Laughter Travels

Laughter Travels

Laughter travels around the hills, up and down
the ridges and through the valleys. It reflects off
granite walls and fills the meadow with sound;
no one can know its source, for wherever you stand, you are
the center of its radius. The laughter, like atmospheric pressure,
clears the clouds and opens the sky to new possibilities.

Laughter packs no baggage, free and improvised. It is the only sound
that babies do best; unspelled and landing upon the ears like
the rainbow on a clear sky. Does their angel tickle their fancy?
Does light find its way within the child’s cheeks? Do circles
amaze her blinking eyes? Do waving trees greet him with
their limbs?

Are we the funny ones with our faces screwed up like
an old clown’s wrinkles? Are we the silliness that ignites
the chuckle, and joining in, we cackle and gurgle more
self-conscious than the tot whose face is flooded with
tears and snot by the end of the spasm that carried us all
into a forest of elves and fairies whose language, I am convinced,
is that same as babies, and exercise quite regularly their
laughter and mirth.

Hilarity lifts the weights with more power than serious convention.

And try as we might, every face in place to recreate the moment
her giggle multiplied itself up out of the windows, across the neighborhood,
past the island that sits in the middle of the river and across the state line
to Oregonian hearers who swore they heard a new bird unsung before.

Try as we might, after conducting each experiment and checking our computations,
we never discovered the word or touch or face or insect or shape or color
or smell or any other. Perhaps, and this is our favorite thesis,

when she laughed, she laughed at nothing at all.

Beyond Words

(“This is how God showed his love for us: God sent his only Son into the world so we might live through him.” 1 John 4:9)

How do you describe the endless distance of space which we call the universe? How do we fathom the long arch of time without end or beginning? How even do we understand the infinite smallness of the miniature sub-atomic particles of which the entire world is made? It takes volumes to even learn the language used by those who speak of such things.

The Path of Love

“This is the teaching you have heard from the beginning: We must love each other.” 1 John 3:11

One of my least favorite phrases is, “I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.” Don’t get me wrong, the dislike probably has more to do with my inner psyche than the words themselves. But, on some level, it seems they usually come at the end of an argument where two people not only will not budge concerning a subject, but also attach some judgment about the other person based on that opinion.

Tiny

Tiny

(“But you are a God ready to forgive, gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.” Nehemiah 9:17b)

Tiny things, visible but overlooked; soft coos,
babies sleeping in the quilted corners of our playroom.
Tiny things, heard but so submerged; round eyes,
mothers gazing at the miracle dozing underneath the adult hum.

A mom who found the man who would love her,
A dad who found the woman who never gave up;
Nine mingled children, a pair of twins included,
sing like they own the earth, play like they have all day,
love like rejection has never pinched their delight for attention,
and run to hug,
and run to hide,
and run to lay aside today’s trouble for another
chance to laugh like every day is Christmas day.

I know those families; rare. I love those couples; repaired
by hope and elongated breaths between the questions that measured
the path like mile markers up the steeps and down.

Tiny things, thoughts soak the eyes and the cheeks; soft asides,
trouble is not the enemy, conquered by hands’ light touch.
Tiny things, words painted, each name a circle; round crosses,
enclosed and warm, the fireplace glows, the moment creates

A Christmas day fond of the first; children and unlikely
parents in love and loved beyond measure.

Tiny things, like babes in the straw, changed our images,
our dances, our carols and our wintry reasons for the day.

Soul is Face, Black is Red

Soul is Face, Black is Red

(“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” 1 John 1:9)

Sometimes the wind turns offshore and insists
on another whiff of trails I have left behind me.
Another note I played half flat, another name I forgot,
and more than that, could not remember the connection
we certainly once had.

Sometimes the circuits are crowded and
emails are never answered. I wished for days,
hoped for weeks, waited for months, now despair
over the years that my misspoken and slippery tongue
cannot be forgiven by the one who misheard my intention.
(I do not blame your hearing; it is my speak that
shorted out like a light switch with the wiring worn away.)

I have heard the words from men over the phone,
no tears, no cracks in the armor of their voice,
only the admission they couldn’t break the sickness
until they sent apologies. (Never mind my wounds
and splinter bed, or tears spread everywhere I thought
about the next blast of angry flame. I forgave,
nevertheless, though, as I’ve said, I wished you hadn’t
continued to blame me for days, weeks and months after
you called so you could recover from your cold.)

