Merry Christmas: A Vigil for a Starry Night

On a night when the clouds cover the stars like an impenetrable mountain cliff, I wait for a sign. A small tinge up my spine. A desperate plea for the ancient ways to speak once again. I wait for the light, hoping it will come, hoping it will be enough. .

The stars, spread brightly out like colored snowflakes flickering across the onyx sky, reflect a distant constellation, and begin to re-enter the atmosphere, piercing through the fractured clouds, giving faint and distant light to the voidless black, the empty sea, the sandless desert, the vacant abyss that is deep within me. The light, hushed and dimmed by a millennium of travel, is all I have. Is all I ever had.

I wait for the reflection to reach me, hoping one refracted beam from a star long ago still exists, the same ancient light that awakened the shepherd’s eyes one cool and lonely night. Can the light that ushered in a new millennium, awaken a new epoch within me. If so, it might be enough for my heart to go on.

In the midst of tears, in the solitude of our inner being, we yearn to be on that impoverished hill, to understand the magnitude of that sight, a heavenly light illuminating a darkened heart, a heavenly chorus rising to a crescendo of glory.

Will I choose to believe its truth, not blindly though because I know what the light can do for one’s soul.  And though the unbearable pain releases not its grip, I have a question to answer. Does the light still exist for me?

Does the same sky, which God ripped open that night with his right hand, planting angelic heralds of peace on the clouds to rustle awake the shepherds, still exist for me? Can he reach into my clouded heart and announce the truth like a heavenly chorus? If it is so, all suffering and cause of angst still present throughout the world will be no match for the blessed announcement: “A Child is born.”

PERSON: This child is born.

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Merry Christmas! Enjoy the “Snowflakes”

Merry Christmas, everyone. To celebrate, here’s the dramatic piece we preformed earlier this month. “Snowflakes.” If you aren’t in the mood yet, you will  be now. Enjoy!

SNOWFLAKES

A hushed winterland, a joyous hinterland – uncharted, crisp and clean, untouched by man or beast,

quiet and undisturbed, slowly awakened by the audible delights of a child,

“Snowflakes,”

with cumbersome boots sinking inches into the virgin land, unspoiled and serene, until perfectly molded footprints follow him in the snow as he sloshes every waking breath into the wonderland.

Vibrant eyes, large and bold like the static black coal of a snowman’s eye,

Pupils dilated with wide-eyed delight, writing tales of wonder on the lens of the eye.

Ruddy-red cheeks, puffy flesh, numb to the touch, indifferent to the coldness,

Warmed by the laughter and sighs and taut screams of glee directed at only one object:

“Snowflakes.”

Snowflakes piled in billions and trillions, each one exclusive and uncommon,

Each unique pattern its glories unknown by human eye alone,

But the beauty of the snowflake does not frame itself on the mind of a child,

It’s not the patterns or artistry which foolishly draws the child into the coldness,

It’s the possibilities that the falling, gentle crystal stars create,

Wet and heavy, big and slow, floating on the wings of the air,

Head tilted, eyes towards the heavens, listening patiently for the message, mouth oval-round, measuring the flight pattern as he catches the cold design on the tip of the tongue.

The mouth tastes the wetness, the nose smells the freshness, the cheeks touch the dampness, the ears hear the deafness, and the eyes, yes, the eyes see a kaleidoscope of light, sparkling and shifting as the sun peeks its frigid nose out from behind mile-high clouds,

Winter captures every sense, compelling the child to leap to the ground, to rest amidst the tranquil frozen sea and release the awaiting angel, ready to announce the joyous arrival.

Peace has come. Join us, let us rest, in the

“Snowflakes”

for Christmastime is here.

christmas-tree-on-snow-wallpaper-wide

A Vigil for a Starry (Christmas Eve) Night

On a night when the clouds cover the stars like an impenetrable mountain cliff, I wait for a sign. A small tinge up my spine. A desperate plea for the ancient ways to speak once again. I wait for the light, hoping it will come, hoping it will be enough. .

The stars, spread brightly out like colored snowflakes flickering across the onyx sky, reflect a distant constellation, and begin to re-enter the atmosphere, piercing through the fractured clouds, giving faint and distant light to the voidless black, the empty sea, the sandless desert, the vacant abyss that is deep within me. The light, hushed and dimmed by a millennium of travel, is all I have. Is all I ever had.

I wait for the reflection to reach me, hoping one refracted beam from a star long ago still exists, the same ancient light that awakened the shepherd’s eyes one cool and lonely night. Can the light that ushered in a new millennium, awaken a new epoch within me. If so, it might be enough for my heart to go on.

In the midst of tears, in the solitude of our inner being, we yearn to be on that impoverished hill, to understand the magnitude of that sight, a heavenly light illuminating a darkened heart, a heavenly chorus rising to a crescendo of glory.

Will I choose to believe its truth, not blindly though because I know what the light can do for one’s soul.  And though the unbearable pain releases not its grip, I have a question to answer. Does the light still exist for me?

Does the same sky, which God ripped open that night with his right hand, planting angelic heralds of peace on the clouds to rustle awake the shepherds, still exist for me? Can he reach into my clouded heart and announce the truth like a heavenly chorus? If it is so, all suffering and cause of angst still present throughout the world will be no match for the blessed announcement: “A Child is born.”

PERSON: This child is born.

I Wrote This Last Night

I wrote this last night. No particular reason, and I’m not even sure what it means. But I kind of like it. I’m thinking folk-rock.

