Fill their Faces

"Fill their Faces"

(“Fill their faces with shame, and let them seek Thy name, O Lord.” Psalm 83:16)

Those who have filled the ditches with their opinions,
making the jobless into jokers begging;
Those who have filled the minds
with mythology
that the poor are riddled with lazy bathtub rings;

Those who have taken lives not belonging to them,
planted doubt in the corners where one once believed
and rose with the morning to conquer with joy,
and concur with mates who loved it like the sun,

Beaten with words that bestowed question marks where
exclamations once broke the dawn;
Those who spoke them
into the corners never noticed the
shivers that began, the tremors of their hands,
once the synapse was rewired to make them
prisoners of their intentions,
(kidnappers of their impressions)
and left them to lie upon the dictations of
black versus white typed upon vellum; narrow columns
of distrust. Dusty spellings, and tears smearing the
letters and colors others had impounded.

Fill their faces with red, (not from dread, like they
filled the faces before), but from personal shame,
let them take the paintings out of the frames,
run their fingers over the strokes, smell the fresh-paint
(the aroma of verity’s obsession),
until the infusion of laughter and tears,
red blood and blue notes, pink mayflower and
violet alfalfa convince the typeWriters the world

Is fuller of Godly creation than their
constitutions and bylaws can
ever contain.

Narrative and Neurons

“And we will tell (God’s teachings) to the next generation. We won’t keep secret the glorious deeds and the mighty miracles of the Lord.” Psalm 78:4

In their book, “The Humanizing Brain,” James B. Ashbrook and Carol Rausch point out that when we are born, our brains consist of billions of nerve cells, or neurons, but they are mostly unconnected to each other. Some connection are made naturally as we grow, like those that help us to walk. But many other pathways develop uniquely, reflecting the culture, family habits and beliefs we learn. As our experiences change, we actually grow new neural pathways.

Here I Do Err

Here I Do Err

The skies opened for business preceding the
baritone winds twisting up the gorge.
Pelting drops the day after Easter,
a moment in the lifespan of the
average American man.

(I do not mean to use “man” as a generic
placeholder for humans of both sexes, but refer
specifically to men of a certain demographic.)

Closing in on noon the customers roamed
beneath the “open for business” sign splashed
above the sidewalks, boat ramps and
hearty men casting for a steelhead or two.

(Here I do err, knowing full well that my own
daughter cast her line in the Elochoman between
raindrops just yesterday. Perhaps
“men and women” would not interrupt the flow
as much as I thought.)

Humans, a handful, ate brown bag lunches
under the overhang of back porches
with a full Columbia view.

Proof Texts

Proof Texts

(“The woman came close. Then she knelt down and begged, ‘Please help me, Lord!’” Matthew 15:25)

I was formerly fascinated by each teaching encapsulated
within the phrase; a word out of position, a proof positive
that the traditions always considered Deity the first
layer spoken by commoners coming to Christ who knew
no different. She knelt down and begged, and thus I proved
the worship she gave, a classical attribution of divinity.

I formerly picked past golden broth to stick my fork in
the one piece of chicken meat I thought soup’s justification
for existence.

I’m fonder of broth now, keener of the simple and earth,
layers and linger the flavors can conjure without a single
chew exerted.

Which leaves me to ponder less often the proof texts I
string along to show the kneel means king, the worship
defines god;

If I cannot see His divinity in the tale as it flows
from healing to whole and surprise to holy;
if I cannot posit from the leaf falling that a tree
reaches far above the narrative smiling,
then my pick and choose will be biting only dust,

If His story is not startling enough as it flows
through angel meetings, Mary’s magnificat,
a boy upsitting to end his own funeral,
words spoken to poke death in the ribs
when the little one arises,
calvary foretold, forgiveness unfolds
and a tomb vacated following a weekend stay;

If all that is served like a classic risotto
and still our taste buds will not dance,

How shall the parsing of one word or the next
turn one thought to a taste for the Divine.

Ant University

"The poor in spirit see and are glad—Oh, you God-seekers, take heart!" Psalm 69:32 (The Message)

Imagine that ants had such a thing as an ego. Suppose there were actually great universities where certain ants could prove their intellectual prowess over those who knew only enough to stay worker ants. Or perhaps there are gyms where the buff ants could produce a more “cut” ant body. They could strut their stuff in front of the weaker ants that perhaps had less powerful a bite.

I'll Be The Poet

I’ll Be The Poet
(“Then I will ever sing praises to Thy name, so I may daily pay my vows.”
Psalm 6:8)

I'll be the poet who sings your glory; no vanilla words.
I will not fear that my poems will not be
published next to works written by jewels and
read by budding scholars.

I’ll pen upon napkins old words turned around
familiarly to bounce near and up, piling them
finely, one syllable upon the other. I would try
to keep them short and friendly so the reader
(one does not write for oneself alone)
might see a face as if they’ve known it sometime before.

