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 May 2014 Chris Hollermann
I have crushes
because I am unable
to commit.
I can pick up affairs
and when I'm tired,
I quit.

I have crushes
because I am an obessessive
I am infected with lust
which always spread
like cancer.

I have crushes
because I have yet
to fall in love
yet lucky enough
to have my heart
broke into two.

I could never love you wholly
this is why I 'crush' on you.
I've been waking to the sudden throes of intense sadness despite morning sunlight, as if there was infinite darkness in the former breaths shared with a being I was meant to want, and somehow want still, yet this being is a shadowy spell, a glare on glass, a riddle of all my dreamt desires, and somehow also, my attempted reality; somehow also, my doorway to my deserved insanity. A wholeness in this end I cannot find, fight for, grasp, endlessly seek, for knowing somehow this is not my choice, nor my alleviation, not when all the moves somehow belong to him, all accepted actions, all verified decisions, his, all sensible words, his, not mine, never mine, I am simply voiceless, stuttering, adoring, a loving woman's shape, never filled with fiber. Never was my static so ensured, never was my strength so bottled up and stored away, so ridiculous, nonsensical, like a mime locked up in a tower, in so many ways.
My Father was my example.  I have a lot of my father's traits.  He was a man of few words but his actions of caring carried much weight. Growing up on a farm in Western Nebraska, it seemed that it was a place where sandburs knew no bounds.  They were everywhere.  My father wore bib overhauls that had big pockets in the back. When I was little, the pockets were just right to fit my feet.  When we came to a sandbur patch, he would pick me up and carried me over the sandbur patches.  When I was tired after being with him on the farm and hot from the scorching summer heat, he cared for me.

My heavenly Father is my teacher through prayer, his word written and spoken and through the lives of others like my Mother and Father and many others.

Jesus is our example.  Growing up and even today, the 4 words that keep me going in the right direction are: What Would Jesus Do.  There is no better example to follow.

As a father, I try to follow the example of my heavenly Father.  There are times I fail miserably and must ask for forgiveness from my family.  My heavenly father never fails me.  He carries me through the sandbur patches of life.  He loves me unconditionally.  Some day I will set foot on the heavenly shore as He carries me over the last of life's sandbur patches on my final journey of life.

Even though I have never heard my earthly father say, "I love you son", I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he loved me.  When I would say to him, 'love ya Dad" his reply was always "uhuh".  I can't hear my heavenly father audibly say "I love you" but I know from all He does for me His love for me is beyond words.  His love transcends the audible and speaks directly to my heart.
I tried hard to not bring shame on my mother and father.
Putting on high heels is
not the same as growth.
Bending over backwards is
not always dancing.
Extending a hand is
only occasionally a kindness.
Whenever we speak, I know
the coin toss is airborne
as soon as the first words fly.
Step one,
choose your topic.
Likely yourself.
Because what greater
subject could there be?

Step two,
choose an image.
Find something
that can serve
as a metaphor
for you.
Find the rain forest
for instance.
Or perhaps a pond
frozen over in winter.

these should serve nicely.

Step three,
place yourself
somewhere in the midst of these things.
Let you be
the trunks of the trees
supporting the lush, green canopy.
You, poor, tired,
supporting the thick boughs
that are the real life
above you.
Or is your face
the ice of the pond.
All that people ever notice
is how much you can take
before you break.
But there is so much more
just beneath the surface.
So much
teeming with life.
No one knows
how deep you go.
No one will know
until the ice thaws
     (which is unlikely to happen anytime soon.
          but the metaphor was never meant to extend that far.)

Step four,
write yourself in
to the piece
in such a way that no one else
will be able to identify you.
     (Unless they're **** cunning.)
Perhaps disguise your identity
within the purpose of the piece
or the flowing imagery
seeping through the spacious cracks
in your technique.
Riddle the work
with subtle ins and outs
and minute complexities
that vex the reader
away from your intentions.

Nicely done.

