Note to the Reader

Note to the Reader

(Those whom the Lord has paid for and set free will return. They will come to Zion with singing. Joy that lasts forever will crown their heads. They will be glad and full of joy. Sorrow and sad voices will be gone. Isaiah 35:10)

A day and a half in bed,
the pain battered my body until it finally gave in
and would not move into the morning beams across the sheets.
Though I tried; brushed my teeth, combed my hair, my body
refused to rise longer than it took to put my toothbrush down.

Over ten years creeping to my office,
calling dear ones, reading with half my understanding
hiding behind my skull.
Writing sermons for a sunny Sunday,
and laying in bed on every Saturday,
I was cornered by the hammers that never relented,
that bulldozed the memories of the epoch

Before the pain.
Calls at 2 a.m. and racing to the hospital.
The homeless friends whose needs never end,
the hope that the next home I visited would laugh
at my mistakes.

But this time, this church, this pastor had no ease, forced humor,
and fewer friends because the moments he battled the pain were split
between the neediest,
and his need for naps. Vacations were spent on couches
with his children,
or in bed in the Caribbean. The beach could wait until the pain
might abate.

He burned more energy, saw fewer people, prayed fewer minutes,
left early and arrived late; all to conserve the quarter tank allotment of
every single day.

He cried more than he laughed. He stumbled more than he led.
He wanted someone to see him, see him as he was;
a brittle body with a head on fire and a soul thinner than onion skin.
He wanted a friend to simply take his hand, stroke his head,
sit in silence, offer him wine, bake him bread, not be offended
when he said

He wasn’t clear where his faith had gone these days. The more he
prayed
the more the pain
pulled the skin tighter over his head.

And so he left the only thing he ever loved. He resigned. He moved.
And spent this last weekend; Saturday and half of Sunday; in bed.

Note to the reader: Perhaps the Scripture and poem do not match. That is the point, I think. For my present experience belies my belief that my purpose has not diminished, though the disabling pain increases. I am not without hope. I am weary, torn, lonesome and no longer tempted to lie so people will not worry about my spiritual state. For this last season of my life, I shall be, attempt to be, attempt always to be, truly real.

The Least and Latest

The Least and Latest

(But He answered them, “You give them something to eat!”) Mark 6:37

You have more than you possess,
there is more than what you see,
there are mountains beyond the mountains,
brothers outside the circle,
and the universe waits for you to walk
past the borders without fiat. Your fate awaits
past your cement bubble.

The least likely is your provider,
the hidden are your leaders,
the dark green and gray that we throw away
are the banquet of the forest and the beginning of the day.

But we were waiting for the hour to end, the dust to settle,
and the buzzing crowd and mosquitoes to march back home.
We only saw the mouths and heard the complaints,
wondered if the clouds would turn the whole scene into
another unruly Woodstock with nothing in our hands.

You are more than you remember,
you will be loved beyond the river,
you are faint sketches now of the masterpiece
of the ages.
You’ve lived on adages and acorns,
not truth and aged oaks,
and you shorten your hand, hide your heart,
and hope to go home before the thunderstorms hit.

The child will lead them and sing with the wolf,
the invisible will dance to the music you dismissed,
the pinks and greens that most blink away
are the party in the desert where enemies once played.

Do not wait, the crowds are hungry. Do not tire, the children are ready.
Embrace the frayed edges, feed them first and front. They are the beloved,
the least and latest in the line of neighbors
Christ has invited upon the hills of plenty that
he will provide.

Each Day is Framed

Each Day is Framed

(“Or else let them come to me for protection. Let them make peace with me. Yes, let them make peace with me.” Psalm 27:5)

When each day begins framed with pain
the sun is hidden in the corners.
Birdsongs are fragments of scratched paint,
the best thoughts are cracked and peeling
despite the finest efforts of restoration.

Sometimes I feel the need to explain, dip my
pen in the blackest ink
and begin again. In Prose. In Short Sentences.
In Declarations. In Descriptions that get to the
Point
of pain.

But I write between moments, through half-open windows,
while the earth is crammed with minutes I’ve wasted
waiting for abatement. Could I write in clinical paragraphs
complete with footnotes and citations
some might believe this artless student of doubt.

