Rejoice; the Almighty Reigns

“Hallelujah! The Lord our God, the Almighty, has become king.  Let us rejoice, be happy, and give him glory.” Revelation 9:6b, 7a

There have been more interpretations of the Book of Revelation than the number of church denominations throughout history. Whatever I write today will have as many detractors as those who say “Amen!” Whether we view the entire book as a tome of future events, an extended metaphor about Christ and the Church, or some combination of the two, there is blessing attached to its reading. “I’m coming soon! Blessed is the one who follows the words of the prophecy in this book.” Revelation 22:7

So There You Go

So There You Go

So there you go, changing your name again,
just when I thought I could listen without thinking
I must look for the measuring cup again. I’ve nearly
grown insane
wondering how to please the sirocco or reclaim
my fame again.

So there I see, flying ghosts over the top of me,
clouds transferring shapes and geometry, while
I scratch out my records, my diary, my poetry,
upon the black mud beneath my feet. The specters
seem more real to me.

So there I wait, smiling like the hungry,
just when I hoped the ship had slowed to turn back
my fortunes upon waves and swells of friendship;
the trade winds bringing the young man’s laugh
back to me.

So there I hear, once more, and again, like before,
at just the moment I imagined a new refrain from
the same singer on or off the stage. Though the
performance is weaker, the words are old and unchanged,
and we excuse the breathy enunciation simply because
they bring those blues and memories
back to me.

So there you go, the name unchanged again,
just when I learned the latest articulation
my tongue crash-lands against my front teeth again. I’ve nearly
grown silent
wondering what rhyme is improper, what theme will regain
my fame again.

A Thin Prism

A Thin Prism

You false distance that deceives friends and others,
Oh darkness that envelops mind and affection,
Oh words used to force graciousness beyond gravity’s pull.

The debates created to win a side have consigned
the lower lights of the spectrum to shine no more.

Oh light, rainbow full of hues, we abuse your beauty
and demand, not simple understanding,
but a full confession of indigo
and complete rejection of red.

I told you I would no longer address
arguments begun by lies. I clarified what
I did not say,
and the lies took hold anyway. And the stiff-arm
leaves me further away.

Please leave your anger in the parlor
before you enter your office to write
another letter that leaves little left to say.
We are all prism and light, some distance
is needed to see the artwork; great distance
is quackery masquerading as truth.

I reaffirm my stanza fourth,
you will find what you came looking for
no matter my words, my photos, my broken pieces
some see as clues to a crime,
some sing as blues and the times
(genuine), evidence of honest attempts
to be the red or green expected by the
green or the red. You will find either, both,
or none

Depending on what you predicted.

No Leftovers

“Some gathered much, some little. And when they measured it by the omer, the one who gathered much did not have too much, and the one who gathered little did not have too little. Everyone had gathered just as much as they needed.” Exodus 16:17b, 18

Some leftovers are famously better than the first day they are made. I’ve heard people swear that pizza is better the next day, eating it cold from the refrigerator for breakfast the next morning. I’ve never tried it, I can’t get over the image of a big triangle of dough and tomato sauce sticking out of my cereal bowl. I’ll have chopped bananas with my Wheaties, please.

Keep Following

“Here is a call for the endurance of the saints, those who keep the commandments of God and hold fast to the faith of Jesus.” Revelation 14:12

What do you do when the odds seem against you? What happens when everything you’ve staked your faith on seems to be crumbling around you? Have you ever come to a crisis of faith, a challenge to the things you have committed your life to?

Slow Precision

Slow Precision

(“And he said to the human race, ‘The fear of the Lord—that is wisdom, and to shun evil is understanding.’” Job 28:28)

One day soon the soles of my shoes will
match up sure with the beats of my heart;
every path I’ve taken will imprint unshaken the
truth
discovered unhindered by fear of remonstration.

There was a graphic of a leaf, modern and one-dimensionally green;
single strokes made up each vein and the contours open and unconnected.

