Jesus washed me clean

The 5-28-06
(Stolen from the memory of someone. The deep recesses of the mind of days gone by. When life seemed to be worthless, when the mind was dark and lonely, Jesus came and set them free. Was this your mind?)
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The brokenness of my life, a shattered life in the eyes of others, (some would say hopeless) was put together, redeemed, made whole the first time I believed.

For the first time in my life I was clean. I didn’t feel ***** anymore. Jesus washed me clean. I was redeemed and remade in His image.

It began the day someone told me about Jesus. The moment I believed, for the first time in my life I was clean. I now walk the path Jesus walks. Each day is new and fresh in Him. When I am weak He is strong. He never leaves me. He carries me when I am tired and can no longer walk. He tells me to hold on to Him for tomorrow will be better. The days despair threatens to drag me down, He carries me until I can stand once again. When I can walk once more, we walk once again hand in hand. I can hear His voice say “well done today” as I lay my head down for the night. Sleep is wonderful knowing I am in His hands.

Each day I wake up is like the first time I met Him. I am clean. Can I say “clean” too much? I am clean in His eyes and He gives me joy, He gives me life. He gives me the bread of life that I may live with Him forever.

“Every morning I wake up is a good day.
Every morning I wake up and give God the glory, is a wonderful day.
The morning I wake up to Heaven’s brand new day, is a glorious day indeed.”

Do you know Him? Really know Him? Let go of the old life and be redeemed, be made new in Him. Hopeless is not a word Jesus thinks about. All things are possible with Him. For my life, a shattered life in the eyes of others, (some would say hopeless) was put together, redeemed, made whole the first time I believed.

07-02-08
This was written about a young woman who was lifted out of a life of **** and prostitution over two years ago. It has been two years since writing the above part. I see her at church these days and she gets more beautiful every day. The effects of **** are gone from her face. Her eyes have taken on a glow of Jesus in her life. Hearing her talk about her walk with Jesus just sends chills down my back. This is Amazing Grace walking, talking, and living among us.

was four balloons in the sky ,
cut loose to fly,
at the end of the auto dealers day,
I was done with my building a shower
awaiting my ride, outside.
The four balloons took flight
in a mostly blue sky, seemed to have
a direction in mind.
They were flying away from
the eastern grey clouds
into the more calming
west, filled with
fluffiness and calmer breezes,
I called to them, lying on
my back in the grass.
Hey you, blue balloon,
hey red one, okay yellow,
do YOU hear me, the white
one shimmered.
Hey, don't forget me. Come
take me with you, pretty
things, so free
and unencumbered
by things down here,
they seemed  gay,
one after the other, separated
by a few hundred  yards
I felt burden free for a minute.
I guess they inspired me.

He squeezed his voice out of the throat  
an old Dreadnought guitar
He bared his soul to anyone
who would listen to his psalms;
purging the torn an anxious silence within,
surrendering an unspoken heart in a song

Some days you feel
like you live too long
Watching the recurrent tides
recede and grow low
This life, such an unplanned journey,
given to lose what’s been lost once more

How many times
must a heart be broken?
To realize a heart heavy
won’t stop beating strong
Steal away the broken inside
these flesh forsaken walls;
breathe one’s last bated breath
in the peace of a song

Sometimes life falls
w a a a y y y y short of expectations
Though passing time
may assuage evanescent dreams,
there is a stillness that floods the moment
awakening a motherless child in a soul

Fate befallen a wordless silence
in the aftermath of finally letting go
Fingertips no longer calloused
Dreadnought wood dusty gone cold
Melancholy madness echoes unrequited

A lonely bird without a song ...


* September 2016 © H.  Rivers*
              all rights reserved

He said I’m a great poet.
Never stop writing he said, never.
He told me he loves my work, he said he loves me.
He made me feel something again.
I’m afraid to lose him, he means everything to me.
He has taught life lessons.
I’m different, I have changed people notice.
He helped me realize I’m beautiful.
I’m so much more confident.
I would of never wrote this much and pursued writing more if it weren’t for him.
I love him, I love him this is the best feeling in the world.

