Top Heavy

 

Top Heavy

(“So be careful. When you think you are standing firm, you might fall.” 1 Corinthians 10:12)

Be careful, you have become top heavy.
Be wise, you have become talk heavy.
Be humble, you have not moved in years.
Be kind, you have not slowed the tears
of anyone with god-talk that knows it all
and gets so much of it wrong.

(Don’t ask me, I remember what I used to know
and what I have forgotten now.)

For instance, the rain began at just the time
my apps told me I could take a walk without
getting wet. For example, I told someone I had talked
too many times and when they agreed, I sang a monophonic
tune that took up the entire side of the record.

Check it out, then, when inert gasses convince you
that nothing changes. The wind knows the way to
curl between hills and make the heavy trees sway.

Watch the smoke curl from the factory across the river.
Watch it stripe the horizon like silk candy from a pipe and
watch it next day and the day after. Some days it hugs the
ground with the atmosphere weighing it down. Some days
it flies as the breeze arises from the river and corkscrews
the skies.

All this is to say, please stop sitting in the same booth at
the same restaurant and ordering the same meal. Rebel.
And open the menu to dishes with funny names. Un-tame.

I Would Dance If I Could

 

I Would Dance If I Could

(“Lame men and women will leap like deer, the voiceless break into song. Springs of water will burst out in the wilderness, streams flow in the desert.” Isaiah 35:6 [The Message])

I would dance if I could
(just a reminder to my friends and former peers:
I once moved across the floor like lightning,
sang till my throat was dry).
I would be a dervish if the offer arrived in the mail.

I suppose I will one day again
when I reach the lighter home within,
but now it all stays dense like granite,
matter in solid form keeps slap happy words
from making a dent.

And I’ll tell you plainly why: people I depended on,
who wore my same uniform,
whose feet I once washed, whose children I once hugged,
make potions in their laboratories that make feet stick
in the mud. Sinking sand and nail-scarred hands cannot
share the same mansion.

Nowadays the ones I see dancing scare me to death,
the ones singing songs in broad daylight and spreading spit
and virus
over the enraptured audience
make me shiver. I’m back to singing
Carole King songs again.

The rivers of life I once waded in
are dammed up at their source. The pipes
have broken, the cause unspoken but suspected,
they burst heavy with silt at the seams.

As mirky as my mind is, as cloudy as my heart,
I still await the showers that open poppies and
make the sunflowers peek from the sides of the road.

As achy as my knees are, as arid as my throat,
I still await the ballads that repeat mercy and
make the sun-children speak from the joy of the Lord.

To Answer the Door

 

To Answer the Door

(“The Lord said to Gideon, “The men you have are too many for me to give them victory…They might think that they had won by themselves, and so give me no credit.” Judges 7:2)

Some days I am one, occasionally I am two,
but most days I simply am none.
On holidays maybe two to five;
Most days I have less than I want,
All days I have more than I need.

My doors are unlocked, my phone is not blocked,
why don’t you leave a coffee at my door?
Why don’t I hear your voice the way I did before?
Is my address obscured, have absurd notions about
my mosaic faith made you lose my number?

Did you think I could muscle through this impossible etude,
did you expect me to refuse your offer of lunch or conversation
upon the wandering hills? What exactly have I spilled that makes
you see such a stain modifying me?

I was never the strong one, even when I needed to be.
I was never the rock, the tower, the fascinating power
emitted from ministerial license or prophetic indulgence.
I cried more than I slept; even when friends faced me,
warm words faded, erased by the time they turned around.

By now I’ve learned the routine, I settle into the shadows unseen.
By now I expect nothing, though my heart feels like rain and
a flash flood warning has been issued for the tears in my eyes.

I love you unguarded, but now disheartened,
I sit with the slow-motion collage of letters and words
that spring from my mind unheard by anyone besides
the god who says he has heard it all before. But, if I
hope for anything,
I hope he does not ignore the repeats so incomplete
that track through my days and punctuate my nights.

Some days I have won, most days I have lost,
today I would jump out of my chair and cross the
room to answer the door…to see if anyone is there.

Barely Awake

 

Barely Awake

(“Then Jesus said to him, ‘Put your sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword.’” Matthew 26:52)

 

In our dreams we move faster than light,
and barely awake we sludge so slowly we dare not move
from right to maybe so. What miracles of fear
and cold sweat escort you 500 miles and 30 years ago
waking cements our ego within its four walls?

And so we draw swords because evil men are demonic,
though we’ve never seen a devil bleed before.
And so we label them Jezebel and Satanic, cast our unholy spells
we call prayers
while love looks on, divesting us of its name.

Did you see the sweat like blood,
did you hear the cry of perfect love,
did you consider the cup he drank,
did you consider staying awake?

Those with heavy eyes wield the swords,
those with light in their soul heal the slain.

The most profound product of this world

Is

Tears.

The Maps You Sent Us

The Maps You Sent Us

(“For You have been a stronghold for the helpless, a stronghold for the poor in his distress, a refuge from the storm, a shade from the heat; for the breath of the ruthless is like a rain storm against a wall.” Isaiah 25:4)

The maps you sent to us were useless,
horizontal across the glowing hills
(we were on our way to spy a super-nova)
and we needed a new place to breathe.

