Another Color, Another Hue

Another Color, Another Hue

It seems it is time to wander
through the afternoon, looking for love
or something to call mine.
I had settled in for the evening when
the phone buzzed like an area code for
somewhere I had forgotten. I could have taken
things slower if only there were more people
to gather around a central theme.
Morning turned a cold shoulder to me
so I am depending on the afternoon to light
me up like a few friends sipping beers.

The days pass too quietly for me,
the moments full of melancholy that
masquerades as perpetual motion.

It’s true the days get in the way of
lightly wondering where the next smile
will grow. I did not invite this pain;
it shows up voluntarily. Truth is,
I probably could not find an interesting
sentence even surrounded by a handful of
friends.
But I still must fill the afternoon with something.

I turn slowly back to myself when the
loneliness comes like fog hugging the coastal hills.
I could sing you a lifeboat full of courage if
only my voice would not crack like ice, like rain.
Today is dressed up with nowhere to go. It merely
twirls and winds its way until the sun begins to set.
It brings the meandering morning to a close. I will
look for something new, another color,
for coming from so far away.

The Next Person

The Next Person

I pulled it down from off the shelf and
almost had sticker shock.
But I had nothing in my pockets and
had nothing left to lose.
You should have heard the double
dose
I incurred by waiting so long to be
heard. I could have waited till the
stores had all closed to inspect
the empty way they made me feel.
I had enough money to start the day
but unforeseen fortune had scraped it
away.

I knew the pattern that started a half
a century ago. I could feel the peaks
and valleys
laughing at my need for mediocrity.
Could we just agree that the facts
did not add up to our expectations?

I once believed and now I’m agnostic;
I once performed casual exorcisms
in my living room. I first heard someone
calling for Grandfather and corrected their
theology.

Now I shopped for sparklets and hunted the
the aisles for new hues to paint the day.
I might purchase them with credit if I cannot
find a way to earn my keep. I’ll walk the
steep sidewalks like a penitent. I’ll stay
close to the ground.

I put it back on the shelf and left it for
the next person behind me.

Like a Morning Glory

Like a Morning Glory

(for Theo)

You took me on adventures when you were 10.
I carried the backpack; you carried our bed. We plotted our
path to hidden countries in the basement. We got McDonald’s
ice cream and pizza because you did so well on your science exam.

Now you are 18, an adult, a fully formed fascination with life.
You carry the world like an explorer investigating the causes
of sky-birds who flew just above your head.

The earth is yours and all its fullness. The questions wait for
your examination. You carry them like postcards in your pocket.
You have rarely feared their answers; you waited for a solo voice.

I’ve seen you dance so certain that the floorboards captured your feet.
I’ve watched you sketch a friend or a new plant.
I’ve listened to you sing and tuned it like saltwater taffy.

Let the tailwinds send you higher, let the warm sun playfully
extract your laughter. May your curiosity carry you abundantly
into dog-eared chapters you will remember and remember again.

I can’t name them all, but you will, I’m sure. What do you
call that tree with heart-shaped leaves? How many colors are there
for daffodils or tulips? Can I transplant these peonies?

Let the wonder guide you; let it outsize the questions you pose,
the oceans you cross, and the friends who break bread with you.
I know the music will always lie just under the place where

Your heart beats for the friends you’ve made and the new ones
to come. You can change the world; you can spark it with hope.
You can share the taste of the river of life for every parched soul.

Your song continues, the new chorus is being written.
Sing it surely, sing it long. Leaving home you’ll find
the home will always return to you. Take your time.

May God’s hand guide you, may the rains fall warmly on your path.
May the blessings of constant sunlight capture your eyes.
And may this day, so full of promise, open like a morning glory budding.

February to August (a scrap)

February to August (a scrap)

 

The silence opened up an abundance of
opportunities. To spend the afternoon with a book
seemed like the closest thing to a best friend. To spend
the day with a best friend seemed intentionally out of reach.

The seas are unchanging, but the seasons turn steadily away
from hands reaching out for another golden sip of sunshine.
Not every day is a success story. Some are simply times of
waiting for the moon to rise.

He opened a playlist of bands from the 1960s and it moved his
writing forward in lurches and screeches. Lyrics crept in
and he pasted them slyly into his unfinished poem. No one
could blame him for his mini stolen phrases.

He looked out the window where neighbors watched ICE
kidnap the family across the street. That was mid-February
and nothing was colder than the way they dragged their
unwarranted catch into the cold and out of the blue.
It stopped him for a moment, this August afternoon in
Minneapolis. He wondered what he would do, and what
he would have done. He pointed his castaway moments toward
another stage of life and wondered
if the silence was
large enough to take captive every aging
beat of his heart.

