
______(s) for it.
 So it seems 
to be in conversation, affirming
what we just said. Inefficient?
Insufficient? Unreliant?
Oh where are the ancients when
They are needed!
Sweet perfume
And melody
What hand can stir thee?
Just pushed along by
Many men who are only 
Noticing what has always been.
Why so interested? It’s 
Just existing.
No big deal.
“Hey, come’on, why still unsettled?”
(it’s because these questions
beg to be asked! but you would
never say that…)
Obvious, isn’t it, how simple
the simple life can be.
Yet somewhere, far away,
A voice is screaming
like nails on a chalkboard
or a horror movie
you attempt to squeeze
close   your    eyes
and     clench    your     teeth
like a fist
soon, you hope, you’ll
swear that it never even

till one day, on a normal morning, everyone arrives, happy and good as usual, with
their coffee cups and forgotten-to-brush-in-a-rush teeth, stained (yellow) from the drink. 
Mid-afternoon you realize Hal never showed for the one o’clock as you glance at his
Desk he kicks down the doors with and AK-47 shoots everyone who ever
smiled at him.
(there’s some unnerved 
at that thought.
How he suddenly went from a “generally 
Good person” to “hell bent and wicked”
We all are Baptist preachers at the right
moment.  Silly, no? to think we know
those around us, to joke, to poke fun,
to spin and speak of politics in some 
residential limerick that found us on the
internet and now is shaping our very 
thought and decision. And we blame 
our government!)

When can fault be fault.
Maybe when truth is truth.

Truth, the ancients seemed to get it,
“but now things are somuchmorecomplicated” 
(it almost says itself),
maybe we’re just further from it.
profound? I doubt it.
Profundity is never what
It seems to be.
Things are
Much worse.

Sorry to be the bearer
Of bad news.

If any of us really did get better, we
Would only die of depression and 
Lonliness, worn away by the contrast
Of us from fellow men.  Dangerous, 
Dangerous is goodness, and any notion
Of perfection
Can cause the mind to play games
  And now, such games,
Are rarely played,
Though they play.
We suffer from
Maybe all suffering
Could be
  This very
Black and white
But I guess that’s the funny thing
About words
They twist and turn
Like a haucking
  Gagging tongue
Too swollen for it’s mouth.
  Here, our words reside,
(and many once pointed raised hands
fall; their answer echoes against
the walls of their hearts)

silence is profound.

Allow it to sneak in
To come to fruition
  And you
Will find
The greatest
Wrestling match
  Will ever
The day that Jacob became
Israel, what ends to him
We owe, the moan of
Michelangelo, the epiphanies
Of Thoreau,
What rote?
What song?
What pirouette?
Can lay claim to boast of this?
That he who hath wrestled with
God, is he that will endureth.))

Isaiah 7:9


Popular posts from this blog

in this silent hour

Third in a series of coffee/tea themed photos to celebrate the PRE-ORDER of AS STEAM RISES AS STEAM RISES is a collection of 22 poems penned during quiet mornings beneath the Redwoods with a cup of coffee.  #celebrate #AsSteamRises   #davidmichaellippman #tellallyourEMOfriends  

Faith & Favor

Faith can be intimidating and intriguing, Wordless Place is a great way to begin processing your heart and growing in hope.  Grab your copy! (   OR click link in Profile),  #davidmichaellippman #authentic   #WordlessPlace   #newbook #findyourWordlessPlace #wordsintoworship #tellallyouremofriends  

Deeper Things

Do you like to ponder the deeper things? As I wrote Wordless Place I considered mystery and began to enjoy the present. Grab your copy! (   OR click link in Profile),  #davidmichaellippman #authentic   #WordlessPlace   #newbook #findyourWordlessPlace #wordsintoworship #tellallyouremofriends