My old soul is black from its youth,
my thoughts are intractable,
my actions driven and drunk from
the impulses that only serve to break my boredom.

My face is red from effort and embarrassment,
and my feet slide upon the incline littered with
lava’s gravel; my pace is unknown.

I am open, having stolen words from poets;
I am guilty, having spoken lies to prophets;
I am filthy, having broken vows to comrades:
I am captive, having pursued praise from patrons.

I am free, completely above the inactive plains
of stone-cold lava flow. I am clean, entirely within
the passion and pains of momentary composition.

The river is sweeter than the peak I pretended to conquer,
and the pretence that nearly conquered me.

The Weight of a Grudge

“So Esau hated Jacob because of the blessing his father had given to his brother. Esau said privately, ‘The time of mourning for my father is near; then I will kill my brother Jacob!’” Genesis 27:41

“Carrying a grudge” is a fitting way to describe what happens when we are so offended that all we can think of is leveling the score. We pick up the offense in the morning as we rehearse the hurt along with our morning coffee. We carry on imaginary conversations with the offender as we drive to work, probably repeating the same arguments over and over again. We take the grudge into bed with us. After the weariness of carrying such weight around all day, we do not even lay it down to sleep. We allow its weight to press down upon our minds, keeping sleep at bay while the grudge grunts through our thoughts like an angry bull.

No More "I Can't"

“By his divine power, God has given us everything we need for living a godly life. We have received all of this by coming to know him, the one who called us to himself by means of his marvelous glory and excellence.” 2 Peter 1:3

Two of the most deadly words in the English language are “I can’t.” We limit our options, we subtract possible joy and, saddest of all, we do not make room for God and His gifts. That is not to say that we can, in some fairy tale way, have three (or more) wishes and obtain anything we want. I cannot, for instance, suddenly be fit and muscular if I have been sedentary and listless until that point. But, what I am able to do is begin a pathway toward that goal.

Are Enduring

Are Enduring

(“Resist him, strong in your faith, because you know that your brothers and sisters throughout the world are enduring the same kinds of suffering.” 1 Peter 5:9)

Blankets and clothing,
baby cloths and netting,
what can I give for the suffering;
what can I do for the hunted left out in the storm?

Food banks and free dresses,
toy donations and grandchild kisses,
what does it mean so close to me;
what can I do when most of me is spent on
another trinket the in-crowd on tv insisted would
change my life, make me free, and give me all the love
and company a man could ever ask for. I would change the
car I drive
if I had the money.

Until one mother calls me to give her child a ride home,
you see, practice will go past nine tonight and it is far too
late for a young teen to walk home even our little hamlet.
“She would walk, otherwise,” I promise, the mother almost
apologized…and I stopped her. “Of course she can have a ride.”

I would change the car I drive
except for families I know
that don’t possess even one.

Boxes of underwear, schoolbooks and pencils,
a hand-drawn mural for the school-wall from eight little
children in Sunday School that only know
some others as tiny as they are scared of halls that once
felt so safe.

All they know, and I know, is Jesus gave. My garage has boxes
filled with things I haven’t seen in a decade. My life is too crowded
to keep from filling a hole somewhere that lets in far too much winter air.

Scorched and Skillful

Scorched and Skillful

(“God was kind to us and had them send a skillful man named Sherebiah.” Ezra 8:18a)

The prairie was a wide putting green unwatered through the winter,
and crumbled bumps plowed weeds and wheat encircled the lot where
a few dozen hoped to raise a simple box of a building; gray and white
on the outside;
earth-tones within: forest green carpet with lines and leaves and branches
barely visible in the background underfoot,
adobe pink walls that dimmed to sandstone under the soft light,
white cathedral ceiling training the eye upward hoping for the
nonverbal
“ah”

Of comfort and reverence.

Ten years previous a parsonage sat on the same prairie
75 miles southeast. In an oasis of evergreens, and one night unoccupied,
current does what current does, taking the path of least resistance across
two wires with frayed insulation. Scorched, angry embers
blew from room to room, up bearing walls to ceiling tiles, only
to fall, a flat pancake of coal, square upon our 2 year old angel’s crib.

