Many Ways to Become Rich

 

Many Ways to Become Rich

(“I know that the Lord maintains the cause of the needy, and executes justice for the poor.” Psalm 140:12)

There are many ways to get rich:
become famous, write a book
(do not sell poetry)
collect the spoils of war
(do not organize for peace).

The hems of my blue jeans were frayed
when I wandered the halls of temporary buildings
in the middle class high school I attended
in navy bells and khaki shirts.
(it is a sorry time when an aging man
must reach back to his teens to find substance for
his literary works.)

I never knew then the stitches that connected
breathing to living,
eating to breathing
and giving to eating
corn soup and simple fry bread
in the corner kitchens where friends waited
the passing of the latest blizzard--clapboard
government housing and those of a certain age
who slept on broom-swept dirt floors.

We rarely spoke of who would pay for the next meal
we shared in common, or the next pizza we tossed on
the table in town. From suburban bars with Italian sausage
to franchises with frisbee logos,
we ordered water if our wallets would not sing.

I had a friend once who frequented the bars. I loved
him (and I think he enjoyed Jesus without the weaknesses
of those who have no flaws). Once we had coffee,
often we prayed, he mowed the church lawn in his
cowboy boots
and on New Year’s Eve
he died
outside
the home where he lived with
handfuls of cousins and uncles. It was sub-zero
and no one found him until the slow northern sun
deceived us into thinking the warmth would revive him
if only we waited a while.

There are many ways to become poor:
sell your soul, increase the volume,
(do not listen outside your door)
exert your privilege
(do not befriend the frightened).

I have too many friends, I need to find more
who cannot wait to share coffee
walking down the frozen pavement.
How can I ignore you any longer,
how can my heart be so cold.

Occasional Saturday Nights

 

Occasional Saturday Nights

(“Therefore, everyone who acknowledges me before people I, too, will acknowledge before my Father in heaven.” Matthew 10:32)

What is it like to know people feel less lonely when they hear your music?
How do you move the air in beats and waves to persuade the soul?

He used to park in a neighborhood church parking lot
on
Saturday evening. The brick and white slats behind him,
the sidewalk slipping past his windshield. In summer he would
wait until the sun slid behind the pitched roofs
and streetlights slowed their flickering dark to on.

No one used the space between the diagonal stripes,
no one knew why a forest green Volkswagen van parked
near dusk
in the silence of a night
that no one went inside. No prayer, no preacher,
no choir, no lectern, no pulpit. Bibles and hymns
were racked in pews quiet and alone.

But one vehicle parked and probably left an oil stain
when it left an hour or so later. The boy, the driver,
the actor, the pretender, the writer, the singer, the seeker,
the haughty and humble lad sat in the driver’s seat and
left the radio mute.

He imitated the best, was afraid of any moves that would be
misconstrued,
or, more to the point,
be rejected outright by experts and talents, teachers who
challenged
what they did not know. It would take 50 years to
form what he imagined at 16. He knew he loved Jesus,
and was Dylan’s biggest fan (until he heard Tom Waits
and had to double date them.)

But he would sit in the vacant lot, with thoughts swirling larger
than his comprehension. He knew music was the medium,
he knew words were the dance steps he never quite learned.
But the silence filled the larger space, much larger than if
he parked on Sunday morning, and he kept turning the world
over in his mind.

And the beats and vibrations…the ballads were lullabies,
the blues his native tongue. He was homesick and subterranean,
sitting above the asphalt field. No one stopped to ask for a song,
and
he was afraid to sing when the keys were all wrong for his voice.
He never busked for money, never busked at all. Just sat on
occasional Saturday nights and wondered what passion would be spilled
once Jesus taught him what he needed to hear all along.

But the music still keeps him company, empty lots are his studio,
and churches, somehow, have lost their meaning to him. While
Jesus, Waits and Dylan still speak to him unencoded and raw.

The Battle, The Fatigue

 

The Battle, The Fatigue

 

(“But I have learned to feel safe and satisfied, just like a young child on its mother’s lap.” Psalm 131:2)

If I could sleep a hundred days, I would.
I’ve sat all day alone in my head 4000 days ago
Until now. There is no sword, no weapon to wield
that can slice through the shadows that weigh so much
they never bleed.

(And I would rather write an instead word here,
something to grant the reader a foreshadow that
rest will find me awakened like coffee and bacon.)

I do not want you to think that my faith has been shaken
(but it is)
I do not want you to imagine me wandering the path that
only leads me deeper into the darkening woods
(but I do)
I do not want you to think I’m an infidel, a heretic,
a miscreant, a fool or a poor soul swayed by a nasty spill
that befell me.
(but I am)

I have electronic friends to pass my days.
I have random music to explain the ways
the cells in my body buzz when my brain
stumbles and weaves into the 15^th round of a fight
it never intended to enter.
I have resonant instruments and harmonic strings
if ever I will play them.

How much rest does one person need when the battle,
the fatigue, the constant watching, the high alert lasts
from best life until late life? Where are the medics when
you are left bruised on the field?

