Clouds and Architecture

Clouds and Architecture

Unexpected notions have come and
gone so often
that it seems the clouds have swept me up into
their architecture and laid me down
upon an unknown and soggy ground
that feels like familiar but hides
the humans that make crying worth the time.

It must come down to only this, having heard
the medical reports and read the latest issue of Science,
explaining addiction and pleasure, the dopamine and
neurotransmitters shooting skeet in my brain.

“PULL!”

And the send the tingle to my ears,
the rush to my cheeks,
the ache to my stomach’s pit,
and the hunt for the last thing that
made me half as happy as the last time.

When did my brain decide
it would be the guide from adolescence
to a middle class home? Who stole the
dreams I knew
would come true
because they were good.
I have outrun my days. The dreams are
bubbles burst on wind and sunless day.

One man said, (I trusted his sincerity)
for increased clarity, keep your joy bucket full.
What he could not see (nor could I tell till now)
the bucket is rusted out and holds
less than my most rapid fill. He meant well.

For those who will allow it,
who are also enshrouded with brain ticks
that make clouds into bricks of dizzy architecture:
To want to start all over again,
and be further from the beginning, within reach of the end
is the most dangerous pain; clouds and anti-depressants,
prayer and Sunday school lessons, are the tension rings
that prevent the whole things slipping into the rapids.

Did I mention I hate the fact that some friends are gone
and I would like to have them back?

Struggling Hard

Struggling Hard

(“He could see that the disciples were struggling hard, because they were rowing against the wind. Not long before morning, Jesus came toward them.” Mark 6:48a)

It was my mistake to presume such a common phrase
would tune your understanding to match my own. I own
my words.

It was my sleepless dreams that made the darkness seem
void, a rubbery mass of scratchy canvas, on which I attempted
 to write the greatest work I would ever begin.

To drop a phrase, the haze shrouded the wind from my apprehension,
and I collected mistake after mistake along the skimming surface.
I could no longer argue that I was young, that I was unspun without
filters to block words I wish I hadn’t wasted.

But there I went, dropping the bait, and it smelled like yesterday’s
salmon in the sun. Combined like wine and gasoline
my words were rendered useless; cuisine nor boats dotting the river,
could stop my tears from quivering once I heard my words

Placed on the plate and served back to myself.

Oh, take the wind again, and store it away behind the hills
along the river. Gather the gusts that prove I am helpless against
the wind or tide, day and night I’ve tried to render my offhand pointers
harmless (but the soil in which the seed is born knows better
the foliage that has borne no fruit, and is sterile by the time
another generation is ready to be harvested.)

If you would gather fruit, common as wild blackberries,
beware the thorns. I can only hope sweet was deep enough
to brave the prickly. I can only pray the nectar remained
upon your tongue like primary words in a young-readers
repetition.

Come, my Best, and see my strain. My words
are dust, and my fruit crumbles from the pain I hoped
would turn it sweet again.

How Great is God's Love

“How great is God’s love for all who worship him? Greater than the distance between heaven and earth!” Psalm 103:11

It is almost impossible to conceive of the love which God has for us. This single verse describes it as greater than the distance between heaven and earth. That is not to say, “as high as the atmosphere”, but “greater than all the universe which surrounds the earth.” In other words, limitless!

God Will Listen

God Will Listen

“God will listen to the prayers of those in poverty. He will not ignore them.” Psalm 102:17

It appears that our nation may be slowly pulling out of one of the longest recessions in its history. In the wake of financial distress people have lost jobs and homes. Many have had to file for government assistance for the first time in their lives. For some, their benefits ran out before they were able to find new employment or other aid.

Pencil Me In

Pencil Me In

(“Know that the LORD is God. It is he who made us, and we are his; we are his people, the sheep of his pasture.” Psalm 100:3)

Every club I venture application loses
all exhilaration by the first meeting I finally
attend (after knocking off three or four reasons
for putting off opening the door to a basement
or unused restaurant room smelling like rainy season.)

The usual u-shape, folding tables and plastic whitecloth,
the chairs back-to-back down the middle and the hamslice,
potato cheese, and coffee chilled in the cold cups left out
since the morning rush:

They are all fine people and never complain about the food,
although occasionally they mention the desserts leave something
to de desired,

And I know it is me, and not their traditions;
my apprehension, and not their conditions
that leave me eating alone at my desk (I call it
“more work than I can manage).

Golfing leagues pray for my slice,
bowling leagues are great guys, but the vests are weird,
and the shoes are smeared with antiseptic prevention.
All the service clubs want my attention,
then try to scoot me to their annual convention
with more guys where wear vests and buttons
and shake hands in very good faith.

