Twisted

Twisted

(“Whoever wants to become great among you must serve the rest of you like a servant. Whoever wants to become the first among you must serve all of you like a slave.” Mark 10:43b-44)

It is easy to walk backwards with the wind,
even with no explanation offered, even while laughter’s daughter
points out or weaving path; it is easy to walk backwards, even
against the wind. We do not miss where we’ve been, and will
quickly see
where we are going.

It is twisted to want the basement apartment,
or to have erase our listing from Who’s Who and our
Human of the Year award.
It is bent, born with alien genetics to dream a destiny
with mainly both hands and all our fingers submerged
below greasy suds of a sub-par kitchen.
It is perverted to climb under forgotten bridges to
network with nameless faces; it is shameless to befriend
the unbankable, amend the unthankable, spend the unspendable
on every anonymous concert whispered to private orphans and
silent widows.

It is easy to talk sideways inches from the script and
days away from the grand production. Hear my elocution,
my precise enunciation, as I quote every solution for
drugs and poverty and pollution from my
raised dais (crane your necks please), and standing on my head;

You can pay twice the price if you attend again tonight.

An Indifferent Start

An Indifferent Start

(“For sound advice is a beacon, good teaching is a light, moral discipline is a life path.” Proverbs 6:23 [The Message])

He broke free without shattering; the first time,

after many times; trying times and crumbling before

he even began.

But this time he burst up the scene, without breaking,

and the same sun which shone upon every failure until then

Shone this time as well.

About Time

About Time

(“The Lord is good to all, and has compassion on all he has made.” Psalm 145:9)

It was about time the rain stopped, about time the sun held sway
against yesterday’s angry skies. Nearly everyone noticed:
walking dogs, barking seals, daffodils budging above the clods;
a sweet dulcimer with soft hammered songs,
mowers buzz-cutting their shaggy lawns,
children squeal, sunlight heals, dancing blooms bestowed applause.

It was about time, we had waited to see the signs of relief,
each blistering gale that grabbed branches like swords,
ripped roof tiles and aimed them like discs toward the hills
decorated with debris. It was about time the lights came on

Where one could see burrows beneath fallen limbs,
bell-flowers awake and yawning misty investiture of Spring.

What if we are Hand-made? What if we are hard copy original,
a single-run print of a Grand idea that could never be repeated?
What if, just like sculptor’s work in wood, we are perfect and marred;
would we, unalarmed, love the art that left signature cuts rugged
and against the grain?

When the sun and breeze meet together where the seal couple
arrive each year about this time, listen to the miniature waves
hit the stones and lose some time wondering about music’s rhythm,
watercolor’s suspense, creation’s timing and the sheer nonsense of

Poetry’s thin attempts of anything concrete at all.

Sad Language

Sad Language

(“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test my thoughts.” Psalm 139:23)

I should be playing in the light, the sunshine dancing on my cheeks.
I should be walking with a friend, the conversation arcing across the air.
I should be a joy-well, a love-all, and faith-full, yet

My tears increase, my heart is incomprehensible, speaking its own

Sad language.

My younger self cried as well, but spent at least the same time smiling.
We wrote songs on the fly, knew the tunes to music we had never heard,
spent hours on the tennis courts, afternoons at the pool, faced fears
(me with more tears than most), and were sure we knew Jesus well,
so well we changed political affiliations, church denominations, and
dropped out of theater class.

The warning signs have been there, one hairpin curve at a time. My mind,
more certain than ever of Christ my King, my Lord, my Shepherd, and
my Friend; my mind has left behind the costume I thought was required
attire. Wearing Jesus only, I feel naked.

Once full of words authorities defined, my mind cries like a baby for
its native language. My Japanese friend told me her parents never taught
her the language (“We are Americans now”, they said). Over 90 now,
she wishes she knew more than idiomatic American sentence strings.