I push my pencil forward one inch at a time,
who would think I would become so weary only
standing in one spot for the last decade?  
Who could predict that brain changes would
take so much out of me?

I am weary like the nub of the last crayon in the box,
I am tired like the black smoke from a candle wick dying in the dark.
I am silent, I am aboil, I am weighted, I am uncoiled,
I am medicated where the wounds lanced my dreams
and still I look at the phone to hear the past voices
that once laughed with me, but will not cry my pain.

So Mother, I am napping. Do not wake me until
the day has passed by at least twice over and the sun
is golden behind the river and fog.

How Much Does a Mermaid Cost?

 

How Much Does a Mermaid Cost?

(“Then the Lord opened Balaam’s eyes. He saw the angel of the Lord standing in the road.” Numbers 22:31a)

How much does a mermaid cost in 2020?
If you find one, will you let me know;
but butterflies and angels are free.

I was always told about days like this
when rainbows were absent and the molecules
went painfully right through you.
I was also told about other days
when inhaling oxygen brightened the skies and
wonder cascaded from both strip malls and mountains.

We pay the price for both or at least extend our credit.

When you saw nothing, did you look beneath the air,
did you look behind the veil?
Did you slow your pace in case an angel might
meet you
around the next bend in the road?
Did you drop your backpack in the ditch
to carry nothing on your shoulders to meet
chilly day smoke from woodburning stoves mixed
with fields of hay newly mown.

I cannot converse much about angels (though,
I may have entertained a few), they are fleeting,
they are fast,
they are still, they are stealing away if we
do not stop to behold them. Some wear swords,
some are barefoot, some glow like jazz,
some are homeless. Some are sent
to relieve us of our empty senses and fill
them again with earth and mud,
clouds and sky,
circles and globes,
squares and boxes,
and lines that lead us directly
to the presence of the One who fills all things
(solitary yellow leaf, autumn’s last rose,
wind that makes the trees sound like ocean,
and the oxygen that moves through us like wine).

I am not wealthy enough to purchase a mermaid,
(what is the going rate in 2020?)

Times When Silence

 

Times When Silence

(“May your gracious love come to me, your salvation, just as you said.” Psalm 119:41)

There were times when following
looked like abandonment. The voices were
shapeless,
the promises faceless,
and the landscape so concrete you
could not help walking on the cracks.

Though the path predates me
I’m the one who has felt old lately.

Some days I hate the rain, other days the
storm is passion and promise, dotting my windows
and animating trees preparing for the slumber of winter.

Sweet dreams, they say,
and sometimes they are. When doves
pair up in your attic
you should not complain of loneliness.

There are times when silence
feels like applause, one moment when love
has drawn all existence into itself and landscapes
melt like wax. Below the windy earth
and above the laconic sky, mercy awakens,
a single syllable unworded.

Each Morning the Cobwebs

 

Each Morning the Cobwebs

(“You must eat these things in a holy place…” Numbers 18:10)

Each morning the cobwebs decorate my brain
in dusty fog; pain is the wall between overnight dreary
and midday promises of clear skies, though clouds hug the
lowlands no matter the time.

My mind has shrunk and slowed. It hangs on to old
impurities, a swamp of pitfalls, a canyon of cliffs, a
mudded well with walls so slick from slime, escaping
is no longer in the plans.

For each day forward, for the moment the sun and the
mouth of the well align,
there are a month of others when a monster hand covers
my only minute of warm, my only breath of light for
weeks at a time.

Some days hasten, some hold back, my hours are not my own,
they belong to the malady in my head. Some days are over
before I’ve begun. Some days repeat hour after hour, while
I hesitate to venture past the mailbox. Sometimes I take the dog,
sometimes I fear saying “hi”.

I will not excuse my damp flailing, the past failing, the present
and constant funnel where my wounded heart hears even the best
words as foreign babble. I’ve troubled you too long, son, daughter,
friend, peer. I’ve troubled you too long; only the dearest to me
know. Only the dearest heard the words rebounded from my
wounds and sounded like another angry hurricane to rip the
foundations again.

Perhaps I could trouble you for a meal, coffee, breaking bread?
Perhaps I could trouble you to sit with me, silent, a simple spread
so holy that soul and spirit are nourished,
dispensing with ladders, the climb to advancement
is found on park benches, sandy beaches, or a artisan picnic
before the storm roars down the river.

Perhaps my thoughts will be clearer before the evening ends.

Even Though They Follow

 

Even Though They Follow

(“I pray that You will forgive the sin of this people by the greatness of Your loving-kindness.” Numbers 14:19a)

Even though they follow you to find your hiding places,
even though they memorize every shadow,
even though they look away when you pass,
even though never call--

What they love is far less than you possess.

Even when they throw their eolian axes,
even when they are dead-set against your phantoms,
even when they insist demons inhabit your groaning,
even when they do not share their air with you—

What they breathe would toxify your alpine breath.

