Check out these poems that I wrote and read aloud at a couple Poetry Slam nights that team JoyRiders hosted. I dressed in all black and wore sunglasses, and we snapped the whole night long. We experience worship in new ways!
Under the Fig Tree
Under the fig tree
You take Your time with me
You call my name patiently
Your voice beckons me
Under the fig tree
Under the fig tree
I escape reality
I can let go of everything
I recall my past memories
Under the fig tree
Under the fig tree
You ask nothing more of me
You simply say Follow Me
Your smile is all I see
Under the fig tree
Under the fig tree
I feel my own dignity
I hide my heart constantly
I grasp on to truths I need
Under the fig tree
Under the fig tree
You enlighten me
You ignite more of you in me
You break down the insecurities
Under the fig tree
Under the fig tree
I begin to let you see
All the hidden parts of me
And I stand up in your victory
Under the fig tree
Under the fig tree
You know me intimately
You allow me to fully be
You outstretch your hand to me
So I can now no longer only be
Under the fig tree
Under the fig tree
I thought I needed more of me
But You brought out discovery
Another world opened to me
All from your beckoning
Under the fig tree
Firestones
Pain.
That’s what I see here.
That first stone is saturated in it.
Tear-stained, cracked, heavy with Grief, Loss, Anger, Fear.
Flaming darts were flung fiercely
Piercing, engulfing, and consuming everything they touched.
Havoc hung on the walls of that room.
I still feel the chill of tile on my face.
Now what’s next?
Yea, I remember that one too. Isolation.
Alone, seared in the destruction and flames.
Onlookers watching, wide-eyed in shock and false sympathy
Because they remained passive—locking in place.
No rescue mission. No life-preserver.
No shield. No protection.
Laid bare and small.
WHEW. Breathe. Release. Receive.
Those first two stones are doozies.
The smallest stone, flat in shape, was the hardest choice
Obedience to You, and my will to loose
Do I stand up and shout?
Do I sit back and burn?
The words so twisted, do they need to be straightened?
Like a hot iron on linen—I could make it smooth.
Let me make it smooth!
The iron turns on me …
And its steam steeps deep, releasing the toxic poison of pleasing
FLAT OUT—you illuminate another
Glowing white, this stone called to me out of the smoke.
It was a beacon.
Pain and Isolation hunched in the corner
As Acceptance made its presence known
Your brilliance pierced the night
Your gaze, powerful and purifying, burned my core
Yet anticipated my fears and quenched every need
Deep Blue, like the blue of an inner flame.
It’s the hottest part, really.
Thats what you used to Heal.
This Healing stone is stacked next in such a way
That it’s shadow covers all the rest
It’s porous in nature—allowing Truth to permeate
It beckons me to touch and receive.
The rounded edges made smooth through
Intense heat and immeasurable pressure.
But those flames didn’t destroy
But rather compounded and intensified the very essence.
This many not seem much.
Just a stack of stones.
But step back and examine with me
And you may be surprised at the sight.
Though tears and darts founded this pile
It’s legacy will stand as a marker:
That He knows, That He accepts, That He Heals.
Glory glows with God’s holy fire all around.
The flames meant to singe were used to purify and withstand
Now I stand, no longer face down on the cold tile
But face turned up to the Holy Fire that flows from my Father’s eyes
As He beckons me
Come.
Seasoned
Coarse. Gritty. Dominant.
Your presence produces change.
You absorb, preserve, highlight
You’re never mistaken as plain.
When mixed you dissolve as if you were never there
But your flavor’s so strong that none can deny or dare
To doubt your value, what you bring, and how you work
That’s how powerful–Your Work.
You dwell in valleys, seas, mountains, and cities
There are histories that document the victories you’ve seen, many.
God commanded you in all our worldly offerings
And Jesus told us that we were you to all of his following.
We speak gracious words to hunger souls
We make the bland burn hot like coals.
I won’t be caught dead turning my head
Checking the rear mirror, rejecting what you’ve said.
Lot’s wife won’t be me, stone alone with myself
For I know my purpose, not to sit on a shelf.
Blending, increasing, preserving what’s true
The seasoned life is what I’m called to.
