One Honest Foot

 

One Honest Foot

(“For he knew that the chief priests had handed Him over out of envy.” Mark 15:10)

If you would put one honest foot inside my door
I would talk to you all afternoon.
If you would take one open gaze upon my face
We could break bread together; commune.

But your questions are traps, your inquiries snares
for the innocent. You shout for God and Country
and steal grain from the worker ants building the
gardens you claim as your own.

If you would see the crucified three sown on the hill
I would ask you why you washed your hands.
If you could confess the longest darkness at noon
we could find a way to sit in the shade and fill our rooms

With stories he told that you never understood,
with tattered lives walking the floors ankle and barefoot,
with flax now mended, candles now sending
their light after the smoke was nearly extinguished.

How long will your jealousy last, how long your disguises?
How many lives have you changed, what is your legacy?
The Crucified One dies while you despise his glory
(the seeds that fail do not make it into your top 10 list
of opulence or piety.)
Prepare your next podcast, get your presentation ready,
refute the truth that dying lives and humility make the
tulips rise. Call for contributions; we don’t want to see you
without a bird’s nest or fox’s den. We don’t want to see you
without a pillow for your head.

But, if with honest feet you come to seek
a quiet way to become the humanity
you were born to be,
then let’s embrace, and by the grace of sun and
moon and darkness and light
remind each other of the terrible day when
the greatest king laid down his life
for every jealous and envious judge who swore
he knew the difference between royalty and a
friend of whores.

But royalty he is, and was, and ever shall be,
though we still, locked within this chamber of echoes,
expect the nuclear option when
He chose the mud to grow His kingdom whole.

This World and That World

 

This World and That World

(“Let us give thanks to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! For in our union with Christ he has blessed us by giving us every spiritual blessing in the heavenly world.” Ephesians 1:3)

I wandered through dreaming and waking,
a visitation of images, stories and places
with characters combined and double cast.
It seems I had won the lottery but lost it
within moments of the next scene my mind conjured.
This world and that world all contained within the
neural impulses
that fired without my command.
My head was leaden, my will forbidden from acting,
and my pain binding me to my bed.
Yet, an hour after waking, far into the long afternoon
I saw the reflection of the pink and clearing sky
in my neighbor’s window.

While I slept unwillingly, I heard phone conversations
and my daughter’s voice coming in the front door.
Yet none of this could move me from the
isolated paralysis that bound me to my bed.
Still, moments after rising, (the same hour as
the pinking clouds)
I saw the neighbor’s Siberian Husky watching
the same sky
from the same window

And the sun and raindrops fell
as evening approached.

I was glad I
never draw my shades.

My Japanese Camellia

My Japanese Camellia

(“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” Galatians 5:22-23a)

The rain kept me from my outdoor chores,
there was more to burn in my pile of brush loaded
with slowing sap and winter dampness.
My roses overgrew their place during the shortened days
and looked like aliens waving to their home ship.

Just a few months before we gathered apples from our
mini forest floor and from
the highest limbs of the trees planted generations ago.
They are proud and are hurt by the pruning.
We will have a smaller harvest this year
but sweeter. Light can whistle between each limb again.

Even though the rains dominate the hours week after week,
somehow the sun has pulled the life from the roots to the stems.
My Japanese camellia, green and lonesome from the winter till now
offers me the first dusty flower of these early days of Spring;
hung like a forgotten Christmas ornament, pastel pink
against leaves of forest green.

I take a breath and begin the day again.

Between the Paintbrush Clouds

 

Between the Paintbrush Clouds

(“But the king commanded…saying, ‘Deal gently with the young man Absalom for my sake.’” 2 Samuel 18:5)

Between the paintbrush clouds and peeks at the sky
we all move beneath the same sunshine.
Move lightly, for the sake of another;
step softly, for the songs of numbers of
countless birds remain unheard if we
wear nothing but our combat boots.

Between the hot-tipped arrows and the neighbor’s porch
we all wait beneath the no-mans land unplanned.
Bring coffee for the comfort,
and a chair just for conversation.
Bring children who laugh away the wounds
with their soap bubbles and endless questions.

