the worth of a soul

December evenings linger long past dusk:

the streetlights have been trading their watch since before suppertime.

below them, a man pulls cars off a transport and into the dealership lot.

snow falls upon the toque his girlfriend bought him,

filters through tree house rafters across the street.

within the house, three brothers are fighting for bathtub space;

their mother has baby oil and pajamas at the ready.

over on the first concession,

a farmer stretches his toes inside a fresh pair of woollen socks,

rakes calloused hands through hair in need of a barber.

his wife's fingers undo the bow at the back of her apron

as they have every evening the same;
punch faded numbers onto a telephone keypad;

reach toward a jar of balm and the music of a daughter's voice.

it's a night just like any other in December: cold, dark, wintry.

yet each moment -- every place -- is teeming with humanity:

scarred by the day, brimming with hope for the morrow;

loving and wanting and resting and toiling,

all conflicted and radiant.

each person is writing a new story.

every person is working toward a goal.

but what does it matter if the car guy saves to buy his girlfriend a ring?

does anyone care if some farmer's daughter gets to chat with her mom?

old tree houses and fresh haircuts and warm socks and wet bathroom floors --

they don't amount to much.  everything we know is so small.

(even those shiny new cars getting snowed upon.)

...carved into a hillside, long ago and far away,

stood a stable where a baby was born.

because his mother was rejected and his father was acquainted with grief,

he had no better place to lay than a feeding trough filled with hay.

yet every star in heaven held its breath as angels shrieked their amazement

at God Himself, tucked inside a poor girl's arms.

His life would show us the power of the Spirit;

His death, the depths of evil;

His resurrection, the height of glory.

but in that little hillside stable, the soul felt its worth.


this was my Christmas reading the other night... i'll bring it to emily's, too.

onward, Christian Soldier!

my dear Christian Soldier,
have you ever had a doubt?
or is virtue what's guiding you
to sit, and frown, and shout?

could it be your heart's unsettled
at the things you preach?
might the pledge of "faith alone"
be a little out of reach?

our world's two thousand years removed
from Mary, James and Paul.
your friends are asking whether those folks
ever lived at all.

if that thought hurts your comfort zone,
then this one might explode it:
your neighbours haven't read the Bible;
don't even know who wrote it.

...do you?

you weren't there when Earth was formed;
never saw Christ with your eyes.
didn't help Luke write it down;
haven't seen a dead guy rise.

how DO you know your Bible is
The Book of Authority?
are you SURE Creation happened
in one week... literally?

if these questions irk you,
here's a good way to get even:
DON'T shake your head, walk away
and say, "you need prayer, heathen."

doubt is not the enemy;
it's here to challenge you!
do some research -- look around --
discover what is true!

tell me, which worldview best explains
mankind's depravity?
his conscience?  need for song and art?
respect for charity?

get to know Science.  he's a friend
of those who wish to know
how old the rings of Saturn are;
how peacock feathers grow.

"childlike faith" ain't mindless:
it asks until it knows.
then, once hard work yields its fruit,
you'll have a peace that shows.

now onward, Christian Soldier!
rise up and take a look.
you've quite the task ahead of you...
it's time to hit the books!

...will you?























(you've probably guessed by now... this letter is addressed to me)

there are lots more letters here.

skyscraper sigh

i live in a world of smokestack elevators --
the glory of man, scraping a sky he longs to control.
borrows recklessly and lends like a villain, that ugly man does.

i live in a world of soggy stilettos and lipstick cigarettes --
the beauty of woman, cellophaned and stocked upon shelves.
consume herself to death, that poor woman will.

the voice on the line calls me "Valued Customer,"
but i can't make out her name, half a world away
and getting paid far less than is legal around here.

i'm told, "Spend Less. Live Better," then i'm phased out.
the signs say, "Shop Local" and, "Made in China,"
and, "Do Not Pay* 'til 2013!"  always, an *.

i sigh.  i sit.
i sit on my couch -- just over a year old, splitting at the seams.
i sit on my couch's expired warranty.

i sigh.

think i'll sit on emily's couch instead.

in the dance

the poplars groaned even as they swayed;
leaves ablaze with sunset embers

and the hail fell hard upon seeds tucked deep
'neath heavy grey skies, rolling thunder

it turned my head and it grabbed my arms
and spun me 'round and 'round and 'round

it kissed me hard, the glory of
this clamour between life and death

and my steps fall weighty upon waiting earth
as i start to learn my part

in the dance

shall we dance?

three years ago

i mailed my Christmas presents and
took my last Diclectin (hallelujah) and
shaved my legs and
fasted for thirteen hours (never do that) and
nearly passed out while Ms. Nurse-in-Training tried to find a vein and finally,
hugged a pillow while a big, fat needle penetrated my spine and
went numb from the transpyloric plane down.

the anesthetist surveyed her work and
the nurses counted tools and
i counted nurses (seven, but one was a guy) and
the doctors discussed decking and
then you came along,
peed on a nurse and
wouldn't shut up.

the snow started falling
and never let up.

you never let up, either, do you know that?
(you peed on your dad yesterday -- ON PURPOSE)
...do they make epidurals for moms of three-year-olds?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iKDRXJshMPI

taking a break over at emily's.

here's dad's take on the incident.

oh, grate

noontime sun sparkles through champagne leaves,
runs a finger across filigree letters,
giggles at the door.

the Little Inn looks marvelous today,
dressed in her sunday best
and filling up with guests who impress.

"table for two?"
"we're with the party."
"ah, yes. right this way."

we stride across polished floors
to the room at the back, which glows at its hearth
like lipstick and silk scarves and well-kept shoes.

we sit amongst bookcases and lean upon pillows,
hug eternal blondes and ageless silvers,
inhale leather and cologne and a log gently burning.

just the kind of day to lose yourself in, so i do.
an hor d'oeuvre, a chuckle...
a sinking feeling.

my shoe is stuck in the grate. jammed right in.
suddenly, i'm the center of the party
as we all band together to save my clearance-shelf pump.

the very first time i ever wear heels.

fall in.
(why won't this format to the left? oh, well.)

so cold

the time came for me to run,
but i could not.
so cold.

i turned aside --
on the cement beside the mall window,
a sparrow.

i held on while it fought,
broken -- one last flutter
before stillness settled in

and all around
the very air we gasped
brought the chill of death

and beneath our breasts
the heartbeat of every broken child
thudded into silence

i realized my eyes were warm and wet.
i realized my head was wet and cold.
i said good-bye through the rain.

i turned aside.
so cold.
i ran, and ran, and ran.
















it's warm at emily's.