A Sturdy Life

A Sturdy Life

(“So ask the Lord of the harvest to send workers out into his harvest field.” Matthew 9:38)

Wonder meets wonder in the eyes of
the downtown walkers habituating themselves to the sun.
It was the same as it had been the day before,
warm on the sidewalks of lazy ambition. The storefronts
had been blinking themselves open for the mid-morning rush.
Eyes to eyes the morning warmed on to the apex of the day.
Many believed the dream was just around the corner,
other had not given in a moment’s thought.

Meanwhile in the neighborhood nearby a man returned
the dogs he had been watching for his friend who returned
from another state on a week-long vacation. She walked out
the door to meet him in black slippers down the steps
and onto the concrete walkway with grass planking through
the cracks. He drove away and u-turned at the end of the block.
She waited for him to pass by again so he would
remember her waving goodbye.

What is the greatest number we can enliven; where are the
rulebooks that instruct us in the gardens of our incubation?
How many friends do we carry from childhood; how many
still fascinate our minds? Do we still remember their
phone numbers, or at least the area code? Can we still feel
the slatted stoops where we listened to Peter, Paul, and Mary
and comedy records in the afternoon?

I wander daily through current applications and past
evaluations of joy we left half exhausted. We found
ourselves filled, though, the next time we renovated our
restlessness again. Hope against hope, we believed that
behind someone’s eyes, we might see the promises
we daydreamed about.

All in all, it’s been a sturdy life built on words we fashioned,
images we sculpted, and the cities we founded in our brains.
Here’s hoping the sacred music that spun our days opened the
light for each other across our spatial habitations.

Our Perfecter in Pain

 Our Perfecter in Pain

(“Seeing the crowds, He felt compassion for them, because they were distressed and downcast, like sheep without a shepherd.” Matthew 9:36)

Scattered like rain-soaked ashes they
dotted the landscape with their bodies aching.
They had tried to do it all on their own, they had
run so hard that they were almost wasted away. Now
they were etched in silence where their wounds were newly
opened for everyone to see.
They held up cardboard signs; they were their hearts they
silently advertised.
Some were broken, torn in two. Some were perforated and
almost split apart. The day had been strenuous
on the
anniversary of their discontent. They blamed no one
and were the same during the day as they were through
their straining nights. They refused to change their tune
even if no one listened. They did not change to a
happier key
but kept insisting that something had caused them harm.

They had not come to play, though the notion had crossed
their minds. It was all too magnetic, this melancholy that
settled uninvited upon their buried hopes. They were just
as alive as ever, but every movement was an ache that
threatened to split their humanity down the middle.
It wasn’t subtle, but it had been easily ignored.

Oh shepherd, our sheep-gatherer, stitch our dreams with
your story of healing. Can our heartbreak belong to you,
can you unfasten our sorrow for just a day? We live
but are weary; we are not fashioned for this daily
slicing of our minds. We are victims of the seasons
and love out of time. Candidly we would like to name
the captors of our dissatisfaction.

Oh healer, our perfecter in pain, see us again
and remove the blame we carry too high upon our
shoulders. Join us as the center of our multitude;
remind us with crossbeam love that all suffering
belongs to you, belongs to you.

Belongs to you.

Sharing Our Pillow

Sharing Our Pillow

(“Your two breasts are like two fawns, twins of the gazelle grazing among the lilies.” Song of Solomon 4:5)

If I knew it wouldn’t wake you I would
lay my head between your breasts to hear your
even breath circling our bed. I would listen
to your heartbeat, so much steadier than mine.

Your skin would be soft like satin beneath my
ragged mane. Your body moving to the rhythm of
late night slumber as the room filled with our
body lotion and sweat.

I am safe here, with your body next to mine;
I have always found the way you desire me makes
me desire you more. Our kisses are memories
of sweet music and daily sweat.

When we were young, we explored each other
and fascinated each other and fulfilled each other
like wheat stalks in the wind. We were sated with
love and played in the night breeze where no one could find us.

That was 50 years ago, and you still fascinate me.
Your child-like sensuality makes me long to laugh
myself out of the doldrums I feel. You turn your lips
to me every time “Kiss Me” is played.

I have always found healing in the warmth between your breasts,
found uncommon release when sleep so often evaded me.
Your caresses reassured me when confidence fled my mind.
We blazed sometimes, like fire, and burned the bonds
that knotted our captive hearts. We made love like
we were brand new and I learned to listen for the
whispered moans that told me I would sleep well sharing
our pillow and intertwined until morning.