I cry more often, without warning, for what I think I left behind. When
He says turn, follow, and leave your luggage behind, I am glad to empty
my pockets and start out on the road. My tears are shed, my heart has bled,

For so much I buried when the noisy voices (at church, at conference,
or simply in my head) insisted everything die and stay dead;

And now I’m crying because, Jesus, all grace, all light,
wanted me to arise instead.

Time to Run

“Right away a woman came to him whose little girl was possessed by a demon. She had heard about Jesus and now she came and fell at his feet.” Mark 7:25

She was in desperate straits. There was nowhere to turn. She was not part of the accepted religious people of her time. She was a Greek, a Gentile; she was outside the circle of those who had the golden ticket to God’s blessings. There were pagan gods, to be sure. She could bow to nearly any idol of her choosing.

(Don't) Follow the Leader

(Don’t) Follow The Leader

(“Balak did what Balaam told him, and the two of them offered a bull and a ram on each altar.” Numbers 23:2)

Do what the soothsayer tells you, the fortune-teller with cardboard credentials;
I know it resembles (with incense and candles) every prayer you’ve observed
on better days from behind the oaken pews. And what do you get for your
credit-card donation? What return for the best guess your private guru made
about your future abounding in words sounding like the litanies you chanted
from the back of the hymnal.

For another fifty dollar donation they will throw in the last known location
of Noah’s ark, just in case you’re ready to fund an expedition. The holy grail
is a steal at 150. For half a thousand the mystic pretender will whisper the
exact date of the Final Judgment, throwing in for free a well-worn map
(a cousin bought it from a pawn store in Kentucky) showing the address
of a brother, another seer, who almost had his hands upon the Ark
of
the
Covenant.

Buy a subscription and your religion will be complete; a monthly chant, scratch-and-sniff
aromas from Bible Land plants, water from the source of your choosing (Jordan, Nile, Dead or Red Sea), anointing oil just like the oil from Christ’s burial pad. Trinkets to line your
bookcase. Talismans to line your sweaters while you eat your Lucky Charms
for breakfast.

How fast we are swindled. How slow we adopt freedom’s offering. Grace is greater than
a piece of wood that contributed to Jesus’ crucifixion tree. We explode so shallow,
we reason in the shadows and carry our fellow sufferers down the silly trail
marked with sleight-of-hand tricks every quarter mile.

Oh, Love of the soul’s best songs, mercy which echoes the Name above All.
All
is
paid.

The band plays like babies pounding primary color xylophones to impress
each visitor with joy and liberty freely met.

And Carried

And Carried

(“They departed in a boat by themselves for a deserted place.” Mark 6:32)

I want to be alone (I told them)
and cried after the last one left (and carried her dog out too)
This silent place amplifies the drop of each tear,
(like the boom of a rubber-red playground ball against the hollow wall).
This silent place occupies every open space, couch or chair
(reminding me who, 20, 30, 40 years past of the ones who may still be sitting there.)

I want to be alone (I write them)
and still edit my phrases down the middle of the river (the rapids at the banks
would surely alarm the satellite men scanning people like me for movement
outside the lines)
I edit my phrases (and still call it poetry)
when poetry should be blood on the page, question marks and slashed phrases
so sharp it makes the reader want to rip it out of the book and burn it before
the questions creep between the place where eyes and brain always meet.

(I edit my phrases) I answer, mostly, as I’m expected (and argue once
the last inquisitor has exited, with my deserted self) He carried his doctrine out too.

I am in the dunce’s corner (I chose the seat myself)
without reading (magazine <weekly reader>, book <Fahrenheit 451>,
poetry <cummings, ferhlinghetti, Byron> ) and wear the paper crown well.

I know as much, but no more (only on different matters, different scores)
I have read widely, sang wildly (still different matters, but scorched the scores)
all upon a lonely corner because (enthralled by words my ears heard through my eyes)
the bell had rung, the day was done (and never noticed the last student leave).

