Welcome to ReasonFaith website. I will be posting a series of poems entitled Cinda's Psalms.
My Lord says they border on "theological erotica" but it's OK since He wrote "Song of Solomon" first.
Cavernous entryway, fluorescent lights.
Cold walls cementing
the last several nights.
City kids crowding in,
flashing their signs.
Looking forward to the future
instead of behind.
I, like a ticket -
unreserved yet assigned,
an ample description of
my frame of mind.
Basketball all stars,
tall, hard and alert,
trying not to get hurt.
Crowds smiling and waving;
they all seem immune
to the tension and apprehension
I left back in the room
of the hotel last Tuesday
as you bid me goodbye.
Me hurrying off and
you not knowing why.
I was biting my lip
at the sound of your sigh.
The airhorn now blasting.
I'm casting around.
People cheering the play,
but I don't hear a sound.
Looking far for your face
makes this space
I need to escape
to a place higher ground.
So I snatch at my jacket,
then, just as sudden sit down.
You step softly down the stairwell
to my backless bent seat.
I am sitting alone
looking down at my feet.
Crowd shouting loudly,
you proudly pass me.
Referee calls out "traveling,"
we're unable to greet.
It appears all my fears
have now mingled to meet
in a mind-field of doubt
going out obsolete.
Then a tap on my shoulder
and our double heart beat.
Boulevard Louis Vouvray.
You asked if I would come and stay
since Paris was in disarray,
perhaps I'd cast your blues away.
We later met upon the steps
of the Opera House at dawn.
Your battered hat held in your hand,
your face now dark and distant drawn.
The fog and smog lifted off of the Seine.
My frosty soul lost
at the cost of my pen
and the sweater I bought
from Ralph Lauren.
No fears in your years,
though there might have well been.
Strolling to the hotel
past the boulangerie.
Lovely loaves and tiny fishes
and some palatable pate.
At the Arc de Triomphe
flags were waving that day.
We ascended the lift
to a fifth floor terrace
overlooking the splendor
of what was Paris.
"Hey, je suis en terrase"
some teens called out to us.
Eiffel Tower so powerful
yet dark from our sight.
While taxis now relaxing
under antique street lights.
Your heart tugging me into you
and then hugging me tight.
Whispering into my ear,
"I shall need you tonight."
Rich scent of coffee from the flat
still clinging to my Lord's coat and hat.
The scarf I wore from the museum store
cost even more than my royalties bore.
Dim lit hallways and corridors.
Cathedral ceilings and marble floors.
Art masterpieces lining the walls.
Wondering if You were noticing me at all.
You took a look at the Claude Monet,
but "The Chess Game" whisked my breath away.
You pressed in behind me,
as we gazed on at the artist's insight.
Tip-tap of my boots was all we heard
as we crossed the halls
not saying one word.
I'd move in close to see the paint
while You read with dread
what was in each artist's head
going deep into emotional restraint.
On a mahogany bench
we sat side-by-side
reflecting on the Amtrak ride.
The glow from Your phone
in the dark parlor car.
Each sneaking a peek
to see how we both are.
But laid bare before
true works of art, like You
and oh how so very smart
You were to insist
that we see them
and take part.
Since they held Your very mind
and disclosed Your hidden heart.
Have you ever had one
of those moments,
when it seems all the stars do align?
You are not looking back,
or ahead up the track,
instead feeling the deal in real time.
I was resting in front of the fireplace.
All Saints Day; hour lost in daytime.
All covered in quilt, feeling free of food guilt,
with your book on my lap,
thinking life is all that,
reading your work as if it were mine.
It was late afternoon when the storm hit.
I could hear it push past the fir trees.
Then the hard hitting rain,
rolling really insane
down the roof, past my deck
from the eaves.
It looked just like a magical waterfall
as it poured off the roof rafters so.
I peered over the rail
to follow its trail
to a pond full of pebbles below.
Then I realized how wonderful life is
and how God creates pockets in time.
They pass ever so quick,
like a magician's trick,
but while there in the moment sublime.
Billy Joel wrote a song once which stated
tender moments are best left alone.
Nothing more can one say,
when God shows up this way,
by the hearth, in your heart, in your home.
Dreams are delirious business
being found in fulfillment fruition.
