Just a Two-Numb-Fingered Musician


At our last C.cada artists gathering the group project was simple poetry. I wrote several poems and here is one from the “I Am Genre”

Just a Two- Numb- Fingered Musician

I am  just a two-numb-fingered musician.

I wonder what I am going to play next.

I hear the sound of shofars.

I see vultures in Har Megiddo.

I want to see the Rider Whose Eyes Blaze Like Fire astride his whitened steed.

I am  just a two-numb-fingered musician.

I pretend to be a superhero.

I feel brave enough to defeat the Dread Dormamu.

I touch the Time Stone.

I worry that I will miss the bigger picture.

I cry when I hear the song, Hiding Place, especially that second verse.

I am just a two-numb-fingered musician.

I understand Jesus is Lord.

I say, “He’s my Savior!”

I dream visions of the future with background music.

I try to worship through them.

I hope my song tells people of the bigger picture.

I am just a two-numb-fingered musician.

Emrys Of the Fields

Image result for emrys and Vortigern

And why must you know from where I come?

Carmuthen, Aelecti or Demetia’s throne?

An incubus’ child or

A son of a desert mother?

And why must you know from where I come?

The walls still fall.

Don’t they still blame the dragons’ work

On the Devil’s child?


And why must you know from where I come?

I am Emrys of the fields.

Ambrosius chained.

Neither madness nor lineage ever speak my choice.


And why must you know from where I come?

 We all see dragons white and red.

We all see the boar from Tintagel arise.

We all  master error.We all choose our God.

Merlin’s Lament

Image result for Merlin and the tree

And in the end what does it matter?

All the mists of Avalon?

All the mysteries covered in wode?

All the shapes I’ve shifted to make the kings come home?


And in the end what does it matter?

I’ve spoken from the shadows.

I’ve answered my fate and said my prayers.

I’ve built this Camelot behind the throne.


And in the end what does it matter?

Has Morganna really gone?

Has Arthur sailed the Way?

Has Nimue ever loved me alone?


And in the end what does it matter?

I’ve still met the eschatos

I’ve become the tree.

I’ve let the magic drain from my bones.

The Thin Box

 A thin box on a pedestal leaning back

In a white room full of empty pregnant things

A white room and everything in it makes

The thin box cast a shadow in the wrong direction.

  It is the impossible shadow that moves against the cast of illumination. It winds away from reason even as it makes its own perfect sense.

It runs away from the thin box, surrounds the thin box and fills it up with nothing.

The upside down shade is stuffed in the thin box by a God who loves a mess and by man who loves to hurry.

The Nature Of Miracles

Cataclysmic shift.

Candidates with no faces wearing “Team Jesus” Tee shirts walk through the waters of baptism.

The crowds cheer.

Coppers click the plate and for a moment all’s right.

One nameless man rises from the water and asks “What do I do now?”

Someone cries.

“Make America great again!”

Turbulence and earthquakes,

Conflagrations in the hills,

Conflation in the aisles,

Hurricanes in the Caribbean,

Black Lives Matter and MeToo.


Jesus walks the narthex to the altar,

All the space between

Is all there really is.

But they won’t tell you that.

They want you to think there’s more.

The nameless man asks “What do I do now?”

Famous lady’s coat reads, “I don’t care do U?”

Coats of many colors lead to Pharaoh’s chambers through the prison yard.

“Break it down” says God.

Saints walk through the waters of baptism wearing tee shirts that read “Team Jesus”.

In the cocoon of first world problems

Among the fallacies of riches

Catching fire is crazy.

Casting nets is calculated risk.

We believe a lie.

Fall directly into God’s hands.

The idol  topples in the puddles of red, white and blue tempura paint.

Yellowstone burbles holocaust.

Wormwood casts through the cosmos making for its mark.

We praise the microchip that posts our position and pays our bills.

Everyone thinks it’s just grand as the temples rise.

The faceless, nameless know the truth.

Cluck the words no one can hear.

The world dances to the tune of “I Feel Fine”.

Inoculated against the unchipped beasts who starve in the gutters,

Losing their heads in the frantic refusal to the gods of empire.

What do I do now?

And isn’t that the nature of miracles after all?


Fire and darkness


Friday Fictioneers: No Room

It is time once again for FRIDAY FICTIONEERS, the challenge where 100 authors write 100 stories of 100 words apiece all about 1 photo.

Here is the week’s photo prompt:

PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier

No Room

by JE Lillie

There are the wise and then there are those who know the future. I know the future. I wish I was wise. Delusion at least comes with a dose of hope.

The future told me there was going to be trouble. I didn’t say anything because the future doesn’t flutter. It sits and waits.

As our boat entered the canal, the captain of the other boat screamed, “Stop you fool! There’s no room!”

Metal grated on metal. Our boat sank.  Three died that day because of the door I had barred when the future told me I should.

Friday Fictioneers: Where Curses Come From


It is time for Friday Fictioneers. The challenge where about 100 authors write 100 stories from one photo prompt using 100 words apiece. Find all the stories HERE.

Here is my bit:

Where Curses Come From

by JE Lillie

The wilderness is a curse.

We grumbled as we left Elim.

God sent the manna and the quail.

We quarreled at Rephidim.

God gave us water from the rock.

We trembled at Mt. Sinai.

God gave us commandments.

We shrank back at Kadesh

God gave us forty years hard time in the wilderness.

We rebelled with Korah

God judged us.

Perhaps it is not the wilderness.


Friday Fictioneers: Not Home Anymore

It is time once again for FRIDAY FICTIONEERS. That is the challenge where about 100 authors use 100 words to tell 100 stories about 1 picture.

This is our picture.

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Here is my story:

Not Home Anymore

by JE Lillie

Johan strode into the white-marbled hall.

A woman in an organza gown lifted her nose in the air. She fanned herself twice and drew the nosegay at her wrist to her face with a disdainful gaze.

Johan thought back to the little farm he had worked with his own hands these last years. The mountain streams he had fished. Lisse, the faithful, common wife he had shared his bed with.

“Johan my son! You have returned!” King Ecthbert called. The old man gathered Johan into his meaty arms as courtiers gasped in dismay.

The palace was not home anymore.



Find the other stories realted to this picture by clicking the underlined link above.

Friday Fictioneers: Digging For Water

I was reading some of the entries for Friday Fictioneers this week as I am often wont to do and then on my way in to work this story came to mind.

photo by Connie Gayer

Unblocking the Wells

by JE Lillie

“Oh Lord my back hurts.”

“You must master your body to make it your slave.”

“But why do I have to do this alone?”

“The harvest is great but the laborers are few.”

“I wish I had never even heard that missionary speak. Whatever possessed me to leave the comfort of my home to come to this God-forsaken place to dig a well?”

“I am here. I sent you, and I tell you anyone who offers one of these little ones a cup of cold water in my name will in no-wise lose their reward.”