To Give You Pause

To Give You Pause

(“As soon as Jehudi finished reading three or four columns, the king cut them off with a small knife and threw them into the fire. He kept doing this until the entire scroll was burned up.” Jeremiah 36:23)

Of all the scripts and quatrains,
plays and prophecy, epics on papyrus,
battles recorded in cuneiform,
or shopping lists on ostraca,
ever discovered in Palestinian caves,
Nag Hammadi or Alexandria;

Of all the word that is written,
from tongue to pen or stylus,
more has been stung by power
masquerading as benevolent
editors for the masses.

Read them while you can, young ears,
dig beneath the pages the poets fill sparsely,
breathe between the words, the

s
t
o
p

meant to give you pause.

Selah.

Form the words round like apples,
tell the tales passed down the annals
from aunts to nieces, the bits and pieces
filled by the color of age and rendition.

From the heroes who fight like gods above us,
to forests where honey runs for deer and cubs;
read the dusty one set down weeks and years,
peek in streaks through anthologies and catalogues
of high jumps and the most burps in a sitting;
and open the locked ones, the blocked ones,
the hidden you’ve only heard talked about in
hushed tones and forbidden.

Open the pages, let them open the sky,
open the vowels, the consonants, sentences,
and paragraphs; tables, columns and dialogue;
the styles adorning the naked truth,
the Word made Flesh by the first utterance:

“Good”.

No Fear

 “God has not given us a spirit of fear. But he has given us a spirit of power and love and self-control.” 2 Timothy 1:7

Comedian Jerry Seinfeld observed that the number one fear is publicly speaking, with number two being the fear of death. He then quipped, “So I guess if you are at a funeral, you would rather be in the coffin than give the eulogy.” Thankfully, God doesn’t ask us all to be public speakers.

Be the Words

"Be the Words"

(“Timothy, my child, Christ Jesus is kind, and you must let him make you strong.” 2 Timothy 2:1)

Where did the fight originate?
The one that started on the street and landed at the feet
of open mouthed bystanders who lived within inches
of the scraped knees that skid across uncrossed words
meant for lower targets.

Flames grab the minds with fist rarely squeezed until
a day, walking past a yesterday friend, she heard the words
that have no more spark than bare feet scuffling across
a dry day shag carpet and shaking hands with the first door
knob
inside.

But the words itched the tiny hairs within her hearing,
the diminutive bones inside her ears and without a snap
or spark to jump the gap from hurt to reason
the battle was drawn, the sides joined, the fight begun,
the coins of the realm minted to buy the truth
to prove who would lose and who had won.

So the strong thought. And so the weak responded.
So the bullies sneered. And so the prey still shivered.
The playgrounds and board rooms,
the courtrooms and ground rules,
the sanctuaries and park benches
are never out of bounds of humanities
skewed frames of reference.

Be strong, be kind; be the strong who is kind,
be the kind who kills with kindness,
be the strength who loves the abuser
without moving, words the firm with a whisper.

Be young and strong, the kind that defies newday dna,
be the kind who loves the victim
without prior approval, words the tender with eyes
unblinking.

The Good of the City

“Work for the good of the city where I’ve taken you as captives, and pray to Yahweh for that city. When it prospers, you will also prosper.” Jeremiah 29:7

Do you feel out of place? As followers of Jesus, I suspect we will experience this more often than not. Most of the world’s values run counter to the teachings of Jesus. Notice I said “world” and not “our society”. I am actually weary of hearing constant complaints about how “our society” is becoming more and more ungodly.

Layers, Decades and Slow Curves

Layers, Decades and Slow Curves

The wardrobe I rode in and out of town
I changed for the eyes that would see me
entering from dinner and a movie or
exiting to the hospital 70 miles east.

I could switch so fast then, wake when asked then,
that the wrinkles hardly had time to mark the angle
of my sitting.

Widows at home; white hair, doilies and tea;
the table set for her son’s birthday impromptu with
cake and Down’s Syndrome grins.
A drunk friend alone; doorbell, phone calls and pleas;
the table riddled with half-empty cans, flies and cats
and I sit with my the gentle again.