I wandered home late (others carried out the doctoral theses well)
walked through the park (barber shop quartets in summer)
entered the front door where

Mother’s Remington always sat upon the dining room table. Next to it,
Father’s box of latin flash cards and a wall of books from Microbiology to
Faulkner. (I learned to edit myself far later, when big men with large desks
misread an innocent piece…)

I want to be alone.

(The faith, reason, here-and-now part of me knows that the disciples found that desert spot and experienced the miraculous feeding of the 5,000. This bit of knowledge I post at the end of this piece in case any firm believer firmly believes I have lost a marble or a screw has wriggled loose.) 

Inner Comfort

“Now let Your unfailing love be my comfort, in keeping with Your promise to Your servant.” Psalm 119:76

It is so easy to buy into the myth of self-reliance. Perhaps it helps to think back upon the day of our birth. You know, the moment in time when we decided to emerge on this planet. We had enough of those dark days surrounded by murky liquid all alone. So, without any help from the outside, we made our appearance. Within a few quick breaths we hit the floor, started walking, and began our first full-time job within the week.

Seeking

“I have sought You with all my heart; don’t let me wander from Your commands.” Psalm 119:10

“Seeking God” is almost always connected to some kind of reward in Scripture. Jesus promises that those who ask will have it given to them, those who seek find, and those who knock will find the door open. The idea of seeking God is high priority as the prophet Isaiah encourages us to “Seek the Lord while He may be found, call upon Him while He is near.”

Full of Unknown

Full of Unknown

(“I love the Lord, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy.” Psalm 116:1)

Everything I did was in the shadows, all my works reaching in the dark;
Few spotlights, hardly in the news, less interviews, and never published:
words or tunes, doctrine or views.

I could swear I never sought fame, took the tiny venues, memorized one acts
while better located friends chewed the scenery. “I could have been”, I said,
“on at least a local marquee.”

Yet today, a single college child spoke, an atheist, a soft anarchist and
unwitting iconoclast; smarter than most, taunted by many who claimed the
Name, who walked the Way. She tiptoed through the four year stares of
the church-going few who knew, atheist views, she was danger, and took
their turns wide around her down the halls. A living, breathing, lovely,
masterpiece of heaven; made to sit alone by the holy, afraid of getting dirty,
and left her lonely, four years. But she walked, she swam, she limped, she
jammed her pen into her notebook to keep from biting clear through her lips.

How do some, with no thought of God, love His people more dearly than those
who claim a first row seat at the Jesus Circus when it comes to town.

How do some, who talk so close of God, ignore His people, the doubting, the
clowning to cover their fears, aches and fiery nerves. All they want is a seat
somewhere
where they can be loved for who they are.

I love the Lord, He loved me. He laughed at my certainties.
I love the Lord. He reached me. He spoke through, even, infidels.
I love the Lord. He called me. He opened the skies, not answer my questions,

But to begin the First Act, pointing to my name card surrounded by
names of little and some, large and then, visit and phone, who, just once,
or labored in tears, would sit with me

At the Banquet full of unknown, fully known.

The Temporary Cure

The Temporary Cure

The pain has changed me, I complain.
Thinking the tears which come unbidden
have finally reached their end, they swell again
from hidden cisterns. The pain has let loose the reins
that held so much fear in check. But now the angry beast
burns beneath my brow, explodes through my dreams and
schemes to make no good thing worthwhile.

Embraces do not change it, words do not erase it,
heat and ice, the temporary cure, awakes my thinking until
room temperature steals every good thought away.

I scream alone, I reach the dead-end abandoned.
Once a cul-de-sac, and now rusted trashcans blow through
the idle plot where friends grilled out back. Picnics were
life and health;

The pain has changed all that.

Hiking the woods, camping and smelling like smoke,
charring marshmallows and reading a good book, fighting
the moths for light. Exploration and warm sun were
brisk and joy;

The pain has changed all that.

My friends see the creases, my teeth gnash, my jaw grits,
my eyes burn, my ears echo every background noise like
nuisances intruding quiet meditation;

The pain has caused all that.