They were oblong like the blueberry leaf, toothless and smooth. No
shadow or relief, simple passes of the brush across the glass door they
adorned.

With a dozen or more slow curves the leaf took shape, breaking the space
between the glass invisibility.

What had taught my brain to perceive a leaf from an artist’s deft brush?
What had taught her brain besides, that I would recognize her green lines
and fill in the spaces?

And so a leaf grows from the branch of the blueberry, creation’s
perfection, the verdure open to the sky and spotted with indigo;
and so a leaf grows from nature’s design, flows through the human
curious mind, and lives upon glass that I pass from time to time.

The precision in Spring; buds, the leaves and blooms, and final;
the offering of her fruit in blue, the succulent sac where life
is wrapped, a hundred seeds to die in the dark ground again
to begin the precise pace of the next life which one artist
may rewrite again.

Shall I call truth the bush and folly the art? Does Creation own
the patent for awe, or may my fascination be also called
wonder at the works wrought by mere human fingerlings?

Wisdom is the slow precision, and waits like Spring
for the evidence to begin.

Cut the Strings

Cut the Strings

(“Yet God knows every step I take; if he tests me, he will find me pure.” Job 23:10)

I should have researched this bit before I wrote, and, if I rewrite,
perhaps I will;
but what is it they call the strings by which they machine marionettes,
and what are they made of; what fiber, what source? Plant, like hemp
or linen?
Animal, like sheep gut? Or a manufactured blend, rayon, cotton and
spandex for stretch?

It does not matter much, except for the words I might have used
to describe
the life
of the girl with strings attached to every joint, every limb, her
several fingers and several toes. Without the slightest knowledge,
no hints or shadows upon the wall, her moves were less human
than she ever imagined. Yet, human to the core, the subtle
resistance of muscle against the tugging of string
produced the tiniest blisters, imperceptible stings over
years of performing the dance of the puppeteer’s perfection.

Once or twice, looking over her shoulder, she thought she caught
a breath, a change of wind from outside her body. Most assured her,
some remonstrated her hallucination, most carried on the
dance of the puppeteer’s perfection.

Days were tossed without second thoughts, nights were slept
with annoying plots that seeped into sundial perception;
a slow blend of reverie and real. She put up with what
she never saw.

Until she was set aside, strings untied and hanging on the wall,
dark and light were just the same, night and day were unacquainted.
Ashamed and cast off in the attic above the garage, her dreams
and her daytime reflections tugged for power over which
would oversee an
unfeigned sanity.

That is when, between dream and waking, she heard the crack,
the boxed thunder of a mighty limb, old and weighed down,
finally falling from tree to ground. She knew the truth,
sorely hidden, that was the moment, her brain broke
literally.

She ran the race of paranoia, seeing puppeteers in each
grain of sand. She grabbed only one hand, her own, with
thoughts still vying for competence.

Slowing as she ran, as she ran out, as she ran out of breath,
the knots which were knit upon each joint and limb
were more familiar than her own name. They were
her making,
puppet and puppeteer, she ran, and ran herself down
the same.

The strings we hate; attached to people’s words now gone,
are strings we tied to a passing glance on one day,
a smiling invitation the next, a trial, a conviction,
an inscription on our skin left by leather applied
when our conniption fits would not subside. The strings
we hate

Are enough to write the definition across our brow.

With no sign of reliance, we can stand or dance,
unenhanced by performance or perfection,
the simple human dance, resurrected messy and late

We are better unstringed and sometimes unhinged.

A Plea for Restraint

“Lord God All-Powerful, you are and you were, and we thank you. You used your great power and started ruling.” Revelation 11:17

Who is God to me? Is He just someone I refer to, hoping He will rubber stamp my preconceived notions? My heart breaks over so many followers of Jesus invoking His name to lobby for personal interest. I am baffled over the pettiness and ill will toward people who disagree with us. We don’t inquire of their personal faith, nor their own walk with God; No, they support gun control, they want health care reform, and suddenly, they can’t be followers. I have purposely left out two of the most volatile push-button issues because a strong Biblical case can be made for a particular opinion or stand on them.

