This Groggy Heart

This Groggy Heart

(“If you feel you must brag, then have enough sense to brag about worshiping me, the Lord. What I like best is showing kindness, justice, and mercy to everyone on earth.” Jeremiah 9:24)

You stayed long after every thought had its day.
You were the heaviness of contemplation and the
lightness of hilarity when morning came.
My mind is still stuffed with worries,
my brain with the unease that comes from
dreams filled with inadequacy. I need
you
closer than ever and every moment
when my thoughts stray like neighborhood dogs
on the prowl. I need the kindness that meets me
in the middle of my dirge. I need the laughter that lasts
well beyond the afternoon.

The earth feels old today, long in the tooth and
bearded in gray. It was younger when I walked to
the corner bowling alley and played pinball most
of the afternoon. I thought summer was the
best playground and would never end.
The earth feels stale today, I hate to say it.
For I know it is full of verdant discoveries and
colors of autumn as the leaves depart for the winter.

While I clean out the cobweb thoughts, you remain,
just the same,
and bid me mirror your love at the speed of light.
Can I, quietly and quickly, silence the report of gunfire
and let the drops of rain coax life from this
groggy heart of mine?

Soundproof Panels

Soundproof Panels

(“To whom can I speak and give warning? Who will listen to me? Their ears are closed so they cannot hear. The word of the Lord is offensive to them; they find no pleasure in it.” Jeremiah 6:10)

I know you gave yourself over to ghosts
many years ago. Finally, most of them escaped outside,
but a few remained within. They filled your ears with
consequential thievery. They blocked them from any
scenery that might change your mind and make you ache
for better paragraphs to enter your head.

And why did you swallow those stones that stopped halfway
down your digestive tract to take the place of you heart?
When did you decide to replace your eyes with gray and black
kaleidoscopes.?

You used to sing “Be Thou My Vision” from memory:

    Riches I heed not, nor vain, empty praise.
    Thou mine inheritance, now and always;
    Thou and Thou only first in my heart.
    High King of heaven, my treasure Thou art.

But today you sing a different tune so out of key, so under
spooned. You’ve kept up the masquerade so well that
people still throng to hear your catchphrase wisdom. No one
leaves
without dropping a ten on the box at the front of your door.

What can god say that would turn you round. What could
any of us do to open the blockage of your ears? When did it
seem so right to declare God as “only first in my heart”
while you deny the very song that sets free.

I remember your eyes, ages ago, bright with pleasure at the
thought that god was at work in the world. Now he recruits
you and all is stone and soundproof panels shut up against the
chambers of your heart.

The Visitor

The Visitor

(“Be devoted to each other with mutual affection. Excel at showing respect for each other.” Romans 12:20)

I like the way you glided in under the radar.
You came in peace.
I came outside.
I was grumpy.
You were friendly.

You looked for answers and accepted my
question marks.
All they wanted were receipts to prove my
intentions.
My lethargy was the power of inertia
that held me in pieces on the floor.

My wings were weary; I had flown well
into the night.
I put that candle in the window hoping
that you would see
the fainting flame that called for something
deeper than miserly friendship.

You asked no questions,
you waited for me to talk.
I had run on sentences and nothing really to say.

Did you bring anyone with you or did you
travel alone?
I have been a solitary one ever since
I shared my opinion
once over the limit.

Did you come because the wick was fading;
did you bring a notebook to take notes like a
beat cop might do?
But I see your hands are empty and there is
soup on the stove. Can I serve us a little bowl even
though conversation is limited to weather and sweaters
I haven’t worn in a year?

But you made the effort so perhaps I should offer
something more than broth in a spoon. If you want the
truth,
you’ll need to stay awhile. I’ve uncovered
passages below myself I never knew existed.
I am not the same man you knew
55 years ago.

Caution’s Tale

Caution’s Tale

(“I remember the loyalty of your youth, your love as a bride—how you followed me in the wilderness, in a land not sown.” Jeremiah 2:2b)

I’ve become more cautious, no longer the giddy bride
that was always up for a day in the sun. Today all I can say
is that I’ve hidden myself behind the clouds. But even overcast
I think
you can find my shadows on the ground.
Or did you trace my calls to discover
my secret abode?

