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Transitions.
Sun to stars.
Day to night.
Waking to sleeping.
Lunch to dinner.
Tadpole to frog.
Kindergarten to first grade.
High school to college.
College to graduation.
Graduating to a future
that's got the fingerprints of God all over it.
Yet sometimes, I see my fingerprints mixed in with his, too.
There are stages of my life
where I see more of his love than mine,
and more of his breath than mine.
Then, there are those times
that are far and few in between
where I see a mixture and cannot tell
if they are mine
or his.
This is the place I find myself in now.
A place of transition to myself and God,
to the "we" in a team of partners,
to the hands that are held together by the bonds from birth.
to the pair of footprints that are marked in the sand.
In the seasons, he is always there.
When I imitate the disciples lack of trust
in my storms raging on the seas,
he is there.
When I doubt or question,
he is there.
When I ask, "what next?"
he is there.
When I say I won't betray you
and do,
he is there.
I walk on a dark and uncertain path
and you light the way for me.
I cry bucketfuls of pain for a world so broken and
you weep alongside me.
With a touch of a finger,
you move the hair out my eyes and
gently caress my face.
You beckon me to stretch me out my hand to you,
and I obey.
You place a ring on my finger, give me a robe, and sandals for my feet.
I look up into your eyes
and realize
I am home.

(copyright by alex puleo 10.29.11)

Prodigal Promises

Come.
Watch.
Hear.
Listen.
His glorious favor spreads rainbows of promises
across the brazen sky;
a sky that quenches with thirst,
of brokenness and shattered lives.
Gray clouds stretch and loom overhead.
Suddenly,
the tears dry up,
the desert becomes fertile and fruitful,
and birds sing in octaves unknown to human ears.
Babes speak as water springs forth from a once barren land.
Neighbors understand each other
and speak the common language of love.
The mender takes a needle and sews the hearts
of the lost back together.
The guy and girl find their hope in Him;
they are betrothed to their Maker,
their Creator,
for eternity.
A love so tender,
so compassionate,
is His devotion to us.
I am His and He is mine.
The ring has been purchased.
The wedding has begun.
Red wine fills clear glasses,
as the host calls for a toast.
Let's feast!


(Copyright - Alex Puleo 10.4.11. This poem I wrote found it's inspiration in two places: The Prodigal God, by Tim Keller, and Psalm 66: 5 & 16: "Come and see what God has done, how awesome his works in man's behalf. . . Come and listen, all you who fear God; let me tell you what he has done for me.")

rain

Lately, I have been learning how to risk.
How to risk it all without losing it all.
How to risk just enough without losing out.
How to risk a healthy balance and still receive the thrill of risk taking.
But, as I sit back and wonder if I have really experienced risk at all -
the answer is
no.
not until I have sacrificed my personal needs and desires and wants and aspirations in life
in exchange for the
personal needs and desires and wants and aspirations that God has for my life.
and so, i kneel down at my bedside, hands clasped prayerfully as a good religious child would do
and ask God
to take it all.
my selfishness, my hurts, my anger, my resentment towards other people.
and instead, fill my body with the living water that I thirst for everyday.
for material things will not suffice, plants that will wither when the first rain comes will never stay when a real problem arises.
only his friendship and his love will truly last
forever.
and the ring that he puts on my finger will always be shining in his sunlight
as a gentle reminder of his passionate and unfailing love towards
me.

Copyright -
Alex Puleo
September 7, 2010

swing girl

an empty swing hangs between two worn metal bars.
the wind is the only evidence that memories still remain.
eagerly, the girl climbs onto the black seat waiting for her father's protective hands to give her a firm push into the land of the unknown.
time transforms the child into a teenager
who no longer wants her father to push her
but would rather use her mud-streaked white sneakers to push herself.
observing this gift of independence, her father silently sits on the park bench to watch this youthful girl with long blonde hair pumping her feet into a big world.
graduations, marriages and children skip into and out of this woman's life.
this lonely swing still hangs motionless
waiting for his friend.
the swing that brought her joy and freedom as a child.
the metal rings feel cold on her wrinkled hands.
she swings back and forth with more effort though
that spirit for life still pumps blood to her heart.
she longs for someone to push her.
yet, when she looks behind her,
she sees only a shadow of man who once was.