Day was early, sometimes fog and frost painted the trees
until noon at least.
But still mid-September the sun could manage a feast near
late afternoon; hours before the first full moon asked
us all to watch north past midnight; crashing breakers
in the air,
green and ghost-hued dances while men talked outside
the North Segment Hall
about the approach of deer season; sighting rifles
and walking razorbacks.

I kept up with committees and new friends,
uninvited popups with questions, phone calls with impressions
(maybe I quivered a bit back then)
and smile and wish they might call me again.

Waking now is a slow refrain, long chords held a full measure,
vamped and waiting the lifting of my head. And, there is a place
I hide

Every single tear

That I am no longer the same man,
no longer ready and aimed,
no longer brain-bursting with another idea to try.

I beg an answer while I dream, and all that seems to answer
is a white screen with soundtrack synched like bad jazz.

On the Intrusive Nature of Memories, Images and Emotions from Decades Long Past

On the Intrusive Nature of Memories, Images and Emotions from Decades Long Past
(Subtitled: Cute Shoes)

Time and its images sang its parade starting
backwards from the day the thought sprang
from fertile soil, sun dark and warmed. No
entry in the line of fire engines and clowns,
marching bands from out of town
and free handouts from the church on the hill
could explain the train of thought that
held every moment captive to days of play
when a child’s world was larger than the
astronomer’s discovery of yet one more
outer boundary to the border no one has yet

Surveyed.

Lifting Holy Hands

“Therefore, it is my wish that when the men pray, no matter where, they should lift up hands that are holy — they should not become angry or get into arguments.” 1 Timothy 2:8

People often struggle with knowing God’s will. You can attend seminars to discover the secrets of finding God’s guidance. Book after book is written to help answer the question, “What does God want from my life?”

Late the Sounds

Late the Sounds

(“Who among you fears the Lord? Who obeys his servant? Whoever walks in deep darkness, without light, should trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God.” Isaiah 50:10)

Late the sounds we've held in memory careen
on waves like storm fronts in battle array. A song
we danced to and background conversation meet
in the middle above the microwave beeps and beneath
the four year old screams; no one seems to notice,
staring at the shared-screen movie with sub-titles on.

But one hears, each noise echo off wall and floor at
the same level, the volume building as each source is
added; punctuated by pain above the temples which has
eaten through the filter. All is loud, all is equal,
all is surround, each voice a crowd, every whisper
a personal intrusion into the life that once
played in sound like

a child in a bathtub with water running.

He goes downstairs before his crinkled brow betrays him,
staying as long as he can with each noise that families never
live without. It is the mix of yelps and lapping, the puppies
clicking their nails on the hardwood floor. It is the
“Dr. Who” gladly, the granddaughter proudly, the son returned
from Guatemala, peaking his Peace Corps stay upon the highest
volcano. It is the oldest son with wife, the youngest daughter
wrestling for the place on the sofa with both boys she tells
the entire universe about. Every vibration is celebration;
a family as comfortable as Christmas.

But for the one whose head has become anvil for the hammer,
he hopes no one thinks he loves the noise any less
than former days when he shouted the loudest at guessing
the winning answer late into the night.

Water that Runs

Water that Runs

(“But blessed are those who trust in the Lord and have made the Lord their hope and confidence.” Jeremiah 11:7)

Before I thought about the morning moving on

so quickly and afternoon racing toward the final turn

I could swear I had wasted another day. There is

a pillow on the couch where I lay my head, a case

washed twice a week, and a blanket with occasional shreds

where the quilt has dropped a thread or two. I sleep till

noon, I wish.

When I do not, on Monday most, I choose a movie near 10

and watch till noon. The pillow holds my thoughts, the blanket

my security and the cat, white and black, visits me prone,

nesting upon my chest and, face to face, insists she is queen

of the moment. Who is to say she isn’t.

It is impossible to tell now, lazy or pain. I would rather

putt a green or cycle the hills, the afternoon valve to release

the cooked-up schemes of my swarmed imagination.