Non were hurt, nearly all was lost, and we had little to rebuild
lives we thought had dived into a crater lake of the unknown.

The prairie is a fair example; latest fall when brown lies upon brown,
gray dirt blows into gray dust bowls sometimes taking the tops of
storage sheds or mobile homes. That’s why they tie salvaged truck tires
to weight the light houses down.

Scorched, so the hairs on our arms curled up and singed,
eyebrows indiscernible, skin red, then purples as days progressed.

Scorched, so the memory turned a determined talent
into trade. Maybe the scars on the arms, the ache on the legs
are all the interpretation of Scripture one man needed to
point a living way over the piles of embers to the pains
of those who remember much the same. We remain
scarred, but, stepping out of the rubble into the next
man’s trouble
we are healing while…
we remain scarred.

We Need You, Prince of Peace

“Ezra was determined to study the Lord’s Teachings, live by them, and teach their rules and regulations in Israel.” Ezra 7:10

Today 20 children were shot and killed by a crazed man in a Connecticut elementary school. They dead are primarily kindergarten students, plus the shootist’s mother who was a teacher at the school. Not a week before a man opened fire in a shopping mall, killing two and taking his own life as well. Nearly 10,000 were in the mall at the time of the shooting.

Peace and Goodwill

Peace and Goodwill

“Glory to God in highest heaven, and peace on earth to those with whom God is pleased.” Luke 2:14

It was the middle of the night; the sky was the purple black that appears once no remnants of the setting sun are left. It is dotted with starry points of light, and quiet. It was the time of night very few experience; either because they are sleeping, or are safe and warm within their homes. But, the few times we have lingered outside, far away from city lights and far past midnight, we understand the magical quiet and peace which that hour of darkness can possess.

Endowment Plus

Endowment Plus

(“Therefore, with minds that are alert and fully sober, set your hope on the grace to be brought to you when Jesus Christ is revealed at his coming.” 1 Peter 1:13)

He improvised a dance that delighted starlight,
steps unseen, light and pristine, with backdrops falling
like crystal confetti like vapor trails behind each leap and twirl.

He synthesized the structure which his muscles had memorized
in practice in private, before no one’s eyes. The mirrors were his
only judges, the note-beat-touch synchronized so well his body
met the music head-on and passed through it like liquid;
fluid and precise.

So when prompted to perform by the impromptu crowd,
he flashed the confidence of a thousand repetitions and
leapt upon their suggestion, a deer careening across the
evergreen brush like everyman walking home a completely
new direction. He did not fear the pauses,
and landed like prism light opening up the sun.

Only the closest few, the three, perhaps four, knew
the repeat completions he turned to perfection in the
quiet late and blurry early when no applause would be heard;
only the slow breath of one unhurried to string each unit
a symphony of movement;

While we watched, embarrassed into thinking he
never had danced this way before. While we watched,
commenting of born talent and gifts; silly and jealous
about genetics without

Learning the secret of repeating that turns effort
to effortless; endowment plus preparation.

Larger than Fulfillment

Larger than Fulfillment

(“Be patient, therefore, dear friends, until the coming of the Lord. Note how the farmer waits for the precious harvest of the earth, being patient for it until it receives the early and latter rains.” James 5:7)

Stranded midair between the conception and completion
is the day we swallow our food without tasting, drink wine in gulps
and count every miscue that needs resolution to bring ourselves
to perfection.

Better to watch the rain as the red-hooded woodpecker, ignorant
of our project,
finds his food rounding the gray wafered bark of autumn’s late tree.

But our count is incomplete, our uncertainty competing with
the movie we produced in our memory before we ever began.
Now, halfway through, there is a quarter done,
and, without a time-bending solution, we will land far short;
proving the fact we should have started much earlier,
or scripted something shorter than our ambition imagined
inking open the first page and day.

Associates do not return calls; texts fly out, competing for space
with radio waves. They are late, they always say. They forgot,
conveniently mistaken. They would have told us yesterday
but (the writer apologizes, but cannot think of a worthy excuse
to follow the previous phrase. Excuse, please, the inability to
complete the thought). Stranded midair, yesterday hums like
a record sung backwards and texts never answered.

