Come Any Other Way.

Gerald the Writer

Oh God,

come any other way,

but not as a child.

Come in a space ship

so we can call you alien,

and just a figment.

Wash up on shore

as a castaway, an unknown,

scraggly and salt soaked.

Walk into town as a vagabond

so we can look and call authorities

to distance us.

Stand by the side of the road

with a cardboard sign

so we can hand you a twenty and drive on.

But please don’t come as a baby.

Don’t come and coo and cry

and take our breath away.

Don’t come as we did,

dependant and humble

and wrapped up tight.

Just don’t, don’t be so vulnerable

as a wonder from a womb

bathed in the liquid of humanity.

Don’t come as a child, please.

For then we would need to

hold you in our arms.

Don’t come as an infant

so innocent and small

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Moving over to geraldthewriter

Hey followers, I am moving over to geraldthewriter.com for future posts. This blog will stay intact for now. Subscribe to geraldtherwriter.com to read current posts. Thank You!

Exchanging Letters 3

God,

I know the difference between talking about you and engaging with you. I also know which activity is easier. A similar concept is reading about writing and actually getting butt in chair and fingers dancing on the keys.

I’ve been thinking about third person. Do you observe the world from a third person angle? Sometimes I feel as though I’ve lived my life in third person. I live a shave away from wholeness, and see myself pouring the coffee, but hear no sound thereof. I report the life around me as a proof I might just exist. I joke with my family as I scan the obituaries for my picture, then shake my head…”I’m still here!”

So there’s the parallel on how I feel you operate and my own function under the sun.

Hmmm.

There are so many ways to try to reset the dislocation of my heart, spirit, soul, spirit, with the world spinning around me. But there is a simpler way. There has to be. I hear Jesus’ words “come unto me and I will give you rest.” Peter stepped out of the boat, and Thomas was encouraged to poke around the resurrected body of the Lord. I wonder which of the disciples I take after. I lean toward doubting Thomas with a dash of the denying Peter, but long to be like the disciple Jesus loved. John.

Love, Jerry

 

Jerry,

I see you. There is a simpler way. I am the way. Your dislocated feeling is understood. I too want engagement, not a third person detached rhetoric. I want your heart. Remember that dreary rainy day way back when? The day you walked up a driveway with a package and engaged me with a question? You asked me if I loved you. I sent a breeze through a row of pine trees and whispered “yes.” I knew you and one of your favorite things…the sound of wind through thousands of needles.

I see your fear. I feel your resistance to releasing control. I know you struggle with being labeled as one of ‘those’ kind of Christians. I got you. I get you. Bring those thoughts to me like you are doing right now. I can handle them. I Am, you know. Take a deep breath.

By the way, living in third person isn’t always a bad thing. That’s how creatives are wired. They help those whose don’t know their need to stop and smell the roses to consider doing so. I sent someone Saturday night to tell you those very words to encourage you.

Love, I Am

Fathers: By the grace of God go we.

Gerald the Writer

Photo by Jessica Szopinski

Often a father’s calling is to stay put and be strong.

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Pondering Walden. For my son Nathan. A Poem

Happy Birthday Nathan. I am so thankful you exist.

Gerald the Writer

We live close to the 42nd parallel.
Hitch-hiking isn’t necessary.
My son and I could walk
to the answer of the universe.

This orb wrapped and warped
in time zones in which
we are set in the illusion
of stop motion frames.

Nothing ever stops.
The rain pelts and the planets
carousel the egotistical sun.
We are under it half as much.

Is Greenland’s melted ice
coming down and overflowing
our pond’s aperture?
Such a small lens it is.

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Monday Mourning, After the Sun Went Down.

It’s been three years and you are missed. Love you Mom.

Gerald the Writer

It is another Monday.

Most of the out-of-towners

have gone back to their life.

My son and I watched

a blood orange sun

disappear beyond the edge

of the earth.

Near the end

it appeared bigger

and sunk faster.

It was like the death

of my mother.

At the end we stared.

We counted her

freckles and wrinkles

and the rise and fall of her chest.

At the time it seemed like eternity,

but now the memory is a short journal entry.

It is like taking out a granite tablet

and jotting down her life in a sentence.

The beauty was fleeting

and we wanted to touch it.

There was once a big moon

as big as a get-well balloon.

There was a big sun

as big as a farewell.

© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.

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Slit

Infinity begins

just above the tree line,

 

where weighted thoughts

are cast,

 

and ponderings fidget

through the crack.

 

And the bright dead

leaves curl and roll.

 

Let us slip our enveloped

thoughts through

 

the slit of heaven

and earth.

 

Lord, hear our prayer.

Church On

Sewn, darned.

Peace in pieces,

sole friction

frayed heel worn.

Two step tension

slide or let it ride.

Dance with unmatched

socks over the cracks

in the sanctuary floor.

A Christmas Card From Above. A Mom Memory

At this point a simple dusting of snow would be okay with me.

G. Allen Barrett Poet. Writer.

She Scotch-taped them upon arrival.
The threshold couldn’t hold them all.
Between the living room and kitchen
the Christmas cards hung open like parted lips.

Postal employees carried double heavy loads then.
Stamps were less than a dime
and tongues licked each one.
They arrived all through December.

The cards lined up and I thought
my mother was a curator of sorts.
She put them up for display
and passersby would thumb them open.

Beyond the Currier and Ives images,
beyond the glittered Santa beards,
beyond the bright star over the Savior
were cursive words at the bottom inside.

Greetings from around town and around the country,
hand written in indelible ink from indelible friends.
Aunts and uncles too, grandma’s and grandpa’s
shaken scrawl etched in the lower corner.

She sent them out too,
Her cursive swirled inside like flurries.
Her words beautiful, quiet,
and ending always in ‘Love comma.’

View original post 27 more words

Come Any Other Way.

G. Allen Barrett Poet. Writer.

Oh God,
come any other way,
but not as a child.

Come in a space ship
so we can call you alien
and a figment.

Wash up on shore
as a castaway, an unknown,
scraggly and salt soaked.

Walk into town as a vagabond
so we can call the authorities
to distance us.

Stand by the side of the road
with a cardboard sign
so we can hand you a twenty and drive on.

But please don’t come as a baby.
Don’t come and coo and cry
and take our breath away.

Don’t come as we did,
dependant and humble
and wrapped up tight.

Just don’t, don’t be so vulnerable
as a wonder from a womb
bathed in the liquid of humanity.

Don’t come as a child, please.
For then we would need to
hold you in our arms.

Don’t come as an infant
so innocent and small
for we…

View original post 29 more words