Some spring forth full-blown
out of which is one's own
deep desires and ripe intuition.
Once we wistfully wished for a waterfall
in a hot spring inside a stone cave.
Once a friend even leant us their fantasy,
but that dream seemed a long ways away.
I was always the doubting Thomas
tempting fate with the touch of my tongue.
Like liquid ice to the lamp-post stuck tight
somehow I knew I'd end up undone.
So I now leave my dreams with the doorman,
who I know has a great lock and key.
You might guess a wish good as another,
but your fate rests in Him ultimately.
He can give you the tools and the training.
He can set all your standards inside.
He will let you escape into endless debate,
til you can't trust your own spirit guide.
Then a turn of His head,
you will wander instead
into truth and your own prickly pride.
So while lovers and others build castles
out of dross embossed fun fantasies.
Temptations march on
for impetuous young
and those hoping for fond memories.
Smoky smell of cedar wood
pungently poking through the air.
Yellow leaves cascading
down a damp and stonework stair.
Three jesting jack-o-lanterns laughing
lights bright in the night.
Their glow ignites sweet delights
as folks go forth forgetting where.
Too late for children at this hour,
you turn back towards the town's clock tower.
I'm at the door, waiting for your
visitation and priestly power.
You take your time, you plan your pace.
I eager to embrace your face.
You rest upon a bench forever.
I pray for wisdom, however clever.
A stranger engages you in talk.
I wander around my garden walk.
You make some calls and take some texts.
I wonder what will happen next?
At last you place all problems right,
arriving while I'm still uptight
and like a leopard ripe to strike
on hearing words I might dislike.
But you soon silence this for me
with brands of brilliant repartee.
Your laughter terse like temperate rain,
although I'm tense, the storm's retained.
A quick decision on your part,
has quickly calmed my crazy heart.
You rather like it, from what I gather.
The give and take of your control.
And though I fight it, we are united,
in our most Godly-given goal.
So while the chimneys choke the smoke
and costumed kids do now retire.
You set ablaze our love unfazed.
We gaze amazed into the fire.
I took His arm around my own
thinking we would walk towards home,
but then He stopped along the way as if to say,
"where are you taking us today?"
I thought we'd walk out to the pier,
but He just stood still standing there.
No step ahead, no looking back.
In point of fact, His simple act
looked like a little heart attack.
He'd built for us a Camelot,
a castle brick by brick.
Friends wondering what had
turned His heart romantic heretic.
The path well lit, that wasn't it.
He was sizing up a little bit
the parameters of our relationship.
"Do you love me?" He then did ask,
and I sounded dumbfounded
being taken to task.
I recognized this - His insecurity stop,
so I let my eyes drop.
He wanted to disarm me like Peter long ago.
But charmed I refused for my feelings to show.
He'd be begging the question,
He would already know.
Whatever my answer, it was sure to be rough.
You could find in my face
how tremendously tough.
So I patiently waited while He searched
my soul stuff,
like a poker player unsure of a bluff,
Till He held out His hand saying
"It is enough."
"Hardly inconspicuous," she teased amorously
searching His face.
And it seemed a bit fortuitous that He
should find this forested place.
An unwieldy wooden footbridge.
A weeping willow tree.
A patch of lawn, where they were drawn
obviously for lovers to be.
Although her mind, half of the time
appeared irregularly rancid.
Lucky for Him, this darkness dimmed
and His heart started running rampant.
Always in doubt, she wanting out,
But He rejected that as choice.
His precious possession,
and expression of His aggression
silencing her secret voice.
'You want to be, with only me,''
He told her time and time again.
And she agreed, having been freed
from where her life had been til then.
This frosty Fall now being the same,
the King proficient at this game.
So under the footbridge the lovers went,
His will and emotion being spent.
Raindrops free falling all around,
bouncing briskly off the ground.
And He could hear her sacred sigh,
now in reply,
a rudimentary testament.
She caught a cold, if truth be told.
And He agreed, due to His need.
But neither utilizing reason
both desiring to go back,
as promised on the forest track,
they soon would be religiously
entangled in due season.
Where in despair does one find divine way?
Your path potmarked so plainly
you've now gone astray.
By degrees cedar trees
start to all look the same.
One carved with a heart,
an unrecognized name.
It's doubt takes you out
to the woods in the wild.
And pride makes you hide
like an innocent child.
Just like the river which runs alongside,
you're caught up in its eddies
and washed up in its tide.
This isn't reality, you can't feel your heart.
Best to start out all over and not to take part.
Then a stranger approaches,
you are silent at best.
He is taking the trailhead
just like all of the rest.
Talk is worthless not wanting a connection,
So you don't say a thing.
What reward being bored would
this encounter bring?
But another is coming and
he knows what to say.
He stops and engages not looking away.
You can see in his eyes no trace of deceit.
You can tell by his manner,
He is grateful to meet.
He is taking the time to point out the path.
Which is more than you bargained for,
greater than asked.
He offers a hand to show you the way.
But compromised, you step aside.
Simply choosing to stay.
He walks on without you, waving goodbyes,
so you can't see the sorrow
or the tears in his eyes.
There is nothing more tragic
than love once denied.
God granted me the greatest room
from where in my chair I can see the moon.
It shines out behind the tallest trees
smiling most obediently.
It waits until my Lord has been,
which usually happens about half-past ten.
A cloud or two might hide the orb's face
whenever my Lord and I embrace.
But for the most part, the moon shines bright,
flooding my front yard hard in light
in the same way that my Master might
when we're together alone at night.
So we slowly go up a winding stair,
to a roof-top view in the cool night air.
The prophets do say, I say to Him
as I snuggle affectionately under His chin,
with this eclipse the moon will bleed.
It's happened before as You Lord had need.
But my God says it's simply an act of His love.
Not an omen, but rather a sign from above,
to remind us of His blood on the cross
shed for redemption and saving the lost.
And also for me, "most assuredly,"
He smiles drawing me closer, "my greatest cost."
We weren't sure if we were able
as we sat across our table,
if our love could just exist,
in a world outside of this.
I was licking my ice cream spoon
as the King tried to hide His swoon.
He said my action was a distraction,
but still of the uttermost attraction.
So while wasting time without a care,
a disturbing cellphone broke the air.
And though He spoke by telephone,
you could hear it in His tone.
"I ask the questions!" was all He said.
Then left the line, completely dead.
Now normally I'd want to know
what was said or did or so,
But when the King gives a command
you simply deal with what's at hand.
And I must say with reservation,
it caught me up in hesitation.
You see, the power of God's voice
left me really little choice.
I got excited in a way,
that only awe-struck people say.
It was controlling and commanding
and apparently the final word.
And it sounded other worldly,
like words that I had never heard.
So who is this great and grand Commander?
Who can claim to understand?
The power of the Word Himself, but more,
the power of the man?
I will never know what happened,
nor will I ever ask.
But I am grateful to that caller
for unveiling my Master's mask.
God was getting down with His group today.
One flying in from Ireland, or so the Irish say.
He hung with His homies
while the band broke sound.
Then He tossed what words were lost
into a lost and found,
while one little punk into funk stuck around.
The Lord ordered His lady
To go back into seclusion.
Then He killed a little keyboard
while the world went into confusion.
Had a bad ass bass player
and his B-flat brother
steal the show, don't you know,
shining brighter than noneother.
Wishing to sing, the Lord's playmate pleaded.
So they rearranged the record
to see what the woman needed.
might be right for the night
but bad for barritones.
In the end God's friends
went with auto-tune.
He kept His head-phones off
while they rocked the room.
Witty words always win out over love affairs.
more than lyrical prayers.
You cannot make music
if the Maestro's getting it on.
Can't hear the Holy Ghost
until souls settle down at dawn.
You'd think it wouldn't matter,
but then you'd be awfully wrong.
Fighting for a figurehead
in frustrating fashion.
Promises made in the height of passion.
He is always on top, never making a mistake.
Hardly can afford to
for theology's sake.
He's boarding at Boardwalk
always passing Go.
His Monopoly pieces
tossed around like dough.
Her train's on time, her schedule kept.
Luggage over limit
that's when she wept.
Pity's pretty powerful,
makes a person pray
that the Lord will be onboard
with a ticket some day.
Sunshine smiling as the skies open up.
Now some aiming at complaining
that the heat's too much.
Conductor wants to chill
with the gal in coach,
but isn't proficient in the art of his approach.
Baggage in the overhead.
Luggage on the floor.
Suitcases stacked on the shelves
by the door.
Five hour ride she is killing with her smile,
while the vet in the sleeper car
dealing with denial.
She said she didn't want to be
back in Washington, D.C.
Not a place for royalty
just crazy people want to see.
So she gets off at hipster heaven,
and its almost eleven.
But the Lord is in the lobby,
much to her surprise
and she would have walked right past Him
if He hadn't opened her eyes.
"Where you been?" He asks,
although He already knows.
It's written on her face and
is hanging on her clothes.
"Been waiting for you," she teases
like a highwire rope.
And He undone, by this one,
takes her hand in hope.
"Yes," is all she said
and she can feel His rapid pace.
Where they are bound, not underground,
is a higher place.
No money, no ticket, no boarding pass.
Yet where they are going,
they'll be going first-class.
This train is running on a one-way track.
Once you're on board,
there is no turning back.
Courtyard statue covered in vine.
A quiet place for a meeting of mind.
A bench of cement beckoned to rest.
But one can't in a rant
as you probably guessed.
She wanted to pray there,
she wanted to stay there.
But the commission for this mission
had sadly gone into remission.
The face of the statute had little to say.
Clay pigeon in His hand now chipped away.
At the base was a fish pond
filled with colorful koi.
An inscription that read
"Find Jesus" and "Joy."
Then just when she thought
her irreverence would pass,
gardeners started lawnmowers
cutting the grass.
Closing her Bible, she tore off the tassle.
Though not her intention,
it just seemed a hassle.
To find where she'd left off
or to place the mark there.
Or to start a new chapter
once the noise cleared the air.
Then the sun cast a shadow
across the stone face.
Jesus statue stood bold and in place
with confidence and immeasurable grace.
The college watchtower started to chime.
Her heart, though so weary,
knew at last it was time.
Double-checking her roster
and the registrar's call.
She knew well there was one class
being cancelled for Fall.
Though she hoped it would happen,
private study in the cellar.
The prof had gone off
and his standby not stellar.
So she took her sabbatical
under the protection,
of the statute of Jesus
and His loving affection.
He may seem indifferent
to the changing of seasons,
but His silence spoke volumes
and He did have His reasons.
Another brother in a cage.
Talking trash, all the rage.
Taking center stage on
a poor poet's page.
Glass wall all around, wires hanging down.
Blackboard bold, room redundant and cold.
Cue the King coming in stage right.
Has a lot on His mind,
but safely out of sight.
The lights are too dim,
but the joke's on Him.
The switchboard is stuck.
Now He's out of luck.
Pushing past the periscope boom.
Watching Him storm out of the room.
Later at the bar, gone too far.
Way across town, but there's drinks all around.
Food pretty good, though in irony.
A clue can be found in His diary.
Guest on His iphone booked for weeks.
Getting stood-up while His soul still seeks.
Someone better tell Him that's not where it's at.
Neither is it at where that dude just sat.
"Piss me off some more, you bore."
Lashing out at a lady
at the bar's back door.
King's watch shows midnight.
Someone's wife is saying one.
And some guys eating fries
on a vegan food-truck run.
But they only come around when
the King is done.
Lord knows there's someplace better to see.
Not with you and not even with me.
A higher place of honesty,
where angels bow down and bend a knee,
who would recognize His Majesty.
No cages there; don't need to be.
It's a place you can't imagine
which none understands or knows.
One's appearance doesn't matter and
where character grows.
It's agreed every need is immediately met.
Where love and worship are pre-set
without request, without regret.
But for now, His Royal Highness
must leave His throne
to find His friends
and fiddle with His phone.
No rest for righteous royalty
when the world's in a panic.
He takes it as it comes
and it comes mostly manic.
Clouds roll in, my soul rings out.
God in charge, I have no doubt.
A preacher's teaching preordained,
my broken heart the day it rained.
Drag on those distant soliloquies,
whose hesitance in residence
among the trees.
Words drip a liquid reticence
from falling leaves.
While all the while,
this faithful falling to her knees.
A final song rings out
a kind of concert curse,
Remembering one poet's prayer,
it could be worse.
The storm intensifies,
the crowd decides to leave.