So I know it is me, and not their expectations;
my silhouette, never their accusations
that leave me wanting to see
Shields and Yarnell at Union Square again.

Call me a loner, I’ll understand, (it takes me
months to call someone for coffee)
I will take my lumps; I know mud, I know sand,
and I remember play dough oozing through my hands.

Those are my thoughts while I await the reading
of the last meeting’s minutes and the not-so-bad
rhubarb muffins.

Defense

Defense

(“Be fair to the poor and to orphans. Defend the helpless and everyone in need.” Psalm 82:3)

I heard another story, a friend and a bully;
the bully may win, she wants to exit, stage west,
to another town she knows better than stay
where she must dress to avoid attraction,
find the right friends to get the right reaction,
and refrain from ever being herself best,
herself first, herself created to

Light the places that bullies walk
in the dark.

I took my wife to a show, and my daughter,
and her friend; $50 a seat for orchestra seats
underneath the balcony. “Wicked!” entertained,
richly entertaining a night when we felt, for
two or three hours
that at last we owned the world.

Walking, lightly, chattering and comparing
songs and acting, twists and pairings;
I think I got my bearings just two blocks down:
homeless he sat and barely met my eye. I saw him,
considered his clothing, and walked on. Not without caring,
but what could I do, having my car-full of company and
nothing left after a wellspent birthday out of town.

I heard another story, maybe the same bully, maybe the same girl;
and I would make it safe, a shelter, a red carpet with cameras popping,
interviews stopping her procession while bullies were not allowed to enter
without an invitation. She, and students like her, need to receive their
awards up front with stage lights blaring. This time, after
penciling a mental notation..I would rise

And she would receive, what I know she would earn…

A standing ovation.

River Response

River Response

(“Help us, O God of our salvation! Help us for the glory of your name. Save us and forgive our sins for the honor of your name.” Psalm 79:9)

Traction holds me tighter to this road than I
think
I ever intended.
The slips to sideways always sweat me
back to the middle, the safe lane furthest away
from the, oh, soft shoulder. I like the asphalt better
than ridges or gravel that make me spin,
grabbing me again at just the point I had
regained control.

The valleys call me, the river that percolates
green into froth and white below my sight,
beneath my hearing. I yearn for its banks of quiet
where choices won’t drag me ditching in overturned steel.

The river answers, the valley that circulates
lush into brown loam harmonizing the response
I wished for every tear-filled walk after failing to
control the steering, and losing my voce once again.

So now I do not waver, nor wander, nor explore;
all in the name of safety, all to reclaim my hasty name
I bragged about on Thursday and choked upon by Sunday.

You would think the river with her roar,
the valley with her pre-green pasture,
would remind me, even after more
chapters erased than written,
that the air is still perfume,
the floor soft as the footprints of a fawn,
and the ceiling still singing the song,
the variations on a theme composed eternities ago;

You would think that creation’s Glory
would call me still, though I slip upon the
rocks more often, when I tire of (no, I hate)
another 100 miles at the wheel.

The river and the road, sigh, may my soul remember the rumor
that there is One who receives honor from simple excursions
and impromptu picnics after all the forgiving
is done.

Buying Lunch & Jelly Beans

“By everything I did, I showed how you should work to help everyone who is weak. Remember that our Lord Jesus said, ’More blessings come from giving than from receiving.’” Acts 20:35

When I was first on my own, I shared an apartment with two other guys. Dave, Brad and I were all fairly new believers in Jesus, all of us coming to faith within the previous two years or so. We lived in Spokane, WA, and all worked in a strip mall in the north part of town. Dave sold shoes, I sold ski equipment, and, honestly I’ve forgotten what Brad sold.

No Deposit, No Return

“And nobody puts new wine into old wineskins. If he does, the new wine bursts the skins, the wine is spilt and the skins are ruined. No, new wine must go into new wineskins.” Mark 2:22

It makes sense I suppose, but I have become more nostalgic as I grow older. I cannot imagine a three-year-old reminiscing over the “good old days” when he was two. But, we do collect a body of loves and memories that grows greater with time. In junior high we may long for those days in grade school where we didn’t have to change classes. But, by the time we are well into adulthood we have a garage full of people and experiences tied to our heart.

All in my Head

All in my Head

(“…if by some chance they soften their hard hearts and make amends for their sins…” Leviticus 26:41b [The Message])

I meant to lose time, grow wings, fly high,
paint the sky of which the eagles sing
without the least pressure to rhyme their verses.