I’ll scratch with the pencil stub I found
in the parking lot…then quickly lest the
words be forgotten. I’ll weave them broadcloth,
linen and cotton; earthy sounds to carry
our solitary love to Love’s ear.

I’ll write of devotion, the passion forgotten,
that speaks simple, from puddles to bubble,
the lowly voice, single; lasting for the theme
enwraps eternal the universe’s song.

I’ll not pretend to command every diction
considered, I just throw the love like
kitestring knotted to flight breezes playing
over the meadow alone. Within sight
it dances where eyes face the smiles;
children captured after a sack-lunch picnic
on the lawn.

I’ll script the playbook, the single player
within the one-act composed over a single
day alone. A Cast of One, a song meant
to return the kiss of heaven; simple
words with a harp or plastic recorder
to play the interlude that leaves my soul
wanting more than just another set of
words.

Vanilla is fine; words may not rhyme,
but alone I find honesty, the cohesion of
joy and sorrow existing only in the
heart kissed once and wondering how long
until the Love of Heaven returns the song.

What I Cannot Forget

What I Cannot Forget

The things I forget only embarrass me,
what I cannot forget is what haunts me.
All of the worst of it is thrown into the deepest part
of the sea,
Marianas Trench, that colossal canyon,
flooded deeper than Mt. Everest.

All of the cracked bones, reactions to infractions
broken half the time out of willingness, have been scattered,
I am told,
as far as the east is from the west. I attended the East-West
Shrine Game once, when I was 10, at the Rose Bowl in
Pasadena. Until I got there, I thought I was going to
something important; Michigan and USC.
Nonetheless, despite my mistaken perception,
the day was perfect for helmets and pads on
the gridiron. I forgot
I was talking about how far the infractions
were hurled. They do come round again,
back to their starting place, to pound me into
the funk I find myself in nearly half the mornings I wake.

It is not false, they are further than I can fathom,
but my mind rains circles, and so, in every tighter orbits,
the weights resound their presence no matter how much
I believe they are beyond my apprehension.

I know You won’t reject me when the massive doors open,
between my last breath and my first real focus. I know
You’ve cast my worst stubs and stabs behind Your back
and never make them count against me. But I remain

As sad as if You meant them to greet me before I
can wrestle them or believe You cast them away.
My mind is my hell, will You make me a heaven here?

Good Soil

(“But what was sown in good ground means one who listens and understands the message; he bears fruit and yields, one a hundred, one sixty and one thirty-fold.” Matthew 13:23

The Christian life is to be wildly productive, not mildly passive. Jesus tells a parable describing what happens when the truth about Jesus (the Word of God) is spoken to different people. Some are like a pathway where the seed falls and barely begins to grow. Some are like stony ground who hear the message and quickly get exuberant about it. But they quickly fall away when it appears this life is more difficult to live that they first thought. Then there is the thorny ground. They do well for a while, but soon the distractions of life keep them from really living at all. Like weeds, the distractions choke out the very life they could possess.

"Talking Shop"

“You talked only about violence and told nothing but lies; you sat around gossiping, ruining the reputation of your own relatives.” Psalm 50:19,20

The literal meaning of the two phrases in verse 19 is of great interest. The wicked are spoken of as “sending your tongue” out to do violence. They talk of violence, and violence alone.

Creation’s Refrain

(“We know that the whole world has been crying. It has had much pain until now.” Romans 8:22)

In the moment of lingering silence, waiting for the sun,
buds yawn toward wakefulness, birds spread their wings
prepared to leave their nests to make their morning meetings
on lawns and leaves.

Roses that slept through winter and March
 sprout like covered heads removing quilts that
covered their slumber. Partially dead for a season,
they fumble less for their beauty than we do
for lightswitches hoping renewed coffee brewed.

Mourning Doves call, their mates answer the dawn together
after full night silence, they are make-ready, their song sounds lonely
though they may nest in the same-place year after year.
Black Birds crack open the sod with one dark-eye guarding,
ready to noise the intruder within its vista.
Blue Jays scour the lawn and leaves, picking up bunting
in their beaks for the perfect nursery décor, their
young brood waiting.

But there is a moment, a minute, maybe as much as
a half-hour predawn
where the only sound is the sun scratching the horizon
to pull itself up to vertical and start the song
sung for centuries and newly composed
every next rotation upon the planet that
cannot
complete the universe with verse and measure.

Like a castaway alone on a hidden island,
the days are vibrant with improvised colors
dancing to unfretted music sliding between
half-steps. It is a song, if we forget we are alone,
we would join every morning with the sunrise.

But needing salvation, our planet so full of melodies,
fastens hope to its flag while the trees (replanted)
inch their way to the vertical staff of the conductor’s
score.

