Perhaps it Was Satire

 

Perhaps it Was Satire

(“For the arrows of the Almighty are within me, their poison my spirit drinks; the terrors of God are arrayed against me.” Job 6:4)

 

Perhaps you thought it was satire as you saw the
helpless man burn.
Perhaps you thought it was a fairy tale when you saw
his black skin bleed.
Was your sarcasm worth it,
did it make you feel larger,
did you sense the darkness
when you said that he simply
should have complied?

 

How many of your brothers have been
shot in the back
7 times
by an officer of the peace?
How many, and who?

 

Perhaps you believe the playgrounds belong to you,
the shiny slides,
the perfect pavement,
the basketball nets replaced every afternoon.
Perhaps you sit in the shaded picnic spots
and listen to barbershop quartets
or a jazz combo while you douse your briquettes.
Perhaps you think race doesn’t mean a thing
even after stranglings, shootings, and warrants issued
like invasions.
Perhaps you believe.

 

So, I ask again, how many of your sisters
have been shot
in the dead of night
in their own bed
by officers who would have otherwise
knocked.

 

Have the arrows cut through your own flesh,
have you drunk the poison of blades invading
privacy, eaten the bitter fruit that steals all your sleep?
Do you need lessons, do you need more training,
has life been perfectly sweet? Did the giants hold you
underfoot while others raced ahead? Were you blamed
for coming in late?

 

Let us hear the stories of power that steals, giants who
rage, firearms that splay the last breath of the day. Let us
create the stories of power that heals, servants that sage
our playgrounds and begin the music to a new age
of open
dance
and
play.

Do You Hear the Pipes Playing?

 

Do You Hear the Pipes Playing?

(“Though you were like straying sheep, you have now returned to the shepherd and guardian of your lives.” 1 Peter 2:25)

Do you hear the pipes playing,
wooden flutes on distant hills?
Do you recognize the melody,
floating across the silver river;
the acoustics that draw you home?

Do you hear the folk tunes, the roots music,
the banjo and guitar sliding under your consciousness,
the cicadas of the afternoon.
Feet tap on wooden porches, children clap
and dance between the broken boards and
tall glasses of sweet tea.

We have all seen it, the fear at the end of the gate.
We have all felt it, the shiver when we think we have
arrived too late. But then we hear it, the welcome song,
the hug your neck, we haven’t seen you for so long song.
And today you stay longer than you did last week,
today the song sounds stronger, like stones in the creek,
and it makes you want to stay until the impulses to leave
fade behind the music the master has played.

Though all have fallen fast asleep, the music continues
well into your dreams. It encompasses everything.
The fears are real but the melody infuses
the spirits and trauma that left you confused.
There is a wanderer who bids you to follow,
flute and birds lead the way. Tomorrow, like today,
will be the quilt comfort of ballads and blues,
the muse calls you to stay.

The Medicine You Need

 

The Medicine You Need

 

(“Because of what Christ has done, you believe in God. It was God who raised him from the dead. And it was God who gave him glory. So your faith and hope are in God.” 1 Peter 1:21)

 

Remember when you were argumentative and
missed the train and late?
Trains run on tracks but do not always run on time.

What if the medicine you need is buried deep below the earth,
What if the healing you crave is carried on the clouds?

 

Remember when you were so dangerous and
missed the point and weight?
Spikes finish spears but do not always find their mark.
What if the righteousness you need is as plain as ocean and sky,
What if the goodness you thirst is coded in the doubts?

 

Do you listen to the two-year-olds squeal and laugh,
Do you notice how they think puppies are funny?
Do you see their eyes wide and dark; a new face,
an unknown label for the color green, and knees that bend
every second; the tiny hopping child.

 

Who will come to the lap of glory,
who will sit where toddlers play,
who will arrive so early that they are soaked
by the rain before the sun beings?
Who will plant the poppies and daffodils,
who will tread the path to where joy begins?