Step five,
your reflection
as it appears
in your monitor.
Not the image of your face
bouncing off the glass
but the snapshot
of your thoughts
so opaquely back-lit.
Remind yourself
that this is for you
and no one else.
This is just for you
and no one else.
This is just for you
and no one else.
this is just for you.

Step six,
post to a public forum.

*Check back in an hour.
Surprise! The poem is about me!
See? It's satirical.
Sorry it was so long.
colours sing their a capella hymn
lighter tones emitted from your skin
brush the light aside as morning's rise
shows us something glowing from within
© 1-24-2006 J.L. Stevens
Oh Mary do you see your Son
High upon the hill?
Your Son has come to this world
To do His Father’s will.
Behold the Lamb Oh Mary.
High upon the cross.
Behold the Lamb who shed His blood
To rescue you and me.

He finds me in my deepest need    
When darkness comes around me.
He gives me peace in my soul    
And sets my spirit free.
I am baptized with His Spirit
He meets my every need.
Behold the Lamb of God
High upon the throne.

Behold the Lamb of God
Who takes away my sin.
Behold the Lamb of God
Who cleansed my heart within.
My name is written there
In the Lamb’s Book of Life.
He is the great I Am.
The Savior of the world


Oh Mary you are with your Son
The Savior of the world.
This does not feel finished. Something is missing between V1 and V2
"I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows."
Every syllable was the pitter patter of water on glass panes.

But the feeling he gave me was hurricanes on concrete.

"I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows."
The fluidity of the liquid would fill the crevices in my mind to the very tip and remind me that I was not alone.

You do not have to read the meniscus to look deeper into my being.

"I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows."
He formed his words and dragged them quietly across pavements, reminiscent of the deep tint of the clouds and the rumbling of thunder.

But when the sun came out,
I did not feel radiant
I felt alone.
The Canvas

A canvas sets on the edge of greatness and beauty, blank, waiting for the touch of the master’s hand. She takes charge of what is to be. Gentle strokes, broad strokes, strokes that caress the canvas… leaving the marks of imagination, transforming nothing into beauty. The image emerges revealing the thoughts and desires and power of the canvas. It is breath-taking to the beholder. She understands the difference between OK and great. Nothing will do but great. It must emulate the original. It must be the original! So it is with our canvas of life.

We start life as a blank canvas. Brush strokes are made by those around us as we begin to grow. Made by mom, dad, friend and strangers alike. All try to add their image to our canvas. An image of who they think we are. As we grow into the artist we strive to be, we accept or reject the strokes of others and create a portrait we strive to become.

Some strokes by others can leave an off color, covering who we really strive to be. A brush stroke that is not us can be covered by our touch, our color, our imagination of who we are, adding integrity to the texture and hue. Revealing an inner beauty as the artist of our life takes control, guiding our hand, adding the touches that transform the canvas from OK to great.

The Artist chooses the colors, the brushes from which she wants to define her life. The decisions are hers to make as she selects the shades of color, or even black and white, that will define her life. She paints a portrait of peace and joy, of self-less love for family and friends.. All else is unimportant. The things of past are covered. Today and tomorrow are forming a painting that will be great.

Letting the Master’s Hand guide our hand, we find freedom flowing freely onto and into our canvas. In doing His will in our life, we are set free. A freedom indescribable at times as we are lost to the distractions of the past. Caught up in the hope and love of today.

The Master guides our hand, willingly or even unwillingly at times in our artistic endeavor. As we learn to relax and give Him control of our hands, He reveals the beauty that is within us. It is great.

I have heard being an artist and painting described as being easy but living life as being difficult and unsure. Life can be described as a series of brush strokes, choices. Some can destroy the beauty intended for our canvas. Some strokes can create breath-taking beauty which radiates outward, inspiring the ones observing our portrait.

This was inspired by a young friend of mine, she left a few brush strokes on my life. They will not be painted over. They will be treasured, remembered for a long time to come.

When I look into a mirror, I want to see Jesus, the Creator of my portrait.
Amazing young lady.  Her paintings are truly works of art.

— The End —