I lay on the ground below
the curved hips of the hills at sunset
The aperture of my eyes, my ***, my eyes
and the narrow escape
of mind from body

I am ten again
and they’re calling me falsey
“*******, No bra!”
Shoving them into the lockers
of Holy Name’s pool
My eyes? Brown. My hair? Brown
My body? Invisible, lean and “Leave me alone!
or I’ll punch your lights out!”

Meanwhile, Mom is mortified
but not cause I’m banned from the stupid pool

All I want— is to run bare to the waist
Ride my bike, maniacal  
Be a bird
Swipe ice from the milk truck
Marvel over maggots in garbage
Catch toads, caterpillars, pollywogs in jars

Later, sell lemonade— get rich!
…and pretend…pretend…
till the litany of our names, hollered from the porch
till the street lights come on….



“This is for something you haven’t got yet”
says the matron of the fitting room
Bones in a bathing suit?
What I haven’t got?
or they haven’t got?
will never get—
in their worlds of curtained cubicles
Cause of death:
Strangulation by measuring tape!



In my plaid two-piece
sunburned shoulders, wind-wild hair
By sweat and the afternoon’s imaginings
I built a fortress of sand and stones
to endure forever….

But she— shook the blanket
at the tide’s full reach
Peppered the air with an epoch
Clouds darkening
the wind-torqued sea

Finding my flip-flops, we—
    trudged off…
    into the changing… changing

Mute gray entwines wistfully around my ankles
Night time ghostly kittens playing with the shadows past
My eyes often see the moon reflecting upon the bright visage of your memory
I still feel burned down.
Broken.
A ruin that in future breaths will be seen as the discovery of my lifetime
In reality it is the great loss
Static hums between the quiet space connecting brain to ear
In that white noise I make out your voice singing songs of moving on
Understanding has yet to dawn yet I have heeded your wishes
My heart does warm once more
Though parts remain dark, hidden
Burdened
Blessed with carrying the weight of where you still rest

Who bends the wind
folds it up
puts it in the envelope
then will send

Who gathers the sun
like a flock
bottles it then
says it's done

Who ropes my emotional
ties it and then binds it
in black and red ribbons
it's not fictional

Who teases the vessel
filling the void
where even the left
has a right to wrestle

Come vapor ***** . . . dream
permanate . . . decorate
you titillate in love's
sweet scheme

When ? Then I am left alone
the walls still stand
The night wails as comes the dawn
The heart longs for home

unequaled regale
thou touched  me with
nor a equaled reveling
have reminisced into a night
into a broad sunlight
into a full moon
without
your words
grasped to my breast
to my sanity
I have walked
into the darkness
always
with your words on
my tongue
your scent on the wind
your measure
on
my shoulders.

It must be a strong force unseen
That drives a heart to someone's poetry,

For it's not easy to spare the time,
Out of the chaotic humdrum of one's life,

To push the clutter and monotone aside
And welcome alien ideas into one's mind,

Ideas not shaped into melodious tunes,
Ideas not shaded with colours and hues,

Ideas not in a photographic frame enclosed,
Ideas not structured into the flow of prose,

Free-gushing, mischievous, some rhyming some not!
Poetic ideas are a difficult lot,

Which is why I wonder, astonished, each time
Someone sits down to explore a creation of mine,

What power was greater than all worldly realities,
That led them to my humble poetry?

Was it a soul parched of light?
Was it a heart in the throes of an endless night?

Was it the thrill of love, was it the urgency of desire?
Was it pure craving for emotion, the warmth of fire?

No greater an honour could there be,
Than having someone step into your dream,

Allowing themselves to take the expedition,
Into the unknown depths of your composition,

And have your poem satiate their being,
Just as its birth had healed your own entity.