I want to write of lovely things.
Inside my heart is
a story, shining and clear and radiant
like crystal
But the gate of my heart is rusted
swinging on torn hinges.
Few lovely enter it
Even fewer leave.
If Joy escapes,
It sidles through
slick with the grease of
grief, remorse, cynicism, darkness,
tainted with rust.
I tell myself
we cannot and should not judge
another person's work
not even our own.
This is a beautiful doctrine
But it's a beautiful doctrine in an unredeemed mind.
I carry this truth
in earthen vessels
and in old wineskins
I have poles my eyes
obstructing my view
and those beams cannot go unless my mind is fully given over to God.
Dying to self is my hope
then I will not meddle
or worship my opinion
even of my own work.
I realize this lack of love
this lack of humility
that folks don't like not knowing
that they like trusting their minds
which is the original sin
I should rest in God's love
and rest in my work. . .and not judge its loveliness.
I am too full of myself
and am too aware that I give living pure water out of a dirty cup
because all this human hurt
and human worry
and human darkness is in the way.
I know that others see how dirty the water is
So in spite of my aim
I write radiant poems about darkness --
not lovely at all.
Not joyous.
And loveliness is my aim.
Yet others have done it.
The saints who emptied themselves.
Before the gate falls from its hinges,
something ethereally innocently lovely.