Better to what the river run with logs and branches from
upstream’s overflow riding the brown water. Better to see
geese overhead with silhouetted wings against the charcoal sky.

Better to take the next step grounded, and finish today what
yesterday started with dreams larger than fulfillment. I’ve seen
the day change in a moment and clouds split at the most
unexpected break in time.

And So He Prospered

“He sought his God and worked wholeheartedly. And so he prospered.” 2 Chronicles 31:21

Hezekiah, about whom this verse is written, was one of the godliest kings of Judah. He restored much of the temple and Passover practices, motivated out of deep devotion to God. This verse sums all it up by telling us that he prospered as a result of this wholehearted love.

Me and My Models

“Don’t just listen to the word. You fool yourselves if you do that. You must do what it says.” James 1:22

I loved model planes and cars as a young boy. That is to say, I loved the idea of assembling them so they would look just as wonderful as the picture on the box. I loved biplanes, and I also lived in Southern California during the “funny car” era of drag racing. So, those were my two primary choices, plus the one odd Plymouth Barracuda. I chose it because favorite teacher drove one, although reverse didn’t work. He had to always park in a way that could drive straight out.

One Side to the Other

One Side to the Other

(“But endurance must do its complete work, so that you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing.” James 1:4)

Moving, I am told, one side of the head to the other,
the sounds of sea, a step into the river
can rip the loops apart that repeat the hurting tracks
over and over, D.C al without Fine; and find the chord
which resolves the pain.

The child still cries (he is nearly 60) at the angry hands
that red imprints that faded quicker than the picture stuck
in his brain. The soldier shakes (he is home now) at the shells
and mortar that nearly ripped his barracks and comrades; it
was just the neighbor shutting his car door.

For those who remember vinyl long-play with scratches
that sounded like wax paper crumpled beneath the hi-fi,
the needle sticks in a groove deeper than the rest
and won’t let the two bars finish, won’t let the 3 ½ words
complete, the over and the over and the over and the ove

er and

We are brains and we are minds, we are spirit and we are muscle,
we are wired hard and scratched by misuse; we are puzzles not yet
assembled, we are garage sale jigsaw puzzles bought on faith that
all the pieces are present.

I am told there is music in the spheres, truer than the rewinds
our past lives have struck into our casting; and moving, one
side of hearing to the other,
we may find the lines rewritten, circuits rewired,
memories of smitten hopes soothed by the chords and words
written before the hands that brought affliction.

Endure to the end, the story which sings its death and sting
rises to release us from the refrain we’ve repeated to the verses
of life Christ created for each ditch, scratch and vein we
thought each blow had depleted.

Endurance

“Endure until your testing is over. Then you will be mature and complete, and you won’t need anything.” James 1:4

We usually hear this verse quoted something like this: “Let patience have its perfect work.” I think most of us perceive “patience” as non-active, letting life just sweep by, or sweep us along, while we do nothing on our part to advance. Even the idea of “enduring” can evoke thoughts of sitting in a foxhole, taking shot after shot, just waiting for the bad guys to stop firing at us.

The Quiet Unspeak

The Quiet Unspeak

(“Do not let the love of money control your life. Be satisfied with what you have. God himself has said, ‘I will never be away from you. I will never leave you alone.'” Hebrews 13:5)

Content upon the rocky banks that overlook
the same river that ran here yesterday; my eyes
still see the island obstructing the view of
Oregon and the cargo ships slowly up-channel
beyond it. It has misted since early morning,
even during the short peeks the sun makes
tricking my expectations of an uncommon dry day.

Within the next hour, though, same place, same
slippery rocks, green island and river view;
I fetch undue anxiety from the same air I breathed
so serenely before. Quiet now is not the same
as quiet then.

I am a kettle just before the boil; a miniature
weather warning, the siren ready to blow.
The quiet unspeak is the sleepy gravity
that is on the verge of blowing the roof off
the 50 year shingles 49-years-old.

If not for the promise, if not for provision,
if not for my Father’s love and precision
that bids me quiet like the morning and
take the pot off the boil. He will, I know,
do what all good Father’s do and calm me
long, teach me longer the relaxation I should know:

The river, the slit sky, the treed island and rocky banks
are never caught off guard by my visits; hustling to
adjust the river’s flow back east to west. And so,
Father of it all, my hope below is quiet in respite
before dawn or under a covered sun.

Working at Peace

“Work at living in peace with everyone, and work at living a holy life, for those who are not holy will not see the Lord.” Hebrews 12:14

I admit it; most days I am working on showing that I am right. In my business, you have to. I am a pastor, and unless I present true truth to people, I am in danger of filling their minds with toxic thoughts. I also teach drama at the high school. If I am wrong about stage directions, or instruct my students incorrectly about good character development I probably won’t be asked back next year. (No, actually, this is a tiny town. Anyone who raises their hand gets picked. But, you still get my illustration, right?)

Of Discipline and Family

“If you are not disciplined—and everyone undergoes discipline—then you are not legitimate, not true sons and daughters at all.” Hebrews 12:8

My daughter-in-law posted a photo on Facebook this week. The “pose” takes place in living rooms all over the country sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Our son Michael is lifting their four-year-old daughter, Anika, up in the air as she strains forward to put the star atop their Christmas tree. It immediately evoked memories of lifting Michael when he was young; same situation, same position.

Unedited

"Unedited"

(“The sun of righteousness will dawn on those who honor my name, healing radiating from its wings. You will be bursting with energy, like colts frisky and frolicking.” Malachi 4:2 [The Message])

I felt the fog and saw the fresh lather
left overnight on the morning grass.
I sleep past sunrise and waste my worries
looking for swooping angels to snatch me away
from the dim displays painted within this chipped
and gilded
frame.

I don’t ask for more than the promise, although
I cry for lack of enough notice to plan ahead for the
spans ahead of silence, stumbles and hesitation.
I prefer thunderstorms to icy mornings.

I can blame more things than one,
and add to the list if forced by hand,
but the steps I’ve taken are my steps alone;
some simple half-steps slowed by fear, many
appear leaps until eyes have turned elsewhere.

I can write my melancholy on the sunniest day,
pen it, paper it, erase it, crumble it, resheet it
and write it the same all over again.
Why change what I write with the first thought
when the changes are my inner edits to
take the edge off.

I can write my melancholy on the giggling beach,
pen it and paper, like I’ve just stated. The afternoon beams
are the reason for my tears (why would anyone cry on
a day like this?). The afternoon wings me to slower dusk
when tears are hidden by the longer shadows of inattention.

Later than years and further than time I know
the damage is done. Deeper than seeing and
stiller than wings on the soft sky I know
the change will come.

You saw my tears, yesterday, didn’t you?
You had no idea what to say, and wondered
(as I do, my friend) why I would cry when
loved and laden with gifts.

You did not cause them, nor the slivers
from backyard growing up fences. I’m waiting
for the sunlight to take me from pretense to
senses of immense joy on the wings of Righteousness
written
once unedited.

Three Shelves

Three Shelves

(“’And now entreat the favor of God, that he may be gracious to us. With such a gift from your hand, will he show favor to any of you?’ says the Lord of hosts.” Malachi 1:9)

Isn’t it a heavy commentary, filling at least three shelves on a pastor’s bookcase,
saved up for, referenced over and over the first ten years, then unopened after
finding the groove and exploiting the popular. We refer to the Hebrew,
missing the irony in our entreaties. We explain the Greek, and for another dime,
you can buy,
on your way by the hospitality booth
a stapled tome squeezing the last life out of our
twisted recitation of reverence.

Isn’t it a well-dressed diorama, perfectly stuffed with bleached newsprint,
bones connected to calculated concrete to supply the effect which we
just have not found yet,
still underground yet,
and we will add them as soon as we find them,
and we will show you how we still know you would
see it our way.

Isn't it a bulldozer honor, the emcee rises with appreciation on his plate,
appointed to speak, well. Appointed to speak well of the one who led
them so far this far. So far, he’s only talked about himself. “And so, Moses,
here is the card we all signed.” The bulldozer turns, grunts and sits quickly;
the leader is frozen, and it is well past noon until anyone takes another breath.

Isn't it a pale righteousness, the hurt and washless occupation we cover with our
second-hand masks. Dad gave it to Mom, Dad died. Mom gave it to me, Mom died.
I believe, I’ll scratch my chin, I’ve given it to my kids: all three…first with pride.
But now I feel the blood leaving my face; the disgraceful way I never controlled
my passion, my smug, my rhetoric, my hugs meant to welcome, then turn you
to invest in your own

Second-hand masks to hand down with a shrug. “After all, a man of God
told me all about them.”

Every Day

“Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.” Acts 2:46, 47

I am about to go home and sit down to a marvelous Thanksgiving feast prepared by my wife and daughter. The last few years it has been just “we three” for the November holiday. We have two grown sons; one lives with his wife in Minneapolis along with our 4 year old granddaughter, and the other is in Guatemala finishing his last year with the Peace Corps. Normally we would invite a handful of people who have nowhere else to go, but my headaches are only exacerbated by adding more people to the mix.

Best Intentions

Best Intentions

(“Then he said to me, ‘This is the word of the Lord to Zerubbabel saying, “Not by might nor by power, but by My Spirit”, says the Lord of hosts.’” Zechariah 4:16)

I would have let it go, never said another word.
I am certain, I am sure what began would end except
none of us could destroy the word, we could not destroy
the soup heated up on your parent’s stove the night
before you left,
the night before you faded from my view.

We spiraled like drain water, missing each other in a vector
of years and places. I married mine, you found yours;
your baby girl was first until my son entered. We shared
our showpieces year by year; beautiful blossomed and
handsome glowed between impervious and genius and
sad.

But we never went, you and I, a year without
taking stock with phone calls catching up on
each new crisis, never disconnected once the conversation
was done.

--words misspoke, words unfastened--

No one is the victim, no one is to blame but
we both are the wounded and, we both share the same
painting we began before sailing on winds that clouded our vision
and left us here with this decade of silence and question marks.

I have counted each sorry, and measured each misspeak,
you have been kind and I can count your wounds,
but I carry a bucket (I have noticed yours, as well;
wooden, unpainted, leaking and ripened);
but I carry a bucked borrowed from a forgotten sandcastle
spilling over with the words I would say to you (and him).

You’ve heard them, and spoken them to me before,
but now the words (they cannot be destroyed) seek
the one unguarded moment when we both can react

Like the air never heard how the years marred our
best and failed intentions.

When the Wind

When the Wind

(“Suddenly, a sound like a violently blowing wind came from the sky and filled the whole house where they were staying.” Acts 2:2)

The sand stretches its aggregate collection across
the desert where horizon greets bluing sky: quietly.
The desert has its own silence that waits for the next burst
to rearrange dunes southern and scoot stones in the other direction.

Heat rises from the accommodating desert floor, stored overnight
while the air froze motionless and skies expanded curtainless
for eyes to take in the old-fashioned light of stars perhaps
flickering their last quiet millennium.

No one observes the processes that take longer than the
lifespan of a man,
but the evidence left behind suggests more life in bands
of history jammed in practice-cake layers.

The flash floods widen the floor and deep,
the accelerated water feeds the sleepy saguaro
and wakes the watching Gilas for one more life-giving
drink.

Waiting is a better virtue than making,
praying is a better chart than late complaints.
When the wind arrives, give wing;
When the fire descends, then sing;
when the Spirit fills, then everything is burning
(bushes and hearts and thrones and plans)
until the desert blooms with grace like Eden
again.

Single-Mindedly

“These all devoted themselves single-mindedly to prayer, along with some women, including Mary (Jesus’ mother), and his brothers.” Acts 1:14

Get together a group of people larger than, say, one, and the chances of agreeing on a plan of action, or a strategy, or even what kind of ice cream to buy can be a real challenge. My wife and I still have the same conversation we had when we were dating. (And, no, I didn’t have to borrow my parents’ dinosaur to take her out).

On The Heights

“The Sovereign Lord is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to go on the heights.” Habakkuk 3:19

Yesterday I had had enough. A peer where I volunteer treated me quite rudely, I barely managed to communicate what I thought was a simple idea to a small group, our college-age daughter spent the previous night in the Emergency Room and our finances are threadbare. For any other tree, those would simply be the initial cuts, not enough to bring the whole thing crashing down.

If a Field

If a Field

(“When the ground soaks up the falling rain and bears a good crop for the farmer, it has God’s blessing.” Hebrews 6:7)

“…but if a field bears thorns and thistles, it is useless. The farmer will soon condemn that field and burn it.”

And the day I started remains exactly where I left it
the. And the day I am playing out seems only so much
greasepaint covering how little progress has been made.

And the rain falls violently outside my patio window,
the wind fiercely tears the wind chimes off their

Nails in the wood.

I want to text the world to ask where my dreams disappeared,
I want an answer to my letters, I swear I would leave those days
behind
for just one word, or tear, or admission of the omissions that
send the bucket into the well behind my eyes, never returning dry.

I have all the rain I need, and dry, I remain the same
as the day I started. Like the expanding universe, stars
flying light-years further each second,
I discover the friends that once were my milky way
are beyond my ability to see; their appearance reaching me
20 years after the fact.

I have all the rain I need, and burned, I am on the outside,
a dry asteroid at the outer limits of light’s furthest spectrum.

Each Intermission

Each Intermission

(“God rested from his work. Those who enjoy God’s rest also rest from their work.” Hebrews 4:10)

In the heat of the day, or frost overnight
the mind examines inch after inch of each dimension,
correction its direction, usually sighting a familiar look
or the spark from some other’s eyes that insists it is
safe to turn in there for the night.

In the single second or the long of the year,
the mind can hold episodes and events in one grand
moment
that happened years ago on the Texas desert and others that
may yet
befall the man who suffers over tomorrow’s fear.

In the laugh of a daughter, or another unknown suicide
the mind combines tear after tear of each intermission
begging to be fully seen and feared to be held cleanly
without excursus or at least a lucid synopsis.

In one single Word God called the world Good,
in one quiet Day He did not hesitate to rest;
labor put upon the shelf, hammers and saws stored
until the final bell captured all the silence and stored it up
for days just like these.

It is Finished!

“When Jesus had received the sour wine, He said, “It is finished!” Then bowing His head, He gave up His spirit.” John 19:30

When I was in my early twenties I worked as a hod carrier for a bricklayer. Typically, that meant that I would be carrying bricks, twelve at a time, to keep my boss’s supply stocked. If we were working with cinder blocks, I would carry two at a time, weighing 20 pounds each. Between carrying loads, I would mix the mortar and wheelbarrow it to him as well.

Adrift

“We must pay the most careful attention, therefore, to what we have heard, so that we do not drift away.” Hebrews 2:1

Geologists tell us that there was one mega-continent in the early formation of planet Earth. Ever so slowly this giant mass began to splinter along natural fault lines into the land masses we now know. Labeled “continental drift”, it describes the movement of the Earth’s continents relative to each other as they appear to drift across the ocean bed. Today the theory is better explained by “plate tectonics” which better explains the continent’s movement.

Pocket Neighborhoods

Pocket Neighborhoods

(“Seek good and not evil—and live! You talk about God, the God-of-the-Angel-Armies, being your best friend. Well, live like it, and maybe it will happen.” Amos 5:14 [The Message])

Shall we sentence capital, thus ending our options,
if one innocent life can no longer speak?

We know the dead have no voice,
their pockets are empty,
their mouths without sound,
their eyes no longer seeking the justice
only the living can find.

Shall we put our hands in our pockets
fingering the gold coins we keep warm
against another cold snap? And what if the gold
is less precious than bread,
silver the less than the tin sardines are sold in?

We dreamed and built our houses better,
higher on the hill than we expected. The climb
was worth it, here out of touch from the grimy fingers
that pretend only to want lunch but haven’t eaten in a week.

We hire singers to soothe the conscience which occasionally
prompts backstage of our private performances. When we
run out, we pay double for musicians to make up tunes
just to keep the background noise right up front
drowning the script good parents taught about
give, share, kind and doubt about our certainties
of who deserves dessert and who should be left out.
And we sing loudest when the band strikes up
“Amazing Grace”.

We need a new neighborhood, perhaps where the condos
are built of cardboard; the timeshare pools the puddles after rain.
We need neighbors by name, by cousin, by cuisine we’ve
never tasted and now, pockets empty, are free to dine.