I meant to smile big, stand straight, hug true,
erase the blues and pain we blamed on fate
and finally trim the wick the exact quarter inch
which I was taught (more than once) would prevent
the candle’s tell-tale smoke.

I turn at every straightaway, look back and wonder what
is taking so long. The wings have not sprouted, the words are
pedantic, the help I promised is grim, and pain an excuse
that keeps me locked inside my own prison.

I miss every possible turn, the choices that might burn away
the rust and mould clinging to the slow-foot creep I call
my journey.

I can admit every misstep, I have, I will; I am willful
as all; why, when I desire wings, then, does the dust
not fly like a rooster tail when I leg the runway,
slight headwind and a clearday,
the tower giving me the ok,
but I never leave the ground; my old feet are leaden,
my heart saddened, and my tears over sins come unbidden
once I think forgiveness has healed me from the fall.

I will not forget Love, I promise. It rings like yesterday’s bells.
I will not cancel Faith, I refuse. It hides like the oyster’s pearls.

I must tell you the truth, the hope I keep dreaming,
the silence that still awakens me, has shaken me
so sleep is no solace, and day a harsh sentence.

It is all in my head, I know. That is what I dread.
Still, if I could grow wings…once more…
I would fly this time even though
I knew not what the flying was for.

Imagine Authors

Imagine Authors

(“They marveled at His teaching; for He taught them as an authority and not as the scribes.” Mark 1:22)

Permeating visible sky, filling crumble ground,
engaging brains like rain does waiting lawns,
truth speaks constantly; lecture and learner
share the same words like a breakfast bagel
cut down the middle.

Thunder floods some, rivers rumble around
boulders that amplify the whitespray
crash and dancing
like granite-sped delivery,
another well-spoken mystery that leaves
a forgotten file from the case history
of the world.

Imagine speaking leaves, budpoints just before bloom,
prologues to spring; laughing everything into color
overnight after rain. Imagine authors of motion,
planets wandering to get the next best view of the sun
and reporting their findings in a best-selling novel
in first hand omniscient prose.

Geometry numbed me, physics bored me,
Calculus ignored my stunned stop-motion
and went ahead anyway.

Truth spoke, and though duly noted,
no one volunteered to hand in the homework.

Pay Attention to Me!

“Answer me, Lord! You are kind and good. Pay attention to me! You are truly merciful.” Psalm 69:16

The only reason I feel comfortable to pray so directly as “Answer me,” is because I know God is kind and good. This is not the “Answer me” of a parent to a child who is withholding information. It is not the demand of a judge to a seated witness, nor is it the repetition of an unheeded request. This is the boldness of acceptance.

Never too Late

Never Too Late

(“Then Joseph put the body in his own tomb that had been cut into solid rock and had never been used. He rolled a big stone against the entrance to the tomb and went away.” Matthew 27:60)

That was it. It was over. Everything was finished. Isn’t that what Jesus whispered from the cross, one last throaty groan: “It is finished!” Joseph of Arimathea wished he could have done more. His family tomb was nearby, which was a good thing. There were only three hours from the time Jesus died until the start of the Sabbath.

Light Like Wind

Light Like Wind

(“Some of them dismissed him (Paul) with sarcasm: ‘What an airhead!’ But others, listening to him go on about Jesus and the resurrection, were intrigued: ‘That’s a new slant on the gods. Tell us more.’” Acts 17:18b [The Message])

Poetry connects the dots from wishes to
heaven; the delicious passion that embraces
the hopes that few speak out loud for fear of
the intellectual’s scoff or the artist’s sarcasm.

Poetry switches the darkness taught by
reason and tilted culture; sending light like wind
that lifts our curious notebooks out the window and
leaves only frames behind, a way to rebuild our rhymes
with opened eyes; after our arguments unwind, torn
and scattered, new mulch upon the gardens.

Poetry passes as doctrine and massive mentality,
or eases under the baby’s naptime nursery,
and still names, before the revealing, the hope
that unspoken foes will not confess this side
of cursory lines of free versing.

There was no dress rehearsal, no quick change reversal
in case the stones would not budge as angels nudged it open
for a better look at the hints that misty prophecy left
like modern poetry.

Poetry embraces the phrases that pierce the First Morning
of the New Week’s fierce waking alarm. Death was empty
and the corpse missing. Ancient poets and current angels
created stanzas of Never Fear and Eyes unBlind.

Poetry pointed out truth’s anointed, led dead
upon the stone and wrapped, and bled, and alone. The
Laureate unleashed the Final Word that met no decay
but, to us akin, bloomed unpruned, the final Epic unforced,

Was the New Begin.