Hope for the Broken

“Moses told this to the Israelites; but they would not listen to Moses, because of their broken spirit and their cruel slavery.” Exodus 6:9

There are few greater joys in my life than my three children. Though they all are now grown and out of the house, the memories of their childhood and the relationship we have as adults combine to give me great delight. I loved watching their first steps as babies, and their first steps into college, family and careers. I am grateful to have three loving, yet very different children.

More Placid

More Placid

(“The smoke from the incense went up from the angel’s hand to God with the prayers of God’s people.” Revelation 8:4)

The air was stirred from placid to startling darts, turning direction
upon the compass; fully cold from the northern slopes, to the dry east
and dust, pivoting around to come up the south, a full-torque push from
industry’s center with smoke, to the final quarter, spitting sand and sea water
from the west. Assuming to know its pattern, the wind would reverse, traversing
the paths it had just forged.

It had been silent to begin the day. The river glass, the breeze as frail as
the elder’s dying gasp. Though midwinter, the sun pretended itself fully ablaze,
and many left their coats for single sweatshirts; to begin the day.

The coffee walked up and down the short main street, the bitter brew
sweetened my mild and foam, left it’s fragrance like a specter; with happy
conversation about children home from college and a year, now over,
breath is held for what the new will bring.

But late afternoon, like the loose foam of skim milk, fingerling clouds pointed
toward the dying sun, and, having begun, thought to take it in their grasp, to
tackle the fiery orb before it settle past the ground. Downstream forty miles
you would have seen the reinforcements, the low, dark gray the meets the
blue-white ocean’s horizon.

The storm would break in before the coffeeshops closed. It swirled around
old stand apple orchards, ripping winter’s branches and tossing them toward
the lean-to barn a hundred yards away. Twisting or straight, the winds invoked
the short circuit electricity from cloud to ground, the goliath spark with the
timpani shudder shortly after.

There was more fear than actual damage, though the damage done was
damage done well. A sniper storm which took out its mark and left others alone.

Holed up with candles after the transformer went down, people played Monopoly,
huddled in assurance, and found few ways to quit the shivering pets. Some prayed.

I have never seen the smoke, but I know the aroma. It is like the young lover’s
envelope,

sealed with a kiss and spotted with perfume. How Heaven must rejoice at
the petitions of love His people send; troubled or serene, on angels’ wings
the request arrive before spoken. And like the moment the letter is sent,
the anxious heart, once darted with apprehension, finds hope’s best dream
has slowed the nervous pulse and replaced it with an atmosphere
more placid.

Days of Dawn

Days of Dawn

The lonely poet who sought with words to
sift truth through images waits for the ice like dust
to dissolve as the days plays on.

Some days, like Hugo described, are dawn from
beginning to end. Others, though, long past noon,
begin with the setting sun and end just the same.

He used to write profusely with pen, never scratching out a word,
never editing his thoughts for fear of discovery. He wrote to
be discovered;
he wrote to mine hopeful treasures and hold them to the light.

He wrote with broken emotion, he wrote of the night light
reflecting the silky hair of his brunette first love. He wrote
of death, “an ode to Jimi and Janis”, before he had lost even
a relative or close friend. He thought he knew, or could uncover,
what the rivers meant that ran just below the surface of reflection.

He composed unrhymed verse and rhythmic prose, twenty or so
stapled and offered to aunts and uncles Christmas and birthdays. His
critics never breathed.

And then he was silent for two decades or more, busy, it seemed,
with speaking the lines others suggested would pay better than poetry.
He liked Berkeley, college and town, but spent his life on prairies and
rivers learning rural winds. Buildings and pavement were the wind-rows
of his youth and air like asphalt.

He took the pen again midlife, excuse the metaphor; for he clicked the
letters processed into words, leaving the pen behind. Lines were neater,
and words more legible this time.

