Category: Poetry

Filthy Things

I see before my eyes a grand parade

led by warriors, young and brave,

idols in a land that needs them to be,

yet cares little if they live or die

so long as they inspire love.

Love for filthy things, like war,

death, and violence, disguised

as honor, bravery, and sleek metal

bearing grand designs and logos.

Faces like sharks, mouths like lions.

The crowd cheers as these pass by,

swallowing whole the vicious lie

that has in time left millions dead

and now misleads some millions more

along this fatal route called war.

This horrid scene disguised as bliss

betrays the world like Judas’ kiss.

So stand apart my friend and sing

a love song to a different king –

lest you be touched by filthy things.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Inspired by 2 Corinthians 6:14-18 NLT

Isaiah 40:3

‘In the wilderness,’ the prophet said,

‘Prepare the way of the Lord.’

He said, ‘In the wilderness.’

Not in the grip of power,

or the company of politicians.

In the wilderness of powerlessness.

Not in the boardroom,

or the palaces of oligarchs.

In the desert wastes of poverty.

Not in the councils of generals,

or the military command centers.

In the abandoned places of empire.

Not in the mansions of the rich,

or the lifestyles of the famous.

But among those of no renown.

There you must prepare the way.

Go therefore, to these latter haunts,

and make preparation.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Minneapolis

Helpless.

That’s how this feels,

as jackbooted thugs

pummel faces with fists,

knees,

bullets.

And so I kneel

asking for the miracle

that will awaken your Church,

that silent behemoth that sleeps

beneath the din

(so enraptured with civility)

(or else captured by anti-Christ)

to rise once more

and shake the world

with love, faith,

and strong determination.

Perhaps we are not

helpless after all.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Perspective

‘All that is necessary to make any landscape visible and therefore impressive is to regard it from a new point of view, or from the old one with our heads upside down. Then we behold a new heaven and earth and are born again…’ – John Muir

Sometime, when conditions are just right,

go and stand on the edge of a creek bank

when the sun is bright with morning

gladness and the water still and dark.

Ease your head over the ledge,

just a bit, and see yourself

staring back from the water,

peering upward, at you, beyond you.

Keep looking and notice above you –

beneath you, marvel of marvels! –

the ecstasy of a cerulean sky

dappled with clouds.

Observe the crowns of trees

rooted in the heavens,

drinking deeply of glory.

Notice too the sun, shining up at you,

as if this were the way of things.

Just for a moment,

or several if you can spare them –

and by all means, spare them –

allow yourself to fall skyward

into a world turned upside down.

And consider the curious fact

that this is indeed the way of things:

that in truth we touch the sky

as often as we touch the ground.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Hymn for Peace

Sung to the tune of How Great Thou Art

O Lord my God, when I, in awesome wonder

Consider all the beauty of your world

And yet look on, at all its splendor plundered

By those who hate and maim and bomb and kill

Then sings my soul

O God, how can this be?

God bring us peace. God bring us peace.

Then sings my soul

How long until we’re free?

God bring us peace. God bring us peace.

Around the world, I see the weapons of war

Wielded without a hesitating thought

As hell rains down on precious lives you died for

Who with your blood, salvation has been bought

Then sings my soul

O God, how can this be?

God bring us peace. God bring us peace.

Then sings my soul

How long until we’re free?

God brings us peace. God bring us peace.

And when I think of Jesus’ blunt refusal

To wield the sword against his fellow man

I wonder how his church gives her approval

To those who do; I cannot understand

Then sings my soul

O God, how can this be?

God bring us peace. God bring us peace.

Then sings my soul

How long until we’re free?

God bring us peace. God bring us peace.

As we await, the day of coming glory

When Christ shall come, and put an end to strife

We pledge ourselves to live a better story

To be the ones who treasure every life.

Still sings my soul

O God, how can this be?

God bring us peace. God bring us peace.

Still sings my soul

How long until we’re free?

God bring us peace. God bring us peace.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Take Me Back (Winter Days)

Take me back to winter days

spent by the front bay window

with nothing to do but

watch the snow

Falling…

Falling…

Falling…

from the welkin of heaven.

Ah! There I am:

kneeling on the couch.

Pressing my forehead

against the icy glass,

fogging it with my breath

as birds flit back and forth

from branch to feeder, back again,

dodging flakes as if by magic.

I come again

to my mother’s voice

singing through the storm.

To dripping scarves and mittens

drying on iron vents.

To the smell of oatmeal cookies

baking in the oven.

To the taste of buoyant marshmallows

softly vanishing in hot chocolate.

To the serenity of a child’s home

marinating in sheltering love.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

After the Rain

I walk the trail in the aftermath

of a drenching rain.

Young trees laden with water,

thankful for their recent baptism,

bow in reverence.

Their slick leaves and slender branches

emit a happy glow,

as their roots drink deeply

of the glorious flood.

Would that I could be so grateful

for the simple blessing of rain

and bend myself in surrender

To the giver of sun, wind, and water.

But I grow old and stubborn.

Thick of branch.

My trunk rigid and inflexible

in the curious belief

that by standing tall

I grow beyond the need to bow.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Apokatastasis

I sit on the porch recovering

from an illness that left me flat.

Before me are two maple trees

resplendent in their autumn hues:

yellow, copper, gold, and scarlet.

A north wind blows, brisk and gusty.

It shakes the leaves, makes them shiver,

breaks the tenuous grip of dying stems,

sends them twirling, swirling to the ground.

The tree on the right is nearly bare,

while it’s soulmate clings to summer memories.

One thing is sure: eventually,

the last leaves will loosen their hold,

leaving their parents grim and barren.

Earth will grow cold then, and drab.

The view from the porch, bleak, until

the spring, when comes resurrection.

And so I think, this is the way of things.

The last leaf falls, and life begins again.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

A Day at the Beach

Headlong I breach the crashing wall

of water.

Soft. Pliant. Pierceable.

Yet substantial. Strong.

A contradiction?

It whips my body sideward,

this ocean.

I rise in the nick of time

to be concussed again.

Once. Twice. Relentlessly.

Delight! At each crashing.

Holy sea!

The sun smiles at us both:

Sentient fool, knowing nature.

Both the made and the Maker.

For that is what this is.

This game.

Each wave a touch of grace.

Each dive a warm acceptance

of Divinity’s gift.

And as I roll within

this caress,

I feel Love’s joy arise,

carrying me deeper

to who I’ve always been.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Tethered

I am tethered to you, Holy One.

I take the rope and pull it taut,

drawn by the allure of your presence,

as cautiously, hand by hand,

I tug myself shoreward.

It is not you I pull toward me.

It is I, who drift away, who returns.

Slowly then, I drag myself to you.

Almost there…now, we touch.

Quickly, before tide sweeps me back,

I leap from my deck to your moorings.

It is an odd sensation,

this cessation of sway,

this certain, solid ground,

after rocking so long upon the waves.

Closing my eyes, I feel your breath,

as gentle and familiar,

as the wind upon the sea.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent