Daniel C. Potts - Tumblt Blog

He lay there. In the subway door. A threshold.  A flesh hold.

Doors opening. Closing.

The viewing. The open casket.

We all want that, don’t we?

Want people to say, “Doesn’t she look good?”

“He looks like he’s asleep.”

Our own deaths denied.

He didn’t look asleep. He looked dead. 

Looked like he wanted to be.

Why? Why was he there?

Where were his family, his friends?”

How did it get this bad?

What…

I am here.

Always be sure,

when dark days lighten

with a certain glow you

may have spotted in my eyes

at times, and later looked for in

other faces that you’ve come to know,

I am here.

Always believe,

when on canvases

of winter gray you look

for any splash of color

bleeding through to prove this setting

is life’s rising to eternal day,

I am here.

Always be kind

remembering the

warm embrace of…

(inspired by “Come, Healing Cross” from J.S. Bach’s St. Matthew Passion)

Why me? In all this faceless wall of flesh that marks His march of death why must I bear the load of One condemned to hang upon the Skull?

Why me? Are not my clothes and skin the same as many here who’ve come to view His punishment for blasphemy?

Because I have no choice I shoulder now the splintered weight and focus on the…

Now is the time of opening, of receiving. Now is the time of flowing, of giving. Now is the time of breathing, of being. Now is the time of cleansing, of healing. Now is the time of releasing, of dying. Now is the time of embracing, of living. Now is the time of accepting, of forgiving. Now is the time of waking, of knowing. Now is the time of holding, of loving.

What a gift. He invites me to walk with Him. Not behind. Beside.

Why me? What does He see within my waters? Surely He knows I can’t do it apart from Him. I can’t, and wouldn’t if I could. The Champion gives up His gold to run with me, one who falls back.

I’m close enough to touch His robe. Will He know my touch, that it is mine? Will He feel power moving out of Him to take faith’s feeble hand? Wil…

Hope is a very beautiful thing – resurrected each day through reflecting on blessings received and mercies given, in the Light that is revealed even in times of darkness, in seeing the kindness and goodness God placed at the very heart of creation, and the purposes and promises set in motion at the beginning and continuing to work themselves out in our present reality through the power of Love.…

May we see much remaining where the world says, “all is gone,” beauty in the unaccounted, breath-stopping sunrises in cloudy-eyed mornings, clear young life stretching still down overgrown paths of the old, dancing shoes at rockers’ feet, fresh ink signatures of grace on tear-stained pages of the past, color splashing from wells we thought had gone dry – and know that life’s imparted gift cannot…

Sink me into my soul by the weight of the world holding Heaven’s candle. Down. Down. Down.

Embers of This Eve

The eve of this familiar year now dies,

an ember cradled in our ashen sighs

for fine intentions never followed through:

the resolutions we had made anew

and never truly had the will to do. For calls not made to cherished childhood friends,

and letters we somehow forgot to send

to dear ones whom we knew to need a word

of kindred comfort, which was never heard,

as flickering flames of passing year…

Light came in a dark cloud. Now I’m starting to see.

I can’t explain it.

Words won’t do.

Reading and sharing,

I’ve encountered it before,

never understanding.

The clouds came in –

rumblings and flashes –

storms without and within.

I thought it would be safe here.

People were injured.

I was among them.

Confused, I made wrong turns.

And fell. And cried.

And died. The first time.

Still, I looked up.

Light must make shadows, I thought.

Then there was…

Sitting by the Tree

I remember the longings I’ve had to sit in quiet solitude by the tree in the evenings or early mornings after Christmas and reflect on the past while taking inventory of the present.  It seemed I rarely was able to find the time, and rolled on into the New Year carrying an empty space within me.  Now I know that the longing itself was a Christmas gift, a treasure given by the One who always comes…

The Gift Means More

The Gift means more to me now, since I’ve seen blessed hope’s turned-tail run, faces known full on, now only from the rear, dark Hell holes of not living up, all night vigils of the silent soul’s cry, free fall from what I wanted to be.

The Gift means more to me now because I’m the inn keeper who’s out of room, and finds himself on his knees with the sheep in a Mother’s gaze at a time of star…

Papa’s Christmas apples were polished for you and for me...

I can see my father’s face clearly now, beaming with anticipation and glee as I snatched the stocking from the mantle.  For he knew that nestled in the toe lay the fattest, juiciest, reddest, shiniest Christmas apples to be found.  You see, it wasn’t my obvious delight upon beholding a new bike or GI Joe doll that thrilled Papa most.  Rather, it was the pulling out of the prize apples that gave…

Walking near a shoreline we’ve known in times

when the world craved water more than anything

save for the burning bush of late day light and leaves,

my heart sank deep in a fern-fed inlet

brimming with molecules of darting minnows dancing

in the slowly parting wake of a Wood Duck’s goodbye float.

  To such a setting, shimmering with sun scales

blown and scattered on the mirror of the liquid lake