Unaverted

Unaverted

(“My enemies are wishing the worst for me; they make bets on what day I will die.” Psalm 41:5 [The Message])

Maybe I’ve found another who dispels my passion for paranoia,
perhaps a friend who frees me from the expectation of
rocks dropped upon my head.
My pain is still like sawteeth grabbing my perception
with odds less than 2 to 1.

I like to love, open the door to pain and joy, with at least
a comrade or two,
until memory serves me, sanely or patchy imagery,
and reminds me of the way my heart was left on the floor
by one or two with whom I sat during
their pain, their loss, their confusion condemned by
those who had answers for every question in creation.

I am not as paranoid as 300 sleeps ago, but still
offer my hand slowly to certainty mongers
for
fear
they will discover (in their neatly-tied bow on
top of the universe) a rock with my name boldly
crayoned; the means without a motive.

May I poke about, just a word or two,
until my breath comes slower and my heart
takes its time, to see if the rocks you find
are monikers left as placeholders for questions
I’m certain to ask with my
eyes unaverted?

What did You Expect?

“When John’s disciples left to report, Jesus started talking to the crowd about John. ‘What did you expect when you went out to see him in the wild? A weekend camper? Hardly? What then? A sheik in silk pajamas? Not in the wilderness, not by a long shot.’” Matthew 11:7,8

Why is it we treat ministry as if it should be a quality performance living up to the participant’s expectations? Our worship “services” are structured so as to make most pastors, worship leaders and other ministry feel like they will be reviewed next day in the Christian press?

Of Afflictions and Deliverance

“Many are the afflictions of the righteous; but out of them all the Lord delivers him.” Psalm 34:19

It is obvious that the righteous go through troubles. They are no more immune from tribulation that anyone else. Indeed, the righteous may actually endure greater affliction than others. Besides the normal vicissitudes of life, there are inner and outer troubles unique to the righteous.

I just +

I just +

(“Don’t make treaties with the people there, or you will soon find yourselves worshiping their gods and taking part in their sacrificial meals.” Exodus 34:15)

We remain adolescents with hormones racing,
lust-struck by promises of magic-poof on the stage
of our abracadabras.

Let a $ wink at me and I pursue it hotly,
when the *s are brightest, my thinking becomes dull,
I ask no ? about the truth, see no sleight-of-hand suggestions,
I just +  to the gallery = to my searing imagination.

Worst of all I put my pinups on my altar-wall,
bibles and Buddha and Trump and Bikini-ed
await my worship. I’ve received the invitations
and sent the RSVPs, my signature guaranteeing
my devoted attendance.

Pimped out to the sham-hungry, I am glutted
banquet to banquet.
Shorthand allurance has detoured past my best senses
so I devour every fragrant idol; enticement shrouded
by religious dialect.

I make no decisions, just follow the mental secretions
that baffle faith seeking merely truth, not crushes.
We have made a teen idol of the Universe Designer
and
a personal prom-date of the Eternal Lover,
then choose to marry (how fickle and airy)
the one who makes our blood run hot

And leave behind the One whose Blood ran full
before we had a single desire to call our own.

Friended by God

Our Lord, you are the friend of your worshipers, and you make an agreement with all of us. Psalm 24:14

I told my family today I have a goal clearly in sight: 1000 friends on Facebook. I currently have 960. And, as nice as it is to have so many acquaintances sitting on my desktop while I do paperwork, I also think social networking has caused us to lose something in terms of real friendships.

Etch the Diagnosis

Etch the Diagnosis

(“Calling His twelve disciples to Him, He gave them power over depraved spirits to cast them out, and to heal every disease and every malady.” Matthew 10:1)

Compassion learned is compassion returned to its source;
the beautiful eyes that gaze on ugly days and interpret them
as gems still dirt and grime. Where evil lurks,
healing wins the day. Where darkness hides the leper’s sores,
daylight shows pain not shame to well-learned disciples
who no longer gasp at trapped souls,
no longer gag at vague memories of atrocities inflicted by
them on
us.

Evil still is evil long upon the gray apparitions,
But healing wins the loving back in spectrum’s fullest range:
from infra-red to ultra-violet, sins and violence are sickness
ravaging immunity.

Come once to the Heart which spoke Love upon nothing,
See once the eyes that envisioned dewy strolls with mankind,
hear today the voice that spoke a planet and baby-smell,
Touch the Hands that molded the clay, Lips that breathed the spirit,
and Feet that walked with open wounds in our unsanitary sanity.

Oh religion, die upon your insistences! Oh prejudices disguised as
righteous renditions; meet Him for a day, go to Him in a way
that molts the skin of shammery. We are crust left on the counter
too long.

We will come and sit at Your feet, Physician of our certainties,
and, throwing away our notebooks and pens, let You etch
the diagnosis and healing upon our hearts instead.