Retaining in their hearts
a truth they all believe.
But one alone waits to the end.
Hoping they might meet again.
She pulls her poncho round her tight.
Wet blanket on the ground at night.
Folding chair now set aside.
Beneath a blue umbrella wide,
God now decides, His love to hide.
"Comfort me," He now commands.
A kind of laying on of hands.
The sky electrifies with light,
illuminating brilliance bright.
Beneath the stars, the woman weeps.
The secret hard she holds and keeps.
A silent, sacrament for two,
which no one else can see or do.
The Lord is mighty, who can say
what is or not? whose soul to slay?
A love aligned with His own mind
unties the knot and makes a way.
But this thing sure, as anyone can clearly see.
Some things belong to only God and only He.
Charity cause, yard sale sign.
Stacks of tables misaligned.
A music box buried deep.
Piles of puzzles underneath.
I pick it up and lift the top.
It plays in key, but it starts to stop.
In subtle chimes, the song is sweet,
but crazy, comic and incomplete.
I hesitate, the price too high.
Now getting looks from passersby.
This bargain belongs back on the shelf.
Not meant to be, I tell myself.
But the song's so endearing
and the melody mine,
why should I compromise
on this one of a kind?
I wind up the key
as it moves off its base
with glee apparently
passing over my face.
It's now noisy and nonstop
and nonsense and fun.
The music blasts on while I decide
quick to run.
But I sneak back on Tuesday
to retrieve the lost treasure.
notes played out in full measure.
The music box now
on my nightstand at last.
The chimes keeping time
to a melody past.
Close to my bed
with the joke in my head.
So, a moment of prayer
and the Lord speaks aloud.
Weighing in like my sin
round a gathering crowd.
"You can't be too careful."
"You can't be too proud."
Forest garden, sweet retreat.
Not so much across the street.
Scaffolding and scattered crowds,
boisterous and becoming loud.
Bold bright faces on the marquee
A class composer, a poet most kind,
a preacher who reaches
right into one's mind.
The Lord's Holy Spirit lingers above,
like a friend most unfathomable
providing the love.
The band members are tuning
while the crews clear the stage.
Someone's left an umbrella
and a newspaper page.
The third oboe's been cut
in a final revision,
which has caused quite a stir
and orchestral division.
A change now arranged
for the musician's transition.
But God smiles on the performers
as the Diviner of Days.
The Lord knows how it goes on the road
of right ways.
Each note must be perfect,
every instrument tuned.
Having one chair too many,
can mean the symphony ruined.
Not every musician is needed today.
But tomorrow the oboe might just get to play.
Placing petulant people, a most difficult task.
But then again, depending when
and upon whom you might ask.
Steamer trunk, locked inside
envy, anger and jealous pride.
Destination yet unknown,
but for certain someone's own.
Stuck on labels, lock and key,
picture perfect destiny.
Passion, peace, adventure, fame,
out of reach and free of shame.
Purchased ticket, ransomed ride,
but God has yet to come alongside.
Ship pulls in, seven stories high,
chains overboard, as I wonder why.
Blast of horn, feeling reborn.
Fulfillment of hope, dropping anchor and rope.
I check my watch, luggage on a trolley.
Doubting myself and this foolish folly.
I stomp my foot; His promise made!
Trip planned in fact last Labor Day.
Where is my confidant and King?
Was there something I should bring?
God's high on a hilltop, looking around.
Finding a stairway from which to come down.
Face fierce with frustration,
His sigh bends the skies,
Fire and ice pouring out of His eyes.
Pier full of people He can't recognize,
The cheater repeaters and folks who tell lies.
But at last He has seen me
standing out on the deck.
Looking lost and alone
a scarlet scarf round my neck.
And He sneaks up behind me
and pulls me in tight.
My shock and amusement,
His favorite delight.
Though long overdue,
we seem to forget.
Love's made stronger taking longer,
when there's no room for regret.
The ship can set sail now.
We cast off in a breeze.
His demeanor now making me
weak in the knees.
And all is in order,
as everyone sees.
Infatuation, faith divine,
a tiny tethered space in time.
When my passion is to pause and pray
my soul is suddenly swept away
by acolytes of Christ my King,
who truly rules over everything.
I fight to focus, but it's hard to do,
when my mind and heart gets spent on You.
