Nighttime Offered no Applause

Nighttime Offered no Applause

(“They tested God again and again, and provoked the Holy One of Israel.” Psalm 78:41)

We stomped out conflagrations on the desert side of the mountains,
we were watchers, we were the vigilant, we spotted the first flumes
from our high towers. In a season so dry we watched unblinking.
We did not cower before the hundredth call to choke the flames
that flapped crisply, giant wings threatening to engulf our diligence.

But then the fires raged exponentially, rained heated ash and glowing embers
behind every advance of its sinister army. Barely with breath sufficient
for one skirmish, the fires sucked all the oxygen from the ground,
from the sky, from the know world we had searched, and surely
well beyond. This giant non-breathing dragging inhaled everything;
left us less respirations than a walk after summer’s lunch.

No one gave up; hope was shouted from line to line. No one
went home; photos in our wallets folded tight kept us reminded.

I remembered leaving home, out the front door, down the street,
merging with others along the East Bay Corridor, through the
Caldecott, over the Bay Bridge, paying for parking heart-center
of the financial district. Alone. Here was my territory, here were
my clients. Though the clients were future to this cold-call artist.

The street is rarely sunny, until you reach the pier. Any season
other than summer
you may find the sun in patches for a two o’ clock sack lunch. But.

I was unreimbursed; though I had rehearsed every word, my worries
and anxiety pushed me forward. I could only lose if I refused.

I lost something then; the fire and finance district. There was more
than I could do; less than I could discover. In my early wonder,
before cash and college and marriage and children. It was archaeology
that knew my name; where digging gave me plenty of reasons for
the dirt under my knuckles. Yet, I am sure, I would have tested
and tested

God’s good faith just the same; caused Him pain because
I cried so easily when the curtains closed, the day was over,
and the nighttime offered no applause.

Unusually Kind

Unusually Kind

(“The people of the island were unusually kind. It was raining and cold. So they built a fire and welcomed all of us.” Acts 28:2)

Why did it take an outsider, a resigner, a former resolution-signer
to mention the faults that second and third story men had committed?

Why were the liars allowed to speak, allowed to right in pen and ink

words recorded, classified and filed forever? One such deceiver, on
good word from his perfection’s daughter, said a certain pastor was
caught drinking (oh my) champagne at last weekend’s wedding! No
one mentioned the pastor had not attended, oh, and his daughter had
meant another man instead.

Why were men whose prayers could put you to sleep with their length,
but spoke only staccato in with fresh breath or defense, why were they
listened to, having found, behind the house, vacated a year before,
weather-beaten and full of snow, the old men’s magazine no one reads.
Why did the father of us all bring it up two years later
with conversation volume
in the midst of a restaurant meal with customers ahead, behind and
left and right? His only comment: “You never eat much when we talk.”
Not knowing what the hell he was talking about, I could only gulp. The
man who found it, accused me, attached it like to my forehead like
nails to a tree, could not find room for even a private apology.

I have been treated kinder by men who never meander the maze
of pews in our houses of the holy; sometimes prayers are offered there,
thanking God the quarterback of the Seahawks completed the final reception.

I am sick of love at first and rejection at the last. I am tired of perfection
that is as suspect as I was made to be. I am sick of love, lovesick, and
unsure it is found, heaven or ground, apart from the love of a wife who

Knowing all, has healed me from death to breathing, slow, yes, but:

Yes.

Beyond the Grid

Beyond the Grid

(“Give praise to God. He has accepted my prayer. He has not held back his love from me.” Psalm 66:20)

Across the boulevard, sidewalk to sidewalk,
 the asphalt grid divides the green patches;
like half-open eyelids the exhaustive haze mixes
mankind and sunny days. Our ways of walking timed
just so;
at the push of a button we are told to “stop” or to
“go”. “Walk”, “Don’t Walk”, verdant, yellow, and ruby;
the city is full of desert riverbeds holding the
metallic current within its banks.

Beyond the grid with x and y lattice,
five miles out of town, maybe eight or nine,
the lattice work is overhead, the lines crisscrossing
an open sky. Hills rise steeply and roll their carpet out
into meadows and playrooms for picnics and fawns. Freedom
invites
(without button punctuation) constant exploration,
following streams and crossing logs just because
there are more rooms of mossy walls just up the
opposite bank.

Our faces change from grid to lattice. We cross
the avenues hurriedly, avoiding touch or glances.

Our smiles return in open meadows. Children run and
one becomes three becomes five becomes a game
of tag for an entire afternoon. We would just as soon
watch their wonder than fight for a window seat
for a quick bite
lunchtime across the street.

Hopes and concrete, prayers and bare feet,
we are full as we wish to be. But the questions that plague
our fast-track seem irrelevant washing the grass stains from
new jeans after a meadow afternoon.

One Moment When

One Moment When

(“Let me dwell in Your tent forever; let me take refuge in the shelter of Your wings.” Psalm 61:4)

Now on fire, later quenched by rain,
expecting on thing and finding another again.
Finally, at the end of one day out of 18,000
air and dust collide, light and depth align,
clouds exercise restraint, the skies glow invisible paint,
heat rises, sounds and buzzes hold back their breath for
one moment when

Like the hub of a carousel, straight forward and peripheral
are stopped. Motion, time’s stopwatch, holds back the next moment
like the explosive silence just before a belly laugh.

