The Big House

by Chris Ernest Nelson

Master told me there is a
place for me in the Big House.
He said I was welcome
anytime.
As the skeptical sun creeps
into the stubborn night, I sit on
the porch of my little shack
and wonder what he meant
by that.
Was he teasing me with hopes
that could be pulled away
just to disappoint?
Was he baiting me into
overstepping my place
so he could wound me
with the whip?

I look up at the Big House,
ablaze with dazzling light and
vibrating with elegant music.
Though I feel its call,
I dim with denial.
Look at me, how could I knock
on the great door–
me, with bare feet and clothes
worn to the threads?
Would Master greet me with a
smile and a welcoming hand?
Would the guests nod approval
and a smart servant pass a glass?

As a gloved hand closes the drapes
on the windows at the Big House,
a fog descends to veil my view.
I lean back in my creaking chair
and settle my feet up on the rail.
I light my pipe and hum an old tune.
It’s cozy here…
My dog sleeps at my feet.

__________________________

God calls us to Bliss, yet we tarry– in part because we feel unworthy of His invitation, or we feel existential doubt, or we fear judgement, or we are just doing fine right here.

Wash your feet

by Chris Ernest Nelson

Wash your feet
first in the tears of
your own suffering,
then again in the
fountain of universal
knowledge,
and once again in the
river of sacred love–
then come,
you may trample
upon my soul.

Rest

by Chris Ernest Nelson

I have received so many invitations
to dance with sensuous death,
all of which I have refused.
Again today, I rebuffed her call
and she withdrew a while,
only to return with a new and
more appealing invitation as night fell,
this time much harder to resist.

Still, I bravely sent her away,
her displeasure followed by the dark.
She looked back from her retreat,
her head bent in longing as she
lifted her eyes to behold the answer
of my goodbye. Alas, I know she
will return– as she has time
and time before.

In the morning,
after a long and sleepless night,
when I am weary of the game,
I will greet her with a smile,
I will ask her in,
I will take her hand,
but not to dance–
no.
only to find rest.

Our stars

by Chris Ernest Nelson

Deep in the twisted wood, where leaves are
black pages in ancient books that record
every deed and every shocking secret
in sealed tomes and forgetfulness.
Every name and lie writ down in a
scraping script without punctuation.

When the moon sleeps in its dark cloud bed
and the wind creeps among the lonely branches,
the stars come out disguised as naughty imps,
who caper upon distorted limbs like sparks
out the chimney of a witch’s den.

The silly fairies giggle and sing of acts that still
shame aproned grandmothers of a simpler age.
They know of light touches and deep caresses
that even lovers can forgive only with apologies
and breakfast in bed.

They lift their skirts and open their briefs
laughing at our surprise and mocking all virtues
that are unwelcome in the rude forest.
Let children and other innocents be home by dusk,
before the festive trumpets sound and stars
descend to make merry in their playful ways.

He and she who dare to stay, not by bravery called,
stay to tremble and sweat and be turned over to
display their open all. Not bravery, but lost in a
fit desiring to be taken, possessed and used by
powers they dream of, but will never tell.

Good night Politics

by Chris Ernest Nelson

Good night to you
Troublesome Politics.
I put you to bed and
turn out the lights,
for now.
You’ve had a busy day
with your vexing lies
and sly posturings.

I am tired of your
coarse voice and
taunting smile.
Good night for now,
Venal Politics.
I will wake you in the
morning when truth shines
again in open windows.

Until then, I will
keep watch over you
while you sleep…
and I promise to
stand guard at
the door lest you are
disturbed by the polls
while you repose.

Nothing lost

by Chris Ernest Nelson

We must all
surrender our flesh
to be consumed.
Life is not bound
in flesh, it rides it
like a shooting star
travels through the
heavens. Rejoice,
God has provided
absolute perfection
in His Creation.
All living things rejoice
in His Love–
nothing is harmed,
nothing is diminished,
nothing is corrupted…
nothing is lost.

We must all
embrace the Spirit
and leave the
flesh behind–
Into the dazzling light
into the beckoning peace
that is more than
senses apprehend.
Across the river
there waits a place
created just for us.
All living things rejoice
in God’s presence–
everything is good,
everything is glorious,
everything is open…
everything is alive.

Process

by Chris Ernest Nelson

Like most endeavors
that make sense or
possess beauty,
one cannot properly
appreciate them
until they are complete.
The process is the art;
the product is merely
evidence of the art.
We create out of our
source of uncertain inspiration–
to make sense of our unease,
our doubt.
Peace of mind is meant
for a museum.