Between the pale failures and occasional wins
we all regret what might have been.
See deeper, for the love of breath and light.
Hear weeping, the same as your own. The
circle where we dwell unwraps our faces,
deciphers our songs,
and reminds us we belong to each other.
Let it fly like dandelions away.

I Saw a Child Lead Them

 

I Saw a Child Lead Them

(“No one receives God’s approval by obeying the laws in Moses’ Teachings since, ‘The person who has God’s approval will live by faith.’” Galatians 3:11)

I saw a sister coming down the path towards me,
her pack shouldered mightily but her knees were faint.
She had authored stories,
and curated before many of us began.
She was mainly midstream
and now she was tinder dry
but still walked steadily toward the
life risen like the sun for everyone
to see.

She wept privately.

I saw a brother lying on the side of the road,
his life savings splintered and gravel piercing his knees.
He had locked away the stories
of the helpless who deposited them with trust
into his heart.
He was partly periphery
and now was flung further away.
But still he hoped mightily for the
Samaritan, the outcast to kneel beside him
and weep.

He bled internally.

I saw the myriads, the unchosen, the torn coats
and the ice floes of winter diminishing. Some
were gathered to drink the rain, others repeated
the same uniform codes again and again.
Some jumped at the chance to be embraced by
the elite clubs of separation.
Others kept traveling without navigation
but knew the destination would one day
come into view.
I saw some discarded, others ignored;
I heard that some were disbarred and others
abhorred. Some turned to greet the company
of friends they had loved all along
to see many with their backs turned
and silence alone filling the space between them.

I saw a child lead them all.

These Silent Days

 

These Silent Days

These silent days can be interrupted
by
a woodpecker rehearsing for the Spring.
And then, more often,
they are punctuated with sobs from the
hollow of distant grief and aches.
Life can turn cruel without our knowing,
a decade passes and chop block houses line
the field where mustard and poppies once grew.
Life can be sweetened for an hour,
a meal, a hug, a dog nuzzling at your elbow.
The air is heavier
the fewer people in the room.
Half a day later and the dishes are cleared,
loneliness creeps in uninvited
but is so familiar you put out a chair for him.
And though the buzz of life once flew like geese,
like bees,
the silence now hangs over the hours.
Before, now, and after, it is the way it always
has been.

We Were Saplings

 

We Were Saplings

(“Some Sadducees, who say that there is no resurrection, came to {Jesus}.” Mark 12:18)

Have you seen the burn pile behind my house,
sheared limbs and deadened trunks tangled like
frozen snakes in the sun? We plan to burn each one
before the summer is over, but the rains have come with
mid-March clouds to the Pacific Northwest.

It is slow work and painful, bending to find the smallest kindling
to fan the steam and smoke into flame. The mini forest in
our front yard
is better for the deep cuts the chain saw left,
but my past pruning has left marks I am quick to hide.
I would rather they were burned and the coals dumped
over the side of the hill.

You cannot see me a year ago, a day ago, a second ago.
I no longer exist there.
But those ghosts that appear in the voices that remember,
and in my mind full of distemper have painted the past
in clearer ink than the buds that are the beginning of spring.

Music plays every day while I write. Most are the soundtrack
of high school love: Cat Stevens, Rod Stewart, Carole King and
James Taylor. And Don Irwin always sang “Build Me Up, Buttercup”
when we walked home from middle school. We were saplings
and moved easily through the southern California seasons.

But now my trunk is harsher, the gray limbs stiffer, while the remnants
of trees older than me are seasoned next to the shed. Today the sun
shines
while my mind rehearses talks that lasted forever when
we thought we had forever to live. And I have not talked to
many of them for two-thirds of my life now. So where do I
live? I am not afraid to die; I am sure that I exist here and
will and do exist just beyond the crystal veil. What occupies
my mind
today
is the way friends, lovers, sisters, brothers, all seemed effortless.