He writes alone, and wishes his topics were more bouquets and wine;
but this is his cheap therapy, the unedited motions of hurts over time.
He writes alone, and yet is loved more than he knows…and he knows
he is loved; but that river still flows under the sound of words he
was taught were proper. He still wants to discover

Who the writer is within, and why the river is so quiet this time of life.

Against the Bias

“He will certainly correct you if you’ve been secretly partial.” Job 13:10

Were you ever the teacher’s pet? Or were in you a class which had one? Or maybe you grew up in a family where one child was favored. We may view these as harmless choices based on common interests, but through Scripture God continuously admonishes us about showing partiality.

Table for Two, Please

(“Listen! I am standing at the door and knocking! If anyone hears my voice and opens the door I will come into his home and share a meal with him, and he with me.” Revelation 3:20)

A long-standing discussion starter is the question, “What person, living or dead, would you like to have dinner with?” Sometimes the question asks for the “top six” people, or asks you to put together a dinner party from five to 10 of your favorites. When asked as a poll question, Jesus Christ invariably ends up in the top 10, usually in the top five.

A Little Power

A Little Power

(“I know what you do; I know that you have a little power; you have followed my teaching and have been faithful to me. I have opened a door in front of you, which no one can close.” Revelation 3:8)

She stumbled, famished and fatigued, not because
she was weak, but her strength had been used
following the narrow road which lead to the craggy peak
where the storehouse of favor was kept.

Yet others, starting later, insisted she stand on her own,
thought her eyes were hollow, her breath shallow and
her heart
pounding so loud it echoed off the circuit of judges
around her.

She could barely turn her head, let alone keep her children fed,
and left her home years ago to follow a dream she hoped would speed
the promises that hard work pays off in the end.

But, for a season, her legs forsook her, her sight blurred and
silence stirred where once the music sent her dancing on her way,
this day and the next, closer to the summit, further towards the crest
where she would show them, finally, that she was as strong as
all the rest.

She was not near death, though she might have welcomed it;
instead she felt every unspoken thought, every backward glance
that suspected she indeed was like
all the rest

Who live in cardboard houses and pay for groceries with stamps.

She had started alone, the crowd carried each other’s weight,
she was on her own. And upon their offer of help her eyes brightened.

Just the thought renewed a moment’s strength until…

They requested, kindly of course, that she be tested for drugs and
the tendency to cheat because they had their numbers in a row,
and they were tired of paying for the poor who seemed
to always buy more than they needed.

No one remembered words about giving two coats when asked for one,
a second mile following the first one,
and freely giving for we who started later, in our vigor,
had freely received, after all.

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

(“To everyone who conquers, I will give permission to eat from the tree of life that is in the paradise of God.” Revelation 2:7b)

Without a table of contents we sometimes circle the day,
a striped tiger stalking our prey, a confused schoolboy
hoping the bully away, a groggy philosopher tilting a new
thought he remembered casting away.

There are too many fences laid out like mazes following
the fall line,
then creeping around the hills in topographical outlines.

One fence-line wraps around the next and higher,
each step closer to the green crest where Manzanita grows;
from there you can see the how the cows have precisely marked
their level paths around the hill.

I was asked once; no, challenged. I was challenged once in a letter,
a question really, meant to be an assault, asking me if, according to
words Jesus’ spoke, whether I had “eyes to see and ears to hear.”

The writers assumed I had gone deaf, I think. Blindness had blackened me.
And, if asked at the time of their writing, what tree paradise might bring me,
I think they would consider that hidden knowledge, and go back to listening
better and
seeing
clearer
than comrades, brothers, or best friends who sat at lunch for hours.

I only listened, didn’t I? You described her, didn’t you? The love, your first,
your darling, who was beauty itself to you. Though I never met her, through
the tears at lunch, I understood why you loved her. And I could see the glow
that made you love her madly.

I skinned my knees beyond belief when you and others briefly questioned
my hearing.