See here, the way I trust. The way I used to. A drive to the ocean,

tennis with an ever-drooping forehand, or just hardcopy

and coffee

where the shards of afternoon are pieced on tables of conversation.

Why should I bow to electrons that strangle the proper music and dance?

Why should this phantom (there is neither mass nor matter) make each

thought chatter while outside rivers and sunshine are a chef’s perfect savor?

But the vise grinds and my brain whines at a ghost that hitchhikes my neurons.

The passenger is invisible, the itinerary a drumline from eyeball to eyeball,

cervical vertebra to dura mater; it does not matter that it will not kill me;

the unknown traveler has squeezed my arms past uncle.

Here are the pieces of my afternoon, a few forgotten invitations,

a commercial for shampoo and a movie about a speed jump-rope athlete;

it is all so fleeting, and yet I move through mud with the few thoughts

I can capture,

still (sometimes, some not) enraptured in this drought by

the streams of water that runs from (somewhere, always here)

throne to (all) His own.

Please Play

Please Play

(“Let us look for someone who can play the harp. When the black mood from God moves in, he’ll play his music and you’ll feel better.” 1 Samuel 16:16)

Please won’t you play another song from your memory,
a song that grew from candle rooms to coffee houses,
the lilt that learned the notes (by note) without rote repetition,
the decoration like the fragrance at the highest tip of nouveau perfume.

Please slide the bow across the strings, let them sing like homesickness,
please begin with the melodies we both know from childhood,
the words that stir within us, the comfortable stew we always knew
we would remember.

Mouth the words as you play the tune, a cadence for kings with
faraway eyes.

Please sing the passion that drove us to smile,
please renew the reels, jigs and blues,
pick a shanty of ships at sea,
improvise it handily, help my heart repeat with you
the stories from work and companions who never penned
a word or note.

I will not play this time, nor attempt to follow the designs,
the rhymes fool me, the changes escape me,
but your virtuosity schools me, your phrases reshape me,
and I would lie upon my wooden floor, back and head
unpillowed,

and stare at nothing but the memory that a single afternoon
may still my stormy imaginations. I would travel a day
and another, and return just the same,
to hear you play only for me once again.

Of Pride and Paying Attention

“Listen, and pay attention! Don’t be arrogant. The Lord has spoken.” Jeremiah 13:15

It really is the same old story; our mouths are what get us into a world of trouble. I was recently in a meeting where a committee member commented on a line item in the budget. His comment was obviously wrong, based on a misreading of the item. But, even after being shown the correct reading by more than one committee member, he continued by saying, “I know what it says. This has actually been an issue for a long time.” Instead of saying, “Oh my, I see that, I misread it”, he insisted he was correct with the evidence right in front of his nose.

Miss the Mojave

Miss the Mojave

(“All of you are children of light and children of the day. We don’t belong to night or darkness.” 1 Thessalonians 5:5)

All I can say is we finally arrived,
travelling all night; summers from Southern
Cali
made frightful a daytime passage through Needles.
90 degrees at midnight, the darkness was dense
as the day.

I missed the Mojave; shadows of yucca were
moonlight silhouettes that moved across the dark floor;
shadow boxes viewed from the back of our desert
whale cruiser. The black Rambler station wagon
swallowed the desert heat and smothered the sleep
right out of us. Dad never paid for air conditioning;
and if we had it, he wouldn’t run it,
we sacrificed cool comfort for increased gas mileage.

One summer we returned so quickly we had to brave
the pounding sun on cracked sand hot as concrete.
Though sweat beaded up and vanished in a single thought,
the colors grabbed our collective complaints as
the death the dark insinuated was alive with the light
we hurriedly pursued.

Prickly pears with tiny yellow blooms,
Beavertail with magenta on outcropped rocks,
Red spines on Mohave clusters spiked their diameter
in tangled mass; scarlet dots the side of the stems.

Mesa and flatland, thunderheads and chuckwallas
swing the panorama from station wagon panel to panel.

Life was scarce, true enough, but not the phantom we saw in the
careful midnight crossing.