I am not deceived by the rosiness of time. But today as I view
the years so far ago
I miss the simplicity of firelight, dancing on living room rugs,
unabashed hugs, and playing the same LP over and over again
because Tapestry was just
that
good.

Answers Writ in Childish Script

 

Answers Writ in Childish Script

(“So I tell you to believe that you have received the things you ask for in prayer, and God will give them to you.” Mark 11:24)

I was too weak to have any faith left,
I was too weak to see things in ones and zeros.
It takes a resolute mind to binary the wonder out
of the wonderful,
It takes a granite heart to up and down the spiral
eternal.

But I had slept in past noon all week,
and had slept past my best life the whole decade before.
I asked and asked for pain to work its way through my being
to show the strength the Almighty promised.
I prayed long before that for simple wellness or
general anesthesia to let me finish my journey.

(Though, truth be told, I may not have made it to the end
anyway,
with my broken toes, stumbling feet, and distracted heart
that kept me from playing first-string most of the time.
The ownership is mine.)

But still I cried. And my requests were denied. Longer
days with the pounding in my head outpacing the
beating of my heart. I would vow to begin, to start
an hour earlier from my bed. I would promise to wait,
to shed the last vestigial organ of doubt, knees keenly
placed on the floor. I would capture the playing blocks
of faith
until they spelled out my name.

I believed well enough decades ago and the rain stopped
before the downtown gospel show could begin. I believed
just as well
a decade later and the rain was unrelenting on our baptism
and burgers by the river.

I measured myself (didn’t my crew measure too?) I
measured
myself
by answers writ in childish script
in the drying sidewalk pavement. I wanted
it as concrete
as the stories the fellas told in retreats renamed
“advances” (who could take a chance with such a
faithless title?)
Do not think I am angry, do not think I am snide,
I just know what I heard, but also what I saw inside

And finally understood the mind is more supple than
we imagine. Oh, miracles happen.

But my brain still hurts like the dickens, like hell,
after a decade full of prayer (and do not tell me
I have not believed). Unrelieved I cried myself to sleep
last night;
unrelieved I began another day

And wished I would not have to begin another.

And still
I
love
The Name
more than I can say. Though silence is my answer
(Jesus, where O where are the hands and words of love)
though silence is my answer
I will not apologize
for these raging questions and this dead end
I despise.

Dots and dashes may serve an old code well,
but I need elbows and eyes and fingers. Where O
where
Jesus
are the incarnate ones to bring you close to me?

At Home Weary Hobo

 

At Home Weary Hobo

(“I will put my teachings in their minds. And I will write them on their hearts. I will be their God, and they will be my people.” Jeremiah 31:33b)

You are at home weary hobo,
we have seen the ashes of age covering your
face.
You are welcome repainted wanderer,
we have heard the dirges of miles echoing each
trace
of the journey. Here and now
we
invite you in.

Oh mother, hear your children. Oh, look inside their
reflective eyes. You are more than the pain inflicted when
you asked just a moment away from home. You are not alone
and
the drill sergeant words that keep you from healing
are barbs that stuck after the shock waves were gone.
Oh mother, see your children. Let them silence the
monotonous loops ingrained. Let them love
away the shame.

You are found wrinkled plow horse,
we can feel the scars upon your back.
You are cherished smoking candle,
there is joy enough with us to ignite
the night until the morning has waxed
wide enough forever

To light the way for each vagabond
to the eternal day.

Why Do These Tears Come Unbidden?

 

Why Do These Tears Come Unbidden?

(“Salt is good, but if the salt should lose its flavor, how can you season it? Have salt among yourselves, and be at peace with one another.” Mark 9:50)

Why do these tears come unbidden;
the day is full of quiet and life.
Both my sorrows and splinters ache to be heard,
while I keep silent, leaving the world to guess at the
unspeakable.
But my eyes know my secrets the best,
and speak only in water. The salt they shed
only leaves me thirsty
for something more than a mannequin,
someone clothed with blood-infused skin,
arms to float my whole self in
like the Caribbean
warmed and clear.