I followed through barren and bountiful times.
I assumed I was still lovely, still attracting the
best vows like the ones at first. My confusion came
when other loves of yours started searching for
every member of the family who had ever dropped
off, slowing their stride and veering into unknown pastures.

I could list my reasons for making a cave out of this haze.
I could tell you everything you already know and I still would
not be certain you had heard. Love was all around me to start,
until I slipped twice and more and the only ones knocking on
my door were the ones who picked up the stones I had
dropped along the way.

So, take a picture of me up here behind the clouds;
focus your camera on so much social anxiety that I would
prefer to be hidden this close to the sun.
There was a day I would have taken a chance and called out
the name of someone walking on asphalt below me. Today I
put on my shades and look the other way.

Do you still think of me the same way even though I’ve
hidden myself so far away? Do you want me to empty
myself of every discolored quotation that was served at
my table? I know you allow my doubts, but will you allow
me without the risks I leaped over to prove my worth?

I can’t promise anything and I may still take cover behind
the cumulus and under the sun. I’ll keep my eyes open, though,
and my mind still speaking caution’s tale.

Leaning Off Kilter

Leaning Off Kilter

(“The Lord God has put his Spirit in me, because the Lord has appointed me to tell the good news to the poor.” Isaiah 61:1a)

I was leaning slightly off kilter. The day
started this way.
Cautious and crackling, my morning
dragged on. I heard the words.
I woke to them circling consciously
salting my soul. They floated from the
ancient prophet. They landed in the lap
of peasants and kings. They were the onramp
to the freedom highway. They were at the end
of the map I seldom saw.

I was feeling like some foul weather. The day
continued that way.
But the words propelled me. Sitting still I
nearly flew. I imagined the power that good
stories can bring. Maybe the words would
chase away the fright of midafternoon.
And maybe the evening would arrive richer.
Maybe the pennies I saved could mark the spot
where I heard words first. Maybe the story
would woo me to sleep. Maybe I will dream
of the next adventure along freedom highway.

The Dot My Pencil Made

The Dot My Pencil Made

(“I live in a high and holy place. But I also live with people who are sad and humble. I give new life to those who are humble. I give new life to those whose hearts are broken.” Isaiah 57:15b)

Do you see the dot my pencil made;
Can you see the spot my tears undried?
I jotted down the training notes that taught
me to curtsy like a little girl in the face of
the divine.

Can I tell you a secret; will you hear the words
I display?
I never shouted as loud as the rest of you; I didn’t
think
god was hard of hearing.

But in private I ached, I bent, I tormented myself
into believing I was as alone as the graphite period
at the end of a meandering sentence. In public I made sure
I stayed on my knees at least as long as the
last one to leave.

My diaphragm jackknifed and my lungs hunted air
that was so spare in my unforgiving sadness. I was
suspect the whole time. Depression recruited me stronger
than the hands laid upon my head. The last time
I asked for prayer to take away my blackness

They decided to cast out demons and left their hands
hanging at their sides.

Do you see the laser on the wall;
Can you see the light so tiny it nearly faded?
I called in my reinforced bunker for the help
I craved. And though my tears continued

Like something that, if it had been you,
we might share a beer over consolation that
god had placed you there.

Until I Reached Home

Until I Reached Home

(“Also the Spirit helps us because we are weak. We do not know how we should talk to God. But the Spirit himself talks to God for us, while we cry and cannot say any words.” Romans 8:26)

I keep my lips ready to voice the mysteries I
cannot
understand.
And so it looks like I am merely whistling as the
world turns
around.
Tears peek out underneath my eyes,
my diaphragm contracts like a cat on the roof.
Words are swallowed up before they ever
meet
the air.
With my mouth wide open I find I have
nothing
to say.
I cannot define the places or the pieces that
I always thought would be easy when the
tragedy
hit.
But words escaped me and God must have been
exasperated with my limited vocabulary. I had
very little left to
express
these
canned prayers I had heard from others so often.

There was a moan that started within me,
from my gut to my throat. It pushed all the
meager
words
out of the way as it escaped through my mouth.
There were tears that carried the entire alphabet
down
to
the bottom of my shirt. There were no more
poses,
no
bowing or standing with arms upraised. In fact,
I was walking when the spirit took
my feeble attempts and presented them to
God,
a bouquet of longing and song of redemption.
I uttered no words but was satisfied until I
reached
home.