But the days begin and end the same,
my brain the biggest enemy. How God inhabits
the letters, the numbers, the synapses and numbness
is a question for others better than me. I do not suffer well,
do not joy in it, revel in it or find a sliver of meaning in forces
that keep me pressed to the ground.

I am a mere dependent, assigned to the edges of my art.
The craft I laughed so passionately is untuned in the corner
and silent. Still I must write, and write well, not excellent; but
true.

And many will question the frame, wonder of my faith,
(as I also wonder), and note the stains upon the painting where
the shadow of pain blocked the sun’s healing rays. And

Peace is beyond my reach, though, I should believe,
it still inhabits the first brushstrokes beneath the layers
of grey. I await the colors of the day.

Coffee, Alone

Coffee, Alone

(“It is like a mustard seed, which is the smallest of all seeds on earth.” Mark 4:31)

Slept well, woke up at 8,
Ate some toast, went back to bed,
got up at 11, and now I have 3 less hours of
pain
today.

So full of things I cannot control,
my head is a gyroscope of spinning memories.
So full of aches I want to forget,
my head is a guinea pig of constant experiments.

Will a walk clear it? Will the sun steer the aches another direction?
Will the birds wash it with their songs; occasional butterflies land
close enough to distract me long enough? But my days
are faceless,
and my faith lifts only my heels for
the next step on the sidewalk.

I go to coffee, alone, the pain still my silent companion,
and hope the barrister recognizes my face from a month ago.
But she is a college student, the shop is full of customers,
and I’m a new old man in line for a latte.

I eavesdrop on two students at the next table to
pretend I’ve had a conversation. But I pick up only words
that sound like other words which I wish were the words
I understood.

Slept well, woke up like paste,
rolled over, hands on my head,
checked the clock at 12,
and wasted one more morning
escaping the pain.

Each day my world shrinks,
12 hours to 10,
50 pages to muttering,
5 friends to waving at strangers
as they drive by.

Can this seed still be planted, and live,
and grow, and thrive? And be recognized as
fully alive even in the corner of a forgotten garden?

The Braided Strand

The Braided Strand

(“And he said to them, ‘Take care about what you hear. The measure you use will be the measure you receive, and more will be added to you.’” Mark 4:24)

We pull hard on the braided strand
like junior high boys
testing their skills.
How high can we drag our
evolving bodies above the
wrestling pads on the gymnasium floor?

Points are awarded for how high, how quick,
how fixed our eyes are upon the goal.
Friends are added for how strong, how silent,
how cool, how calm our sweatless face laughs
at the dare.

The doors are unhinged, the locks are broken,
the arms and legs of hundreds of acquaintances
buzz like flies in and out of the unspoken rooms we
hoped to populate with
a handful of lifetimes.

Did you hear about the one-way friends,
the directors of your life, the raters of your dives,
and the takers of your soul if you do not surface
soon enough for their satisfaction?

Did you hear about the open tribes,
the round-dance, the nods at your stumble,
the givers of your joy when clumsy is the
only step you’ve learned of their songs?

We pull hard on the braided strand
and,
aided by strangers (a first-day handshake with
a nameless face)
we find our rhythm, get our footing,
grab the slick rope and laugh at our efforts
together
to find a place above the clouds.

Earth and dirt, dust and sky; we live only
inches above the surface of gravity and sighs.

Mud in His Hair

Mud in His Hair

("Learn to do right. See that justice is done—help those who are oppressed, give orphans their rights, and defend widows.” Isaiah 1:17)

You preferred he sleep with mud in his hair.
You preferred outrage at a man who slept in the shed
because the pastor thought it was better than shivering in the rain.

You stretch walls to the sky to keep out infestations,
slick-dirt children and mothers with desperate and
hollow eyes. You call poverty an invasion,
refugees criminals and serial adulterers saints.
You kiss your flags in pagan idolatry and expect an
Amen
at the end of your national anthem.

You expect a throne, a crown, barbed wire and cages;
you bow before liars, stand inspired before hitmen with tongues
like asps. You never tire of banquets to honor
the alternative facts
you've chosen to spoon feed to
your progeny; tiny birds unfeathered in nested bubbles.

Toss a roll of paper towel
to the man with mud in his hair.
Give him an orange on your way to
Starbucks. Deny him a night without rain and
complain that the pastor
let him sleep on the concrete again.

Maintain your buildings, guard your doors,
and you can transfer all the blame to every
sluggard who sleeps in the rain.