 

Remember when life was so casual and
turned the eye and mind?
Sights seduced scenes that played across your thoughts in dreams.
What if the mercy you’ve missed is waiting on the edge of thought,
what if the favor, the bliss, awaits away from the crowds?

Final, First

 

Final, First

 

(“Jesus said to him, ‘I am the Way and the Truth and the Life. No one comes to the Father, except through me.’” John 14:6)

 

On the face of it some of creation is unrecognizable,
incognito, and hidden. On the face of it we rarely know
without closer inspection what is concealed behind the rind.

 

“One orange and you’ve seen them all,” is all wrong.
One day flips to another like a king to a deuce in a
deck of cards.
“One faith looks like all others.” is likely untrue.
One prayer turns on a wheel and another has lit candles.

 

One word learned is a new boundary to explore,
one lost friend is knocking at the door,
two ragged dogs wet from the cold
and three trees bearing fruit one hundredfold. 

 

Family seeks its own level,
the Father sent his own,
family loves the gentle and rebels,
the Father sent his Son.

 

I see you, Father, in the feet of your Son,
browned by the glare and scraped by the sand.
I see you, Father, in the hands of your Son,
calloused and strong, careful where the lonely people planned
to see a warrior, a king, an emperor, a lord. I see you, Father,
in every tear of your Son, weeping like waterfalls,
grateful like showers on a rose, seeking the dug-in
and the soaring
before morning gives way to dusk.

 

The mountains are refuge, the thunder your love,
the lightning your whisper, the sun the remnant of
primal light that fills you, fills all, fills shadows and
corners,
wedding and mourners awaiting the day
when all is in all; the Son, the Father, the Spirit
in heavenly dance
unite all creation in higher, deeper,
final, first, and eternal
song.

Expansion

 Expansion

 

(“But the wisdom that comes from above is first holy, then peaceful, gentle, compliant, filled with mercy and good fruits, unbiased, sincere.” James 3:17)

 

What would I say if I knew you could see everything
in my heart? It’s elastic, and there is more than enough
room for you. But you will have to make do with darkened corners
and lamps askew. Too many see and ask for new lodging.

 

There are as many thoughts as there are minds,
as many dwellings as there are hearts.
I enjoy most neighborhoods with sky above and dirt below.
But my abode takes some getting used to;
to be honest,
I’m not quite comfortable there myself.
No wonder I seem to slide through the sidewalk cracks
so easily. Where are the gentle spirits unafraid to sit under
the holes in my ceiling?

 

Up against the sky, look at what the light can do, in that moment
you may hear everyone’s heart beating. You may hear your own
when the minute gives way to fire-lit dots on the hills.

And what you thought a single star was the universe
exploding like a chrysanthemum. Your explorations are simply
thimbles of truth.

 

We know less than is known, fewer than can be counted
minus the mistakes we’ve made in our reasoning.
We expect God to move in with us, packed in the uhaul with
the rest of our holy and righteous stuff. We expect God to
agree with us while we shoo away the shit-hole countries from
knocking on our white suburban doors. We find our holiness squandered,
call dissidents rioters, and heretics inhabit the shacks across the tracks.

 

But hearts are elastic, not ceramic. Hearts are created to expand.
The universe started smaller than a dot and has made room for
every imagination, every circus act and traveling band. There are
clouds that weigh a million pounds and
thoughts that float weightless, synapse
to perception, (can you spot the difference between the two pictures?)

 

We are so sincere we make that wax melt in our candles,
we are so fervent we keep our doors locked tight.
We are so sacred we erect borders and fences,
we are so correct we write with indelible ink.

 

Let us go to the laundry, you and me; let us stake our claim
on our purity and precision (do you still have the original buttons?)
Or, as with all cloth and earth-wear, are you willing to swear that
imperfection is our common wardrobe hid beneath capes of incomplete
polyester. 

 

Up against the sky, again, you and me; let us be little again
and let night swallow us until we see
the universe expanding to take all of existence in its grace.

Audition (I'm Fine)

 

Audition (I’m Fine)

We walk side by side on wilderness trails,

talking temperature and humidity and the soon coming winter.