The instructions you left were bilingual,
and we had no translator
(we left those dead languages long ago)
we needed new super-novels to read.

My, didn’t it rain while we asked for directions,
and didn’t the heat burn us like toast,
and weren’t the voices we heard only reflections
of every dead-end word that catches in the throat.

While some tore the skin, we looked for a new way in
where welcome was spelled in every language and
the rain was warm enough for dancing.

While some insisted demons, we were ready for angels
and delighted when the sun drove the shadows
away. While you insisted your opponents were evil,
we woke the dreamers to rise and compose a new
anthem that clothes the poor from our wardrobes.

We will follow a new navigation, guidance from the
crafter of the stars. We will read the heart song of silence
that mutes our leaden insistence that detoured our
pilgrimage in the first place. The love we began with
will be our destined arrival. The last day shall be
the same as the first.

And we will feast on the bounty
of a boundless storehouse of grace.

Shuttered My Mind

 

Shuttered My Mind

I have shuttered my mind from the mad fire

that torches the fraying ropes of contentment.
And I am not perfect yet; in fact,
I am so far from it I cannot find it on the map.

The connections wave in the air, sailors away to other duties,
while, landbound, turbulence wakes me every hour and
leaves my mind riddled with fallen leaves, broken branches
and shattered jars that once held messages from across the ocean.

I have lost heart in the desert
while panic attacked in the jungle.
I have lied to keep my name intact,
I lied to keep yours gilded.

The sun is shining today, the shadow of naked branches
are painted on my neighbor’s house. I peeked
between the shutters
and hoped the shadows would flee and leave me
ready to sing again

On buttes with native flutes in the background.

Every time I have danced, though,
every word I ever sang,
the next day my windows exploded,
my mind reloaded every action that proved
I needed to board it all up again.

The air does not speak, nor does the sun hug
the locks and granite traces away. A voice, though,
could add a tiny space to let one ray leak through
this untitled soul the sits alone.

Fill This Vacancy

 

Fill This Vacancy

(“You have done well, and proven yourself to be my loyal and trustworthy servant.” Matthew 25:21)

Let me educate you about silence,
about the abyss that exists when the decades you
invested
amount to hardly a whisper a quarter mile up the road.

I hide myself, take no risks,
wince at squinted questions,
die of laughingstocks.

Let me fill you in if you do not know
that, beaten at my own game, I stayed in until the
final seconds ticked my fate dry. If you are asking:

Yes, I cry every day.

My time ran out, my well ran dry,
my risk was greater than my apparent reward.
My friends forgot to write, and one or two
called me in 24 months of shivering solitude.

And just down the hill today, just a 10-minute walk today,
they gathered six months after my return. Isolation
has insulated me
from unwrapping my skin again. I trace the same route
over and over,
up the road and down the valley where
bramble and tree limbs entangle the cold banks of
the brook that is background noise to the mosquito buzz
haunting the abyss in my head. I am an analog
AM radio
forever caught in the static between stations.

I hope Jesus, the one quoted above, will fill this vacancy soon
because I’ve been a tenant on this battle hill too long.
And if no one else has a word, a hug, a plaque or an
invitation to dine around campfire smoke,

I hope the words he spoke will be enough for me to hear,
that someone thinks I’ve proven myself,
that someone thinks my self-inflicted wounds are
worth the time to heal.

Or Write a Harmony

 

Or Write a Harmony

(“And we have not received the spirit of the world, but the Spirit which comes of God, in order to know the things that are given to us by God.” 1 Corinthians 2:12)

And how did your day begin? The clouds hugging the
ground and cold sweat dew on your brow?
Did it start with winds spiraling through the hills,
whistling and roaring like voices from up the canyon?

And what if the clouds escape the earth’s weak hold
and the winds cease for a moment just to listen to
the silence between low pressure and high pressure?
And what if we heard the music that exists so quietly
you can only hear it between heartbeats?

There is nothing magical about the moods of the day,
and yet there is singing that comes from everywhere (dark
or birth, howl or arrival, answer or inflections that change
with the hour.)

There was fear in the skies yesterday,
yet now the potholes are holy baths where brown finches
are hop-flitting in the sun. Any flip second
can rearrange a day.

Or write a harmony that we only can hear.

The Throne Among Us

 

The Throne Among Us

(“For a child has been born to us, a son has been given to us. He shoulders responsibility and is called Wonderful Adviser, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” Isaiah 9:6)

“Pass on by and don’t say a word,”
they reply when they repeat the lies of violence
and then turn with a smiley face on their sticker heart
they have pasted on their foreheads.

Why do you leave us waiting without wings?
Why do you see darkness when the light fills everything?
Why do you leave us to wonder
how you came to your conclusions?
Facts are facts, not your affection for sledgehammer delusions.

Oh, speak my Prince,
and move upon these streets of stone.

Oh, seek my friend,
the truth that will not bend to the seismic intentions
of words you attribute to angels
but smell of demonic design.

