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R Gordon Zyne Poem
Truth cuts deeper
than the surgeon’s blade—
no clean incision,
no practiced hand stitching the wound shut.
Instead, it comes jagged,
its edge raw and rusted,
ripping through sinew and marrow,
leaving us undone,
exposed,
bleeding in the silence
of what we thought we knew.
It does not ask permission.
It does not wait for us to be ready.
Truth falls, sudden and relentless,
like a guillotine at dawn,
its shadow looming
long before the strike.
And when it lands,
what remains?
Fragments.
A hand groping for what isn’t there.
A face fractured
in shards of broken glass.
The sound of a name
we cannot speak without trembling.
The wound truth leaves
does not heal,
not in the way we hope.
It marks us, alters us.
Scar tissue forms,
thick and unyielding,
mapping what was lost,
what was torn away,
and what we still carry.
Truth does not soothe.
It offers no comfort.
It stands,
stark and unrelenting,
pressing its weight
into the hollow spaces
where lies once lived.
And yet—
within the ache of its clarity,
something begins.
Slowly. Painfully.
We rise,
not unbroken,
but whole in a way
we hadn’t known before.
Not untouched,
but real.
Copyright © R Gordon Zyne | Year Posted 2024
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Details |
R Gordon Zyne Poem
We meet as strangers,
eyes brushing past like wind on stone.
Your name, a sound I barely hold;
mine, a word already fading.
We nod, we pass,
two islands adrift,
separated by the waters we cannot see.
But beneath the surface,
where the roots of being entwine,
I hear your mother’s laughter,
your father’s sigh.
The echo of ancestors hums in your blood—
their stories written in the dark rivers
of your veins.
And mine hum with the same rhythm.
What lives in you is not yours alone.
The old songs of earth,
the murmur of forgotten prayers,
the collective pulse of life—
they rise and fall in us,
woven into the fabric we did not weave
but wear all the same.
Here, the silence speaks.
We are not alone.
The distance dissolves,
and the sacred thread of living substance
binds us.
Your breath touches mine,
and I know—
we belong to a wholeness
too vast to name.
In the meeting of depths,
God moves unseen,
pulling us toward one another
and into Himself.
What seemed ordinary
becomes holy ground,
a communion of lives
woven into eternity.
"The Spirit Himself testifies with our spirit that we are God's children."—Romans 8:16
Copyright © R Gordon Zyne | Year Posted 2024
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Details |
R Gordon Zyne Poem
We cling to painted faces,
golden frames hung in dusty cathedrals,
as though divinity could be held
in the corners of our vision.
But He is not there—
not in the picture books,
not in the quiet safety
of our small, wooden prayers.
.
The Christ we often hold tight
is smooth, unbroken.
An icon we polish,
a memory we tame.
But the nails still pierce—
and His body bleeds still,
splinters of the cross
wedged deep into the world.
.
Throw away this fragile Jesus,
the one who fits neatly
into your Sunday thoughts.
Burn the paper versions
where the flesh is missing,
where the Spirit is caged.
.
Let Him rise instead,
raw and alive,
both flame and ash,
both wound and healer.
.
He is the hand that breaks bread
and the hand that shatters the table.
The eternal whisper
and the shout that splits mountains.
The Christ who weeps in alleys
and dances in burning fields.
Do you dare to see Him there?
.
This is the God who breathes fire
and water,
who is both lamb and lion,
both silence and song.
To worship Him is not to hold,
but to be held,
to break your grip
and let His blood
run into your veins.
.
Throw away the idols.
Let the living Christ come—
not soft, but real.
Not still, but moving.
Not distant, but here,
flesh and Spirit,
touching the ground
we fall upon.
.
"He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation."—Colossians 1:15
© R Gordon Zyne
Copyright © R Gordon Zyne | Year Posted 2024
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Details |
R Gordon Zyne Poem
God isn’t in the clouds.
He’s in the sweat of two bodies
colliding in the night,
in the trembling hands of a man
offering his last dollar
to the homeless kid outside the bar.
God’s not a cosmic puppeteer,
no king in the sky.
He’s just love—
raw, unfiltered, human,
and utterly reckless.
Jesus didn’t sit in stained glass.
He kicked over tables,
shook the dust from his feet,
and called out the fat cats
feeding on the backs of the poor.
His compassion wasn’t soft;
it had fists, it had fire.
It burned through the lies
of every system
that sold power dressed as peace.
The kingdom of God?
It’s a conspiracy of love,
a street-level revolt
against every machine
that grinds men into dust
and calls it profit.
It’s not golden gates.
It’s soup kitchens,
it’s protest lines,
it’s the woman handing out sandwiches
to workers on strike.
The Way of Jesus?
It’s no quiet stroll;
it’s the blistered feet of a man
marching away from the seduction of
empire, away from the easy lies
of Sunday sermons
that sell comfort instead of justice.
It’s blood under your fingernails
from clawing at the chains
wrapped around your neighbor’s neck.
The Cross?
That’s no symbol of glory.
It’s an execution,
a warning shot from the empire
to anyone who dares to say no.
But Jesus carried it anyway,
walked straight into the teeth of the machine,
and told it to choke on him.
And the Resurrection?
It’s not some magic trick,
not some Divine applause line.
It’s the voice of a stranger
saying your name
when you thought no one was looking.
It’s the hand of a nurse
lifting you from your knees
when you swore you couldn’t go on.
This whole thing—
it’s not about waiting for heaven.
It’s about making it here.
Now!
Go! Follow Him!
"Then Jesus told his disciples, 'If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.'" — Matthew 16:24
© R Gordon Zyne
Copyright © R Gordon Zyne | Year Posted 2024
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