And then children and neighbors (lunches and dinners)

we skim the shallows of conventional conversation.

But the sun and shadows invite us to a slower pace,

where the deeper waters flow. I was once bitten by a shepherd,

you were mauled by a pit bull, we were mere children, and sometimes

dogs frighten us; maybe cats and rabbits and moose and tigers too.

You ask me a question I fear to answer. We stop between crests and

listen to the stream gurgle below. My throat is full of apprehension, but

I answer and fear I shall have to walk home alone. 

But like grace, like heaven, you wrapped my honest answer like a gift,

silver and gleaming in the late afternoon.

I still audition for your friendship nearly every day,

and when things go wrong all you say is

“I’m fine” every time 

I know you’re crying.

I wear my heart in a broken locket,

one hinge forgotten in the earth, the other rusted and

hanging open. It is impossible to close.

You face fire, you walk into explosions, the place where

peace should play is full of anger, and fierce. You cringe, hope to hide,

and close the door to the daggers always aimed directly at your heart.

.

Your sorrow is beautiful as your smile,

your pain is lovely if you let it out into the day.

And even though I cannot see it

I feel it dull and aching inside of me.

“I’m fine” will not erase what

the unkindness has done to your heart.

I know it and carry it, within and without.

I saw stars within you, the moon shining over the dark memories.

There was never a day when it did not rise as evening approached.

But then you closed. You became stone. I knocked, so softly at first,

And could not find the safety I knew within. I knocked just a bit louder

(I did not want to damage even this new granite skin)

And, from deep within all I heard; “I’m fine.”

I know you are not fine. You are beautiful, perfect, gracious and strong;

But you are not fine. Tell me your truth. Don’t make me audition for

your friendship today. Tell me your truth. I promise I'll wrap it as carefully

as you wrapped mine

and hand it back to you with unicorn bows and rainbow wrapping. 

We walk side by side on wilderness trails, this friend I hoped would not fear

the way hearts can interlace like butterflies across a meadow.

We walk slowly, my heart always unclasped in my broken locket,

always colored with the boredom, the emptiness, the uselessness, and sometimes

the love it has received over time. We walk slowly,

your heart sometimes visible beneath your breast, but other times shut behind

doors and locks and granite walls, recessed behind an impervious wall.

The days always end like glowing sunsets when, slowly, you unlock the secrets

and the secret place, and trust me with cries you’ve kept inside. I sigh because

in those moments, I know I’ve won the audition for your friendship.

He Has Climbed

 

He Has Climbed

(“This royal law is found in the Scriptures: ‘Love your neighbor as you love yourself.’] If you obey this law, you are doing right.” James 2:8)

Where is the understanding, where is heaven that the kingdom rules?
Have you heard God’s questions,
have you forgotten to answer?

  

Forget not the speakers of truth,
the good words and the passion words,

the thunder words, the wonder words
that strike like lighting from the throne.

Listen. He has climbed the mountain of the Lord.
Listen. He has knelt beside the hungering.
Visit him. He now sits with movement calcified.
Visit him. He now wonders about the crucified,
the effort, the broken bones and heart he shares
with the beloved.

Don’t phone in your respects, touch his trembling hands
and sit. The silence is eloquent, your presence is rhyme and verse
that shatters the curse of age and loneliness.

Break your bread with him, spend your time with him,
pour the wine for him, and hear the stories he told just
yesterday
like you hear them for the first time today.

The knees give way, the heart grows weak,
the mind faints like a violin in the sun.
The memories spin like hummingbirds, the handwriting
recedes into notes about appointments and doctors,
food banks and offers to join the village where only
elders are allowed to play. But

the spirit never gives sway to the years. It is evergreen,
it bends in the wind and draws living water like xylem
to the trees. 

Time is never wasted when poured like ointment on the feet
of the ones who only knew to speak of good tidings
and pronouncements of peace to the weary.

Wash the feet of them who cried over your own.