But it’s alright now, time has stopped the bleeding, and the tree is ready
for me to climb. I know you believe I’ve been restored, done the hard work,
fallen more times than possible, yet here I am still in the running. Of all
the ones who questioned my vision,
none confessed their own circles the kept them joyless. It was a puzzle,
that the heard so well, saw so clear, but spoke so sad at the joy of spring.

But it’s alright now, the spring has dawned unheeded. The parallel shafts
didn’t ask permission to bathe the crest of the hill with golden light.
It’s alright now, I’m lost in the circle, I’ve learned the hands that, one
reaching left, one
reaching right,
forgets the circle of straying. Instead
hand on hand, we open the light between us,
left/right holding left/right, we move clockwise around the room
the Round Dance, intertribal and lively.

It’s alright now, I’ve found the movement that suits me,
the music I longed to hear,
and paradise’s tree seen clearly now. It’s alright now, old friend,
we might have been only sleeping.

First Love

“But I have this complaint against you. You don’t love me or each other as you did at first!” Revelation 2:4

It was a great organization, full of people who worked hard and never gave up. Even when money nearly ran out and people told them they were foolish, they kept working toward their goal. They wouldn’t put up with evil people. They held the line in regards to moral behavior. Committed to the rules of their founder, they knew that a little leaven can destroy an entire batch of dough.

Reasons to Celebrate

“Remember this month as a time when our sorrow was turned to joy, and celebration took the place of crying. Celebrate by having parties and by giving to the poor and by sharing gifts of food with each other.” Esther 9:22

There was a 5 year old girl with eyes as round as saucers and her 7 year old sister with her blonde hair with French braids. There was a young teenage girl, quiet and shy and her mom. They could be twins if they weren’t mom and daughter. There was a set of twins, one married a little over a year to her man who carries the heart of a donor within his mid-20s chest. The other twin, a single mom, has seen her life take a full 180 degree turn for the better in recent months. There was a grandmother who has struggled with drug use, but her face reflects both her past, and something new within. And there was veteran who walks with a cane; the result of a broken back in service to his country. A man who would give away all he had to help those in need around him.

My Introduction

My Introduction

(“So he handed over everything he had to Joseph and didn’t pay attention to anything except the food he ate.” Genesis 39:8)

If I could introduce you anew to my self
I believe I would take the chance and offer the true.
Time has passed and, with each year the misunderstandings
multiply until
you and I
are left behind by the scars words marked upon redwood
picnic tables and
summer camps. We held hands.

If I could tell you, without fear of abuse, that I have loved
every person I’ve met. I regret my mouth, sometimes my youth,
in unwitty stupidity,
poked fun at a grimy sore I had not seen. He was such an angry
man
and I loved him for the pain he still carried from his first love.
I never looked for social motivations; psychological motives
are a guessing game for me. I am no scientist
and never looked for clients, only friends. Nothing else mattered,
their pain, their pursuits, diluted aspirations or cast-iron stains.

To a few I gave my heart; not lovers, but a simpatico few
I assumed
would treat it gently, having seen the maze of scars.
Because some wore their spike as they walked across my soul,
because a few wore a mask I did not recognize and tore at my spirit
like a cat with tissue paper,
fewer know me now, and my tree has two, maybe three good limbs
with leaves that may sprout in the spring.

I once loved a study groups and discussion panels,
walks in the Oakland hills or wandering book shop aisles
filled with old ink and early editions. Mostly tattered in
bins on Telegraph in Berkeley; sometimes Los Gatos;
they are the friends who, giving them my spirit, have never
wiped their feet upon it pretending to clean up my mess.

Some leave me lonely, some with horror and pain,

but, having begun the story, I am always certain my own soul
will not suffer at the hands of fiction inscribed by genius. Perhaps
turning each page,

I will walk, once more out of that space between odd and even
and let a trusted one peek within my heart again.

If I were an author, I would say my private time is all about
creating the next world that, exposing everyone, exposes none.