(*an original poem written by alex)

iris

a color that does not fade when the sun goes to sleep,
a color that remains for the whole world to see.

a color that confidently stands in the gray rainstorms

true to itself and to the one who created it.

a color that does not wonder "why" but rather "what is?"

a color that accepts differences and sows seeds of radical love.

a color who looks in the eyes of a friend, stranger or a child and

sees herself.

a color whose heart is burdened for the homeless and the poverty in our state, country and world.

a color who desperately longs to see our government wipe the tears of the oppressed away by passing the bill of "Love."

a color who stands out in the rain,

sponge soaked and wet with remorse for the hatred that has been done to her.

a color that looks the hurt in the eye and says:

"I forgive."

because sometimes, life is not always black and white.

sometimes, a little color is thrown in to the mix.

* a poem written by alex. (14 May 2010)

Love Letter

Standing outside in a white summer dress
with the warm sunshine radiating upon my pale back,
I look up at the blue sky mixed with the shapely white clouds,
while my toes make grand introductions to the rough granules of sand.

My footprints create a still life portrait of a girl who once was
of feet that once were, before the water washed her life away.

She finds herself in pursuit of a man,
a man who she assumes to be her father.

For every one of her strides, he takes two.
Always a step ahead of her, she is often consumed by the song of the wind.
His whisper is faint and his words, powerful.

His love letters are always S.W.A.K.
He paints the morning
and pulls the curtains at nighttime.
He gives life to the dying
and to the living, new perspectives.
He sends a message via prayer and a hug in the arms of a friend.
His embrace is found sitting on the grass,
listening to a world pass by
and yet involved with it all.

He always has the right words to say.
They are not coated with clutter
but loaded with substance.
Only a few words make her heart skip a beat;
make that Love Letter all the more personal:

"I love you."

(a poem written by Alex)

Let Go

i'm being taken into the unknown and
learning the meaning of trust,
how to trust
and when to let go of the balloon.
does the scary outweigh the exciting
or
does the exciting outweigh the scary
or both?
my friends in high school used to jokingly say the phrase:
"Trust is the key."
can the unknown be familiar?
can the unknown be attractive?
can the unknown be beautiful?
can a friendship that's lasted so long seem like its only beginning?
is there a time where you can fully know a person?
is there a time where you can fully know God?
i say nay to the latter, for if I try to define God in exquisite words and wrap my mind around his infinite beauty then I am only creating a picture of a 'god' that I wish to see.
i need to worship God for who he is; that is,
the creator of all things,
the sky, the daffodils, the lillies, the grazing cows, and the crying baby.
the God who makes sadness beauty and who gives breath to a dying human neighbor.
a God who is not limitless but reaches his arms out to sew the barriers between race, culture and class.
i worship a God who is greater than myself.
i trust when I feel uncertain.
i believe when I am unbelieving.
i hope when situations are hopeless.
i love when i feel unloving.
i trust in knowing that God has me exactly where I am meant to be.

Amen.

(a poem and prayer written by alex)
(to see this image its original context, click reading.

memories

the twinkle in his eyes is still there.
the young, youthful look still apparent as happiness quietly pulls back the curtains of his aged mouth to reveal a smile.
his booming voice resonates within me;
someday my children will hear tales of "the great storyteller".
his caring nature exceeds beyond money
mixing love and hope in a bouquet of flowers.
as he gets dressed in his Sunday best,
that is, his naval suit, he is accompanied by a stunning woman,
whose beauty surpasses appearance, pumping life deep inside her heart.
she fixes his tie with purpose and adjusts his cap with a loving touch
helping him look ever more perfect as the minutes go by.
as time goes by, they silently find themselves sitting side by side on the old blue linen couch,
recalling the memories of years past
of that day when they wed,
him in his navy suit and her in a pressed brown suit
each complimenting the rest,
showing love for each other
caring for their children
smiling and laughing as on the day they first met.
so, even though times change and people mature,
their love never dies
a beautiful embrace wrapped in passion.

(written by alex)

breeze

smile.
turn your face to the wind.
let the breeze caress your cheeks.
may it paint a portrait of my soul.
clean the brushes, scrape the palette clean.
the painter will replace the old, dried, and unused.
new colors will emerge;
perhaps a bold magenta or a quiet green seaweed who's only evidence of interaction wraps between my toes.
lean over the cup of water.
a pair of eyes greets me
as a pale forehead wrinkles into perspective.
they say "eyes are the windows to the soul".

my painter.
where art thou?

i look in the cup and you are not there.
i look in the comfort and you are not there.
i search and climb, pull and push.
i turn my head and find you sitting there with me.
sitting in the simple.
listening in the noisy.
loving in the turmoil.
you are there.
continue to let the breeze pursue
and
love
me.

(alex wrote this poem.)