The radiator blew, dad always knew, and we never flew again
without checking our watches for midnight across
the great Mojave. 

Increase and Abound

“And the Lord make you to increase and abound in love one toward another, and toward all men, even as we also do toward you.” 1 Thessalonians 3:12

Every follower of Jesus would agree that His commands include loving others. Based on His teachings, we would have to admit that it is the highest command. He tells us that the first command is loving God with all our heart, mind, soul and strength, and the second is “like it”, loving our neighbor as ourselves. He tells His disciples to obey His “new” command, “Love each other the same way I have loved you.” And, in the same conversation He tells them the world will recognize they are His followers by that very thing; their love for one another.

Just in Case

Just in Case

(“But I gave them this command: Obey me, and I will be your God and you will be my people. Walk in obedience to all I command you, that it may go well with you.” Jeremiah 7:23)

The world smiles like a museum with all
the still life behind glass. There’s no point in reading photographs
when the mammoths are all dead or millennia asleep.

The church smells like cinnamon and coffee with
all the saints lined after line. There’s no point in reading liturgy
when we entertain from sanctified stages. I do love theater,
just the same.

All I would truly do, I still make sure I do with a point
upstairs. God is my token, an amulet worn around my neck
to show up in photographs published by amateurs
who take all I say as evidence. All I say as witness.

All I say as elephant gray standing in the way of
my postcard behavior.

Why obey what God didn’t say? And, why, of course,
point His way if there is no certainty at all. But we keep
our candles lit just in case,
hum our hymns, rework the words, to keeps us
comfortable between truth and idols.

I am the worst, I am the first at scraping my knees and
calling it prayer.
I lead the line, my smile the fine wrinkle that I am holy
now, holier than thou, and have led the breadth and depth of
my scorecard behavior.

What if time has run out for my indulgence,
and the next word is the last evidence of my existence?
What if I leave the museum pieces, untie my laces
and share a slice of pie with the unknown injured,
whose face I’ve known for ages.

Trophies

”For who is our hope or joy or crown of exultation? Is it not even you, in the presence of our Lord Jesus at His coming?” 1 Thessalonians 2:19

Andy Murray ended the Wimbledon drought for the Men’s Championship. From Dunblane, Scotland, Murray is the first Brit to win the coveted title in 77 years. It was a long three set battle with all the ups and downs one would want to see in an Open Championship. Lasting over three hours, extremely long for a three-set match, Murray seemed to have it won when, in the final game of the third set, he was ahead 40-0 on his own serve. One more smashing point and he would hold the coveted trophy high.

Church as Family

(“Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.” Colossians 3:13)

If you are I are to know joy and freedom there are six words that must be part of our regular vocabulary: “I am sorry” and “I forgive you”. Simple ideas and nothing new, but revolutionary when we determine to practice them.

I'm Trying

I'm Trying

(“So, chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength, discipline.” Colossians 3:12)

For, though they seemed hidden, every goal slow to appear
still tugged my tired ambitions along; when I wished they
would dematerialize (you realize, without their existence
I could plead my lack of resistance) they reappear every
night I think the sun has laid its head for the final time
upon the ocean's horizon.

I have become the enemy I distaste, the one who thinks
he follows as well as the rest,
all the while disguising his limp,
or using it as a lesson holy perseverance
for the better bodied.

I weep when I would joy, I stand still for hours
after
the starting pistol has discharged its empty cartridge.
I sleep, not well. I wake with eyes undecided;
|swelled due to pain or dreams I cried in.

I see the mountain, love the alpine air,
happy the crunch of untouched sheets of snow.
I carry the sun life upon my forehead,
it lifts me well to the spearheaded trail
and the peak I've preached and stumbled.

Young, I danced at the chances, and pain was
muscles learning their strength.
Now, the feet tap slightly, and every ache
a reason to stay inside and lock the doors.

It is not what I asked for, nor foreordained,
but, unexplained I've run out of wishes,
and cry that all my trying leaves me waiting
for some Samaritan's donkey to take me the rest of the way.