Somehow, on that one day in the 60^th year; one moment, an uncertain division of 1/60^th of a minute: Mute and Fire

have met the desire of a single man’s hopes until now.

Suspend me above the measured days, O Lord,
let me see fuller than my gaze. Let me rest,
where pain cannot reach. Take the spin off everything,
heal the bruises friends that were kisses, and hold the doors open
long enough
that I can show up for
one moment when

Like the hub of the universe, the sky is a jigsaw piece, and
silence is the explosive moment when angels are taking a breath.

For Example

For Example

(There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. And they will reign for ever and ever. Revelation 22:5)

“Take music for an example”, he said and
played upon a flute with notes so close together in the scale
they rolled over each other; the waves breaking upon
the next wave spreading across the beach’s sand. “And,
this scale is celebrated by ears with the same structure as yours.”
(I admitted, I barely make out a melody. The notes had so little
space between them, they were like balls of Play-Doh distinctly
red, yellow and blue; but they were glued to each other. I thought
of covering my ears.)

“Take colors for an example”, he said again
and filled the room with an animated hologram projected
around us through a daylight prism. The colors rolled over
each other; the molecules turning like fashion models with the
shades changing in the refracted light.
(I admitted, I swore, I would not be denied that I saw the green
as green
as spring’s overgrown lawn. Yet, from the same recorded moment in time,
the same vantage point as mine, half or more than all the others,
I tell the truth, reported seeing blue. I thought of
closing my eyes.)

“Take my pain”, I begged, “no longer an example of perseverance or
courage. I have looked beyond the sky-lit orb that brightens toward morning,
that warms toward summer, that sings of a greater Sun with
music unheard by human ears. I have waited for the divine frequency
where the truest hues pay homage to the Palette brighter
than open skies filling the plains of flowers from one horizon to the other."

Take my pain, for example, and, I have said every word and only repeat them

again. Let me sleep, let me hide away, let me rest a week, a month equal
to the time the vise has squeezed away. I await the music, the hues,
the new Sun, to defuse this continuous explosion in my brain.

A Surplus of Peace

“But the weak will inherit the land; they will enjoy a surplus of peace.” Psalm 37:11

Most of life is taken up with gaining recognition or acceptance. People who we call high-achievers may try to accomplish this by force of will or fighting their way to the top. Others who are quieter by nature still look for opportunities to be recognized. They may not start wars, but will still measure success by the square foot, the dollar sign or name recognition. Though we may call these people “meek”, I do not believe their retiring nature is the same quality God admires.

The Excesses of Grace

The Excesses of Grace

(“Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” Psalm 37:4)

The scent of delight is close but so much
brighter than
the waft from the candy shop; the taffy and fudge
that capture
your senses. Inhalation excites a dozen
memories
for each unassuming boardwalker; a dozen
unique memories for each; a dozen people,
over 100 memories; and all are private, captured
within the treasure chest where time has stashed each
best reverie away.

My nose leads me in, my eyes take in each striped
candy pulled to perfection; bonbons and truffles
hand-rolled like miniature museum pieces under glass.
I hear the twirl of children with the best view of the
finest pieces at their eye-level. Licorice ropes and
all-day suckers bigger than the faces of toddlers making
handprints on the display-case windows. I cannot choose,
but age and weight conspire against gluttony; I chose three,
(dozen) of my favorites (I shall not return for some months
to come).

The scent of heaven, the glory of faith-and-love’s sweet glacé,
is brighter than the light invented before suns and stars
lit the stage of creation. The delight of Father-love consumes
my passions, abides within and without my senses and
satisfies more deeply,
gratifies completely the cravings of every memory and later,
celebration and failure so I cannot consume too often
the excesses of grace. Here I am again hungry; without money,
fascinated by the free dessert offered my undeserving soul.

On the Edges

On the Edges

(“The Lamb will overcome them, because He is Lord of lords and King of kings, and those who are with Him are the called and chosen and faithful.” Revelation 17:14)

You gave me a headache choosing things out of turn,
you made me mistake to miniscule for the might,
and I turned on the edges of my anxiety for half a day
and another day more
over the uncooperative world which never calls for
my opinion
before leaving questions in my path that no one
can answer.

They leave partial interpretations between dead-certain
pages
of books whipped together without a clue about
heaven’s final intentions. They set my teeth on edge
the way their riches pile up and their fictional believers
take aim with military weapons to satisfy their yearning
for a world without opposition. My bones ache
at their fakery.

But He, the Mighty Gentle One, is and has,
will and still overcomes the notions we spew
about Him. The Lamb is a warrior only when
warriors overcome hatred, war and deception.

Let the earth-formed by Him speak beneath your feet,
Let the sky-framed like Him whisper odium’s defeat,
Let the moon echo earth’s cry, the stars spin in the polished sky,
and may the meek, the speakers of Love’s constant theme,
never fail the message of mercy, the song of the redeemed.