Author Archives: Brock Stephen Henning

What Zombies Wish They Could Tell You: An Easter Poem

Writing about zombies on Easter Sunday may be sacrilegious, but soul-less, reeking, walking dead things aren’t the point. Soul-hurting, desperate, walking living things are.Continue reading “What Zombies Wish They Could Tell You: An Easter Poem”

Prose by the Gulf

(A poem written from a condo balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico)

Nutty coffee. Blue water gulf.
Salty cool breeze. Sun-warmed skin.
Squinty-eyed bright.
Rolling waves crash.
Up and down in my ears. Up and down.
Aqua-tan sandbars submerged.
Beachcombers on a fifty-five degree day.
Most in sweatshirts. The adventurous
in swimming trunks, shirtless.
Thermal jeans on my legs soaking
solar rays. I feel peace today.
I feel joy right now.
This moment in time, an island all to myself.
Well, God and me.
A brief paradise of the mind.
A retreat in my heart.
Not so much a sabbatical, but for sure
a sanctuary. More than a siesta.
Freedom of soul.
My oldest son sits next to me.
What’s passing through his teenage mind?
I don’t know, but I know it’s good.
His dreams hover above the water
spread before his eyes.

Mountains and oceans have a way of reflecting our dreams.
Timeless. Endless.
They remind us, teach us, to dream bigger and beyond what our minds can see.
We turn to greatness to pursue peace and paradise.
We are turning to God.

“since what may be known about God is plain to them, because God has made it plain to them. For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse.”
— Romans 1:19-20, The Bible

Starry-eyed Dreamers

Like stars on a tree
your mind sparkles
with dots of brilliance
Though darkness and void
far outweigh the specks
of dazzlement
But notice
globes and candy
and toys and tinsel
ornament the void
The void is material,
not empty
Matter exists,
not hopeless
Where there is matter
there is something,
not nothing
Where there is something,
even in empty
there is hope
See through the darkness
Stare into it
What do you see?
A reflection
Your face is beautiful
Wonderful
Your smile is joy,
not waiting,
existing in your heart
It calls to you
Not tomorrow
Today.

Missing the Pointe

My life is fleeting before me, but I pause this morning to capture the beauty and grace before my very eyes, frame by frame, but not mechanical like a movie projector. Flowing.

I watch my 13 year-old daughter wrap the black ribbons around her ankles. Her feet positioned just so as she ties each knot, accepting the worn pointe shoes molding to her gentle feet. Delicate.

I’m fighting back tears, because I cannot count the days—no, the weeks—since I noticed her in this way. Her beauty. Her passion. She is a work of art.

The way she inches her pointed toes, in step, across the floor. What balance she maintains for such a young girl, not quite a young woman. No, she is a young woman. I haven’t accepted this yet. Aching.

But her spins beckon me. I follow, returning to the stage where only our memories can dance. She in my arms, her toddler feet dangling as we twirl across the living room floor. Laughter.

The Final Rumpus

My 15 year-old son shared with me the disheartening news.

“Dad, the author of ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ died today.”

You’re kidding me, I thought.

Maurice Sendak died today (Tuesday, May 8th) at age 83. Read the NY Times article here.

The second blog post I wrote for Lifesummit in 2009 paid a brief tribute to one of my all-time favorite short stories and Sendak’s most famous work, and a bit of—ahem—emotions I bore while watching the movie at a theater with two of my children. You can laugh at me all you want here for the October, 2009, post: “Let the wild rumpus start!” Just a word of caution though—it might awaken your wild side.

Flying Over Christmas Morning

Roads branch
into lanes
bearing fruit
of tiny farms,
a patchwork quilt.
Ten thousand feet.

Angels
blow smoke
over the hills,
settles
in ravines.
Twenty thousand feet.

A thin band
of yellow and red,
smudges
the horizon–
blue above, gray below.
Thirty thousand feet.

Angelic smoke
now covers all,
an untaut blanket
rippled with waves
frozen in time.
Forty thousand feet.

The white carpet
welcomes
His entrance,
too bright
in my window.
And holding.

 

 

Hope Is

My heart had died,
strangled, beaten,
desire eaten by disease;
black and blue, but crimson
seeped out.
Like fallen tinder on trace ember,
His gentle breath—
hushes turned rhythmic glow.
The threads of a cloud,
its weave pulled apart
by the light;
one ray becomes two,
two rays become seven.
Hope is.

Check out other great poems at this week’s One Shot Wednesday (part of One Stop Poetry).

 

Rules Misunderstood – A Haiku & Others

Homeowners Association Gestapo
You can’t park there.
My temples throb. Take a breath.
I can. I live here.

Sunshine Dirt
Through shadowy webs
of branches on earth’s canvas
sunshine on dirt.

Keyboard
Hard, dusty plastic.
White on black staring back at me.
Intimidation.

Today’s poems are also part of the Poetry Potluck Week 14 (at Jingle Poetry).

Tree Wise of Winter

Leaves green in summer
come flutter in fall.
Oak, Cherry once rich
surviving stand tall.

Drab split-hardened skin
scared naked exposed.
Arms reaching to heav’n
dread long dark and cold.

Fearful of winter?
Forgetful of spring?
Hope fades but a wink.
To rebirth you must cling.

Blood pearls on Holly
smooth waxy rich green.
Triumphant sweet Pine!
Faith steadfast wise tree.

Breathe forth sacred snow
north winds from afar.
White satiny sheets
mask ages old scars.

________________________________

I love winter. Overcast days, snowy nights, and a blue sky winter morning wonderland. It’s still autumn of course, but the first snow is arriving late this year to the Front Range foothills of Colorado. We’re expecting it tonight.

I wrote the first version of this poem in 2003; this is the third and final iteration. I know many who loathe winter, and a few who become severely depressed during the long, cold and dark days (a disorder known as SAD – Seasonal Affective Disorder). They are miserable during the winter months. Lonely. Hurting. Sometimes hopeless. All of us, sooner or later, will walk through a season of difficulty, doubt, questions with no answers. A dark chapter we’d like to tear out.

Let nature be a reminder that winter doesn’t last forever–spring always comes. Pine trees are ‘ever’ green and sturdy in the wind, like a sage who welcomes a hard winter after surviving centuries of change. And the Holly. She bursts with contrasting reds and greens, like an excitable child, too young and carefree to let winter erase her color.

If your days are long and dark right now, hang on just a little longer…spring is on its way.

Revelation 21:4-5