Friends love, but few call; what can they say?
God loves, but still hides; where has He flown?
The pain reprimands the kindest phrases, excuses
and amazes the man a decade ago who woke at
midnight to sit with a friend,
talked all night to calm a storm,
walked all day, conversation to coffee and back,
and had time to play before the sun retracted its rays.

The pain has changed all that.
The pain has changed me and I don’t know
how
to get me back.

Love Unattached

“Whoever is wise will remember these things and begin to understand the Lord’s faithful love.” Psalm 107:43

Until we recognize love for the unearned quality of desiring the best for another, we will never understand it at all. If we attach anything to love; beauty, moral behavior, obedience, mutual admiration, we are no longer talking about love. Love has nothing to do with how another person makes me feel, or what someone else can do for me. To be “love”, it must be completely unmerited and unattached.

Home

“Whoever does the will of God is My true family.” Mark 3:35

Robert Frost wrote that, “Home is the place, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” For those with healthy family relationships, there is nothing truer. Yet, we know many homes that are so fragmented that “home” holds little warmth for some people. Though loved by his own family, even Jesus experienced complete misunderstanding by his mother and brothers. Thinking him “out of his mind”, they came to convince him to return home.

Percentages

Percentages

(“May the glorious presence of the Eternal linger among us forever. And may He rejoice in the greatness of His own works.” Psalm 140:31)

Within the warp and woof of creation are colors undiscovered,
shapes unobserved, motion rounder, speed louder, and stillness
crowding out the constant hum of men rubbing two sticks together
and sending fireballs beyond the stretches of the cosmos.

We are children playing in the sand.

Where appearances meet the titles we’ve tagged; we have
defined
the eternal with four or five words, left it at that,
and expected the universe to bow at our ingenious
vocabulary.

We are blacksmiths rewriting a thesaurus.

Where mass is great we cannot see it,
where velocity is so fast we cannot perceive it,
where colors run from midnight blue to blinding sun,
we have hung our titles on the split-seconds we occupy.

Yet, for all our names and titles, autographs and aliases,
we are just as distant from yesterday’s bee sting
and the beginning before events had definitions.

The glorious Presence, the power at each grand intersection,
the silence between the galaxies, the songs beneath the seas,
all exist, unnamed, untamed;

And we experience the first note like the lingering aroma of
the morning’s first cup of coffee while lunch is prepared.

We are children, we are blacksmiths, we are namers, we are rhymers,
we know more, and know nothing; percentages are slight slivers.

But forever the Name, the Creation’s Love, the Life Poet
lets us play within His masterpiece. And, putting down our
pen for one moment longer, we cannot name it,
but today the breeze is not merely weather, flowers not
simply horticulture, and we, are,

Unnamable.

Oh Mercy

Oh Mercy

(“Praise the Lord, O my soul. And forget none of His acts of kindness.” Psalm 103:2)

He has spoken, He has loved us,
not a token or scribbled note on a napkin;
He has loved us, He has chosen,
not a segment or favored few; us and only.

The world spins darkly, the mirrors reflect dimly,
we breathe short, live less, digressing from the
designer’s pattern; oh Mercy, oh Kindness,
Righteousness and Justice. We crave
the banquet, and do not starve. We thirst
the waters, and wet our tongues.

Didn’t we dance once? Didn’t the world
green the day and crystal the night? Don’t you
recall the innocence, the child’s choice to
watch the stream flow endlessly until the last
diamond of sunlight between the leaves quietly
slipped behind the hill?

He has given, He has embraced
a world cringing the touch of the sanest love,
the same love we swam in before we began to
choose teams, pick sides, and divide the us and only.

He forgave, them, us; and inverted lonely,
emptied the satisfied crowns of hand-me-down
conquest; Conquered death. Oh Mercy, Oh Kindness,
address us all and only, sons and daughters of
renewed creation. Address us all, children of
Your kingdom where sighs are contentment
allied with love.