Vagabonds of Mercy   by  Mark W. Sasse

Ghostly kin collared high and smart, rolling out till we hit the dawn,

Pardoned souls with sing-song hearts, Hit the road until they reach the dawn

And the shadows cover field and vale, where it spreads it’s really hard to tell

As we brace for impact from the eastern gale, remember truth is the hardest sell

 

A girl in jeans and a ragged smile, waves a knife at the quarter mile

I duck my head from her pensive sight, but the battered soul gives up the fight

Proffered dreams, deferred hearts, testing limits with spare parts,

But the mileage wanes around the bend, when you’re headed home and then back again

 

Chorus:

And the vagabonds always know where they’re going,

Cause the road welcomes everyone who floats on the wings of the sun

And the vagabonds always know who they’re traveling with

Cause they understand more than most the feeling of Judas’ kiss

 

 

Part of the reason I joined this quest, was to get something off my chest.

I understand your hesitation, but I really need your participation.

Mercy ends in the empty void when shattered dreams lay half-destroyed

But walking men and talking girls, know the dance of the underworld

 

And those who dare to reach inside, might find release on the other side

But those who laugh at the high employed …

 

May find the lost key

May say a quick prayer

May join the party

Of the unaware

 

Chorus:

And the vagabonds always know where they’re going,

Cause the road welcomes everyone who floats on the wings of the sun

And the vagabonds always know who they’re traveling with

Cause they understand more than most the feeling of Judas’ kiss

 

Don’t let the night take you.

Don’t let the light break you.

Don’t let the fight leave you.

Don’t let the might beat you.

 

Chorus:

And the vagabonds always know where they’re going,

Cause the road welcomes everyone who floats on the wings of the sun

And the vagabonds always know who they’re traveling with

Cause they understand more than most the feeling of Judas’ kiss.

Snowflakes in August: an Excerpt

These are the kinds of things I write in the summer. I may be sweating or catching a cooling breeze off the ocean in the Strait of Malacca, but my mind is bundled up, thinking of snowdrifts and the delights of a child’s first romp in the untouched winter wilderness. The following excerpt is from a short piece simply entitled “Snowflakes.” It will be a dramatic, poetic narrative to kick off our Christmas show in December. Enjoy!

SNOWFLAKES (Excerpt)

A hushed winterland, a joyous hinterland – uncharted, crisp and clean, untouched by man or beast,

quiet and undisturbed, slowly awakened by the audible delights of a child,

“Snowflakes,”

with cumbersome boots sinking inches into the virgin land, unspoiled and serene, until perfectly molded footprints follow him in the snow as he sloshes every waking breath into the wonderland.

Vibrant eyes, large and bold like the static black coal of a snowman’s eye,

Pupils dilated with wide-eyed delight, writing tales of wonder on the lens of the eye.

Ruddy-red cheeks, puffy flesh, numb to the touch, indifferent to the coldness,

Warmed by the laughter and sighs and taut screams of glee directed at only one object:

“Snowflakes.”

A Vigil for a Starry Night

On a night when the clouds cover the stars like an impenetrable mountain cliff, I wait for a sign. A small tinge up my spine. A desperate plea for the ancient ways to speak once again. I wait for the light, hoping it will come, hoping it will be enough. .

The stars, spread brightly out like colored snowflakes flickering across the onyx sky, reflect a distant constellation, and begin to re-enter the atmosphere, piercing through the fractured clouds, giving faint and distant light to the voidless black, the empty sea, the sandless desert, the vacant abyss that is deep within me. The light, hushed and dimmed by a millennium of travel, is all I have. Is all I ever had.

I wait for the reflection to reach me, hoping one refracted beam from a star long ago still exists, the same ancient light that awakened the shepherd’s eyes one cool and lonely night. Can the light that ushered in a new millennium, awaken a new epoch within me. If so, it might be enough for my heart to go on.

In the midst of tears, in the solitude of our inner being, we yearn to be on that impoverished hill, to understand the magnitude of that sight, a heavenly light illuminating a darkened heart, a heavenly chorus rising to a crescendo of glory.

Will I choose to believe its truth, not blindly though because I know what the light can do for one’s soul.  And though the unbearable pain releases not its grip, I have a question to answer. Does the light still exist for me?

Does the same sky, which God ripped open that night with his right hand, planting angelic heralds of peace on the clouds to rustle awake the shepherds, still exist for me? Can he reach into my clouded heart and announce the truth like a heavenly chorus? If it is so, all suffering and cause of angst still present throughout the world will be no match for the blessed announcement: “A Child is born.”

PERSON

This child is born.

vigil starry night sketch sheet

A Partial Poem at Midnight

I rarely write poetry anymore. It’s been a long time. I write a lot of lyrics, but for some reason I have completely stopped writing poetry. Which makes this post all the more strange because here’s a poem I wrote last night during the last fifteen minutes before midnight. Your interpretation is as good as mine!

A partial print

Tiny crooked paths, cut and twisted, half extended to nowhere

Obstructed by the partial print

Which leads us back to a partial heart

A partial direction

A partial urge to partly know what right becomes us

In the deadness of the night

A full print

Would reveal itself too candidly

A gaudy reminder of the obsolescence of our will

A tawdry reminder showing off our childish traits

Unable to make decisions on our own

A kowtowing puppet to a Powerfuller than I

No. A full print cannot navigate a partial world.

Partial people need partial prints.

Half-truths and hidden doorways.

Forked roads and overgrown hearts.

Back country dirt paths to nowhere.

Dead branches on live trees.

Partial people need all of the partial print.

But no more.