Author Archives: huldustrider

On The Last Day Of The Year

Jesus come and find me

On the last day of the year

Ragged, worn, tattered, torn

Older now, and full of fear.

 

Still the racing of my thoughts

Ease the terrors of my heart

That have hunted, haunted me

To the ending from the start.

 

Come and count my hairs again

Count the bones beneath my skin

And knit me back together

Where the seams are opening.

 

Jesus come and find me

And make your dwelling here

In the empty place carved out

By the passage of the year.


Advent 2017

Every year it is the same

In November I begin

To stumble out in search of

A feeling that I once had.

 

I search the mud and dead leaves

For something colourful and

Warm and bright and sweet enough

To get me through the dark days.

 

For a message in the lights

For the song behind the song

I give until I feel good

But it every year eludes.

 

So it is one mad, cold day

That I search, frantic, through the trash

Of Decembers I have known

For a Christmas I can feel

 

And feel, instead, a hand placed

On the shoulder of my heart

And it breaks, and is remade

By the person Christmas is.


Residents

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I awaken in the night

Fifteen years and far away

With your face before me

And that song playing in my ears.

 

I see your face but I know that

You don’t look like that anymore

Or listen to that music

And I guess neither do I.

 

But I awaken in the night

And for just a few moments

All the distance goes away

And all that came between us.

 

The years of madness come and gone

The years of marriage and divorce

The years of confidence unshared

Ellipsed, eclipsed and gone away.

 

And for a moment you are

As close to me tonight

As when we lived all of our lives

In those same shared stories.

 

When we wandered the same halls

And found each other in the night

To share the possibilities

Of our brand new lives.

 

I awaken in the night

And think that I am there.

But they tore down the old residence

Two years ago.

 

But if the Finder of Lost Things

And if the Mender of the Torn

Is what we knew Him to be

In those lost days, than

 

I will awaken in the night

To make my way to a

Bright and common room

And find you gathered there again.


First Day Of School

Four years is not a long long time

But it’s all the life you’ve had so far

And so far I have got to be there

For all the life you’ve lived.

 

Seeing each new thing you saw

With you as you saw it

Hearing each new sound you heard

With you as you heard it.

 

When you were born

I could hold you in one hand.

But you grew and grew until

No strength of mine could keep you here.

 

Now your long strong legs

Will carry you, out the door to where

Red lights flash on a yellow bus

And the glass door comes between us.

 

Now you’ll live, and I won’t see it

You’ll see and I won’t share

You’ll sing and I won’t hear it

But you were never just for me.

 

Four years is not a long long time

But I got to be there

For all the life you’ve had till now

And so I will be grateful.


Institutions

This is a house for the haunting

Full of silence, full of groaning

Of cries that can’t be understood.

And questions that can’t be answered

 

This is a house for the leaving

A door the neighbors hurry past

Where the letters do not arrive

And the telephones are silent.

 

This is the house of wasted time

Of aimless days and weeks and years

Of lives robbed of their purposes

And stories that have no meaning.

 

Here in the room no home contains

Defended by my protocols

I patrol the paperwork wall

‘Tween me and them, and beg You be

 

The light sent unto her blindness

To be the song his deafness hears

The firmness ‘neath her trembling limbs

The loudest voice his madness brings.

 

Oh God if You are here tonight

You came in quiet as a ghost.

But if this is not a haunted house

Then Your temples too are empty.

 


Martyrs

When the Facebook bell starts ringing

To tell of more lives taken

By men with names that are not like ours

You always say the same thing.

You say it every time,

 

That they are monsters and

Inhuman and cannot

Be comprehended

For they are not like us

No brother, not at all.

 

But I say, brother, you’re a liar

And maybe sister, you forgot

The things we used to say in high school

The songs we sang when we were young.

A little too in love with easeful death.

 

And I say how fortunate were we

And the heretics we hated

And the infidels we feared

And I say thank Christ He made it clear

Which end of the gun we are to stand on.


Palliative Care

Dying is a cold white room

Where we sit and wait,

Undisturbed by life,

While every voice falls silent

And every movement becomes still.

 

I leave the room because I can,

And the person lying there.

To walk down the fluorescent hall,

Open the door I am allowed

And find that it is June outside.

 

The evening there is soft and warm

The air pregnant with thunderstorms,

Alive with the voices of spring,

The peepers and red-winged blackbirds,

And the scent of the lilac trees.

 

I return to the cold white room

And find the room is empty now.

But if there’s one thing that I know

It’s that wherever you have gone

It’s on the June-side of the door.