Even now your heart is aching, hanging on,
like the last leaf on the tree near the end of November.
Even now your mind is racing, spinning wheels,
like cobbled spokes on a wooden buggy;
Even now your tears are hidden, budding out,
like the first rose of the season, life is in your eyes.
Even now your words are measured, immobile,
like a frog caught in your throat longing for the pond.

Even though the days labor slower than midafternoon,
even though the ice steals your hopes and freezes them dry,
even though the mask you wear was placed there by others,
even though they know not what they do—

What you fear is displacement.
But you,
you, are the beautiful, though pained;
the treasured, though stolen;
the rare, though overlooked by all except

The rest of us who have learned that to ache
with another
is the highest affection of all.

Autumn Cheers

 

Autumn Cheers

(“For your loyal love extends beyond the sky, and your faithfulness reaches the clouds.” Psalm 108:4)

Was the air wearing the scent of autumn today,
was the atmosphere dressed just to display the beauty
that dissolves into love?

Was the sky earth-hugging today, full of gray on white,
all business and play? Where the leaves fell
the robins and jays danced while tiny dogs
barked them away.

Night comes early and the light less steep,
the shadows are longer and sharper, our cheeks
blush as creation whispers romance;
lover and beloved sans words, sans precision,
gather the panorama of bonfires and the smokey presence
that follows the wind’s suggestions.

We see. We touch. We breathe. And much is
forgotten. We shiver, we sigh, we leap onto
piles of leaves
and remember the sewn manikins we stuffed
(plaid shirt, blue jeans, knit cap) and placed
in an old wooden chair on the front porch come
October.

It is never over, this canvas that paints our days;
they are never over, these reminders in the sky
that, whisper or wail, release in us upwelling joy
to embrace the caresses of the universe.

Our deepest pleasure is to toast the One who-in-love
composed it all, though are cups are too small,
our wine too common, we still say

Cheers,

and look around in silence while laughter
from the neighbor’s back yard enlivens our
pleasure, and we drink again, including more again
in our circle of mouth stopping wonder.

Our Feet Were Sore

Our Feet Were Sore

(“They camped at the Lord's command, and they set out at the Lord's command." Numbers 9:23a)

We heard voices like people playing with faces
in the sand.
We were precise in our aims and missed the landscapes
where electricity was untamed. We knew what we knew,
and ignored what was created outside our myopic view.

We loved to camp on the traces of history,
we drew our lineage to boats from the east. We were
manifestly destined for this
with our gunpowder and bibles;
we determined who was savage by
the primitive campfires they lit.

We were poor, but not poor enough.
We were sure, like heads, not tails,
on our coins. We inscribed our mottos
in latin.

We looked for God and found him at the
end of our weapons. We won, we thought,
when we would not see what we not-knew.

Then we blamed it on infidels, we pulled our wagons tight;
the circle was broken, though, when what hemmed us in
kept out the light, the love of another whose horses
were wilder than the mannerly company we kept.

We saw the smoke descend like a cloud and vowed we
would destroy it again, this darkness we thought was a
stranglehold on everything our DNA screamed must be.
We heard the fire rise from the camp like lighthouse bells
that toll safe harbor and toothy waves. We tried to
quench it,
wrench it from the coast
where its beacon invited the scraps of clippers and sailors
we wanted to keep out.

Cloud and fire, when will we follow so closely
that our own desires are swallowed by the flaming cloud
of love divine,
and call, yes, announce, proclaim it all a dance of love
in dark and light. Our feet were sore from conquest anyway.

We Might Have Been There

We Might Have Been There

(“Acknowledge that the Lord is God. He made us, and we are his—his people, the sheep of his pasture.” Psalm 100:3)

Depleted,
exhausted,
gazing across the land everything looked
like a flatfish lying on desert sand. We might
have been there to forget.

Rising,
enlivened,
embracing the entire scene, help was sent,
sweet like the refrain of a lover’s serenade.
We might
have been there for the sunset.

You don’t use tear gas on congregants who gather in the streets,
just to prop up
your next photo-op
and pose like the king of crosses that only burn.

But there is one that gathers crowds, tosses joy, plays catch
with girls and boys who don’t understand a word that is said.
There is one who eschews military tactics, has no throne or palace,
but leads the muddy to living waters and the barren to
emerald fields.

Awakened,
agnostic,
hearing the late show commercials and feeling old
like it was time to finally learn how to touch. We might
have been there to speak up.

Where He Fell

Where He Fell 

(“I said, ‘My foot is slipping. But Lord, your faithful love kept me from falling.” Psalm 94:18)

“It was merely silence (he said)
that caused me to lose my footing.”
Startled by the void,
he wished for just one hand;
flesh, blood, veins, fingernails.

No.

A face.

Because when he tumbled from the grainy path
all he saw, all he visioned, like stone mirages,
were fingers pointed at his place of departure.

He needed a face;
mouth, eyes, wrinkles, words
to show that him where he fell

Was the open door he had longed for.