Posts by John Blase

Some nights all I need is the neighbor’s porchlight to dance through nervous aspen leaves. Seeing this morse code causes me to fall asleep with hope as the last thing on my mind. Thinking that jim-dandy word causes me to dream of my children’s future, and of my place in it.  

He told her she was so lovely. No sooner had this honesty left his lips than a mob gathered grabbing hammers and nails to crucify.      Tell her she’s smart.      Tell her she’s strong.      Tell her she’s brave.      Tell her anything but she’s lovely.   He outran them, this time, and found…

There is no way to plan for it. It comes suddenly, THAT MOMENT. And you are then rendered fragile. The surprise is much like a man   cutting himself after years of perfect shaves. I mean, what man plans to do that? Exactly. But suddenly the taste of mortality runs red down his   neck…

Look at your hands. What do you see? Make something from that.   Those were the simple instructions. So I followed: two dried pinpricks of  blood from hangnails I worried, dog hair, a scab that’s taking its own sweet time healing, the gold band from my sweetest friend, and blue rivers of vein that render…

Some angels are very necessary. They keep you alive long enough to tell yourself the truth. Then you can decide to shed your unshed tears, or not. To live then one-eyed, so to speak, or not. Should you choose the tears you won’t be alone. The very necessary angels will tarry and minister to you…

Struggling toward ambiguous ends, our lives plaided with exposure then sanctuary (the pattern of survival) we script hoity vision statements that  toity company walls but have no desire on their bones so we stay starved searching half-awkward half-willing tentative to simply come out and say what it is we all want: a people, a place,…

Are you ever afraid of dying? I’m not talking about the dying that will deposit you directly into the Lord’s presence (as some hold). But the dying that will tear you from the fabric of here, here where you’ve seen wonders. I don’t believe I’ve ever told you I fear that second kind of dying.…

Our Sunday hope is you never slunk back like a dog to its vomit, no turning back, no turning back. But you did, didn’t you, after your miracle aged?   You slipped away as the city snored to the garden of tombs you could navigate blindfolded. Maybe you even stripped down    naked as you…