Oh, rain my Prince,
upon these barren lands where we paint our
rock gardens green because nothing ever grows.

Oh, listen friend,
to the streams that wake us,
the rain that soaks us,
the sun as it coaxes us to
open like roses in the face of love.

Let go your arrows, empty your quiver,
spend your words with liberal fascination
that the throne above is now the
throne among us
and it calls us
to speak more like
the Prince of Peace.

Why Has Your Love?

 

Why Has Your Love?

(“Learn to do good. Seek justice. Arrest oppressors. Defend orphans. Plead the case of widows.” Isaiah 1:17)

Why has your love become tethered to
abusive egos? Why has your love become grounded
after it flew so high? Why has your
love insisted
blood will be spilled when Jesus returns?
Why has your love
resisted
the tears that were once cried for you?

Why have you not dried tears that now crease the face
of the lonely one who is
living as a shadow?
Why has your love expired
like winter leaves mulched to black?
Did you disable our friendship,
did you discover it melted in the first
spring thaw?
Did you pledge allegiance to the next
despot who promised your prayers would be answered
if you only kept out the riff raff like me?

And still I know my complaint is full of
privilege and faint echoes of hoarded measures
against ruin. And still I know my fainting heart
has never beat on its own. And still the phone remains
silent.

Why is your chair empty? Why are your sleeves still
rolled down?
Why can’t you hear the silence
between each beat of my heart?
Why have you left me alone?

Coronation Day

 

Coronation Day

(“How terrible it will be for you legal experts and Pharisees! Hypocrites! You shut people out of the kingdom of heaven. You don’t enter yourselves, and you won’t allow those who want to enter to do so.” Matthew 23:13)

So, you be queen, and I’ll be your king
because we need more heroes and fewer
novitiates.
I cannot remember the last person I saw
kneeling before a peasant in the street.
But we’ll take it all back when we come to power;
we’ll storm the gates on our coronation day.
I’ve heard them say the day will not be long enough,
the forces against us are weaker than the principalities for us.
We can break a few windows, steal a few chairs,
set up our thrones at the top of  the stairs
where everyone can see our benevolence.
(Imagine the arrogance of those who only kneel
at ball games.)
So, parade with me; we will walk together past
the old frame churches to show our allegiance
to script and verses we cannot repeat but
have rehearsed for this day only. March
with banners of war, that’s what we are here
for. Doing battle against the enemy you have hated
with me all along. Slay the satan, demolish the devils,
and create more dragons in the minds than ever existed
in fables or rhymes.
You know we have the votes, you know we have the defenses,
you know we have kept out the vagrants with our fairy-tale fences,
unscalable except for the quiet mob we invited
to ignite the flames within our sacred chamber with
wood from the lecterns and ancient documents declaring
independent witnesses are so last year.
In God we trust (since 2015), no matter our obscene
rants. Chances are our subjects will love every word
from our mouths and erect us monuments and fill
their churches with songs about our anointing day.

So, you be queen, and I’ll be your king
because I cannot think of anything more
that God and Country could need.

Shoes on the Beach

 

Shoes on the Beach

(“The Captain of the Lord’s army said to Joshua, ‘Take your shoes off your feet. For the place where you are standing is holy.’ And Joshua did so.” Joshua 5:15)

No one wears shoes on the beach
and no ones hears you coming on the cold winter sand.
You can watch the waves, foamy stars; you can stand
for days before time reminds you of the friends
who once watched with you.

There are no duties on the beach
and no one makes you take up arms against enemies.
You can breathe the mist, salty wine; you can leave
the future as you memorize the driftwood at your feet.
Smooth, white, gray and light; you wonder its origin
and family tree.

No one wears shoes on the beach
and no one cares about sand or mud-caked toes. As
the world turns the sun toward down humanity thins
as the horizon is crowned. Perhaps the unknown few
will warm the chill, earthy flames; perhaps they will
let the sea touch their ankles, the fire touch their hearts
and slowly discern the holy love circulated without.

Within.

Just for Kicks

Just for Kicks

(“For many are called, but few are chosen.” Matthew 22:14)

I was never a rebel just for kicks,
I was hardly an enlisted maverick.
But, by the time I had been stranded inside the bricks
and mortar of lines to cross and
coughing borders
I was forced to become larger than my story.

(Just between us, the butterflies that ravish the wildflowers
speak more eloquently to me.)

I was living like a ghost and no one saw me.
They saw the pottery I lived in and the tendency to crack.
I answered back but my arguments sounded like fallacy to
those who thought the cocoon was the condominium
we all should live and die in.

I heard you telling me to be fearless;
the judge and jury could not care less.
You have washed the gutters with your tears,
and yes, your heart has melted the listlessness away.

So I sported my fedora,
walked cautiously outdoors
and told the trees and the sky that
this was the last time I would lie
about who I am
and where I belong.

And my heart no longer kicked against the goads
that moved me to ride on donkeys or foals.
I rebuilt the house with the sun piercing every crack,
I re-spoke the words the Son of Man also spoke
and never turned back.