No matter the message or passage or prayer.
You are right at my ear
whispering "Come here, my dear."
So I lay down devotions and set aside psalms
while your transient touch carresses and calms.
My spirit is willing, it's my flesh testifies
for one look in Your eyes
and my soul starts to rise.
We are headed to Heaven.
You are clearly the way.
In the palm of Your hand
there's simply nothing to say.
It is all about You now,
every chapter and verse.
We go deeper and darker
with every blessing and curse.
It's a place that St Paul went.
He said so himself.
But to speak of such splendor
is forbidden wealth.
So we ride in the realm
of Your glory and grace.
Til I feel Your form fading and
great joy on Your face.
A chapel could not Your presence contain.
A celestial sermon called out in Your name.
But an hour in hiding, providing
pleasure and pain
gives a kind of connection where
A Christian communion
which You and I claim.
When the world is at rest,
the Lord Jesus takes leisure.
No matter our worry
we must pause for His pleasure.
He takes of our talents to task
or to treasure,
but if God calls you out,
be there now, not whenever.
There are days to be sure
when God seems far from flock.
But I assure you, dear believer
God is there, round the clock.
The Lord listens and ponders
our pitiful pains,
then goes off to His chambers
while it thunders and rains.
But a rainbow He sets
in a sorrowful sky.
Because God sees our hearts,
and our souls and our minds.
Sending angels for our anguish
bringing help of all kinds.
Sometimes we're admonished
Most often God aids.
Indirectly, but correctly and
with forethought well played.
Knowing full well His promise
that our sin-debt's been paid.
So when God seems so distant
or asleep at Heaven's helm,
Rest assured, you'll be cured
when His thoughts leave the Realm.
In the blink if an eye
God's word will overwhelm.
Outside a mission, iron gates are locked.
Damn train delayed past 5 o'clock.
Brown paper bag holding all I own,
now torn in half; no food, no phone.
A bearded bum sits on the ground.
He asks if I am new in town.
Dark fear sets in as the sun sets fast.
I turn and run from visions past.
Dear God, I pray, where are you please.
Don't make me fall down on my knees.
They stole my stuff, they stole my home.
Why would you leave me all alone?
How did I even get so lost?
Who can I call at such a cost?
You are my only help and hope,
life being such a slippery slope.
Then from my heart a voice so clear.
God spoke directly in my ear.
"An ounce of prevention, a pound of cure.
But, your sins are forgiven, your soul made pure.
A place, be safe, now go in peace.
I'll stay with you, love, I hold the keys."
"The night is long, but the sun will rise.
In time, this too, will make you wise,
and open even blind mens' eyes
to the mercies of God. Be not surprised."
Starry night, adrift at sea.
We are sailing out of Galilee.
Below the deck on starboard side,
alone with Yeshua at evening tide.
The cabin still and smelling of salt.
It's cool and damp and we are free to a fault.
We lie together peering out
a porthole window as we cruise about.
On a barrel neaby rests wine and cheese.
His cup turned over; He is looking pleased.
But a storm erupts - wild thunder collides.
He grasps the sides of the berth astride.
"Be stll," He commands, "I Am Inside."
His look, that look, most intensified.
The ship so silent the wood beams creak.
I wait for His words, but He does not speak.
He cups His palm around my cheek.
"Beloved," He grins,
"I will walk on water to
be back next week."
King David Street, the new hotel.
50th birthday of Israel.
Holy, blameless and above reproach.
Cinderella arrives with her coach.
End of pool, no one in sight.
God takes my hand as we swim into the night.
Fireworks; the Prime Minister speaks!
Room service late, but on the Sabbath He sleeps.
A day to remember, a vow to someday renew.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem with no one but You.
Cinda Smaagaard is a published author living in Eugene, Oregon.
In 2000 she wrote "A Logical Approach to God" a collection of faith and reason essays while a graduate student at Gonzaga University published by Vantage Press. She is currently working on a series of poems entitled "Cinda's Psalms." @2015 Cinda Smaagaard All Rights Reserved. No reprints without permission.
These are words of fiction and products of my imagination. Any resemblance to persons, places or incidences are coincidental and outside the intent of myself or my publishers.
Twitter: cinderella @smaagaard_cinda