There is no hole in my heart
shaped like anything: god, friend,
success or smiles. It is too full,
overflowing and never empties itself before
the tides replace yesterday’s sorrows.

A hug full of sweat might replace
the tears that have watered the sad
and sunny years. From all appearances
there is nothing troubling to be seen.
But if my mouth spoke of the errors and
regrets
that have boarded my windows and
buried my assets so deeply below the
foundation of everything ever offered,
the day would sink even darker and my pain
would never cease.

Sometimes boasting and begging aligned like
an eternal eclipse. Sometimes the aching was
the blackest hole, the bottom of the abyss.

If there were one or two; no, there needs to be three,
so my bets are not hedged, I would tell them everything,
write it out, let them read it, then burn it on the fire of
a snowy day.

If those three would remember, more than scores of years
from now,
not to mention what only the eyes can speak, and
give attention to the day when

All things being equal

I spilled the contents of memory before I
finished my quest.

The Stones Burned Patterns

 

The Stones Burned Patterns

(“You see, everyone will be salted with fire.” Mark 9:49)

I have stepped where the stones burned patterns on the soles of my feet.
When I walked where answers were easy the callouses fell off
and my mind went soft.

 

Some believe I built too good a throne
and at this point farther down the road
I am inclined to agree. Though I miss the descants
the minstrels used to sing.

 

From there it was a briny bog, brackish near the dusk
when people tried to eat the sun. All I wanted was a chance
to hear the songs again that pointed me back home.

I have wept over wounds I’ve inflicted,
would have amputated my hands, my feet, my eyes
to change the misdirection and spirals my aspirational
slipups caused.

I am wounded too, sometimes rubbed with salt
by ones who remember more than they know.

Who can blame them? Out of control, the fire burned
invisible welts from house to house, from soul to soul.

I have wept where the days turned scattered light into prism colors.
When I cried the colors bled. I am held by the blazing eyes
of the One who purifies all with a single gaze.

We Sanitized the Whole Place

 

We Sanitized the Whole Place

(“Uphold justice and righteousness. Deliver from their oppressor those who have been robbed. Don’t mistreat or do violence to the alien, the orphan, or the widow, or shed the blood of innocent people in this place.” Jeremiah 22:3)

We sanitized the whole place before you came,
scrubbed the pews,
resewed the red-white-and-blue,
and made certain the aisles were clear of the
gum the children bring in on their shoes.

We never knew exactly how you wanted us to keep up the place,
dark wood, ancient tongues, plenty of parking, words projected on the wall.
We never completely understood how to control the masses,
the untrained, the languages, the odors and the hoodies,
the certain and the rookies.

Believe me, we made sure the alcoholics found their place,
the dealers too, and the genders that would not keep their
assigned designations. We know what to do with
alcohol and drugs and sex.

But, I hate to confess this, we never mentioned the immigrants
(only to tell those Vietnamese hairdressers they ought to learn
our language).
We stopped for the homeless like we stopped on Route 66
for a handful of curios and sticks of jerky. We pulled away
quickly before they identified us and asked for a ride.
(We would be glad to bring them for church if only that had
a street address.)

Where would you have us hide our halo? We keep it shiny
to make the world know we are wholly different than
the domestic violence we watch on tv. God bless America
and leave the rest of the losers out of it,
John 3:16 notwithstanding, the world is our world
and we will love it as we desire.

We do hand out candy at Christmas,
deliver turkeys on Thanksgiving eve.
But to bleed for a user who lost his keys
and locked himself out of his car during our November feast;
that is an interruption, that is going too far. (Here,
have some mashed potatoes please.)

And one last thing, our carpets are stained from
coffee we allowed in the sanctuary. Would it be okay,
Would you mind very much, if we spent a few thousand dollars
to clean it up? (We might even hire an undocumented or two,
if we can convince them they would be happier worshiping
up the road somewhere.)

Excuse me please, but I need to watch my favorite evangelist
tell me I could be a millionaire and that Jesus was the richest
guy to walk the face of the earth. I’ll have coffee with someone
at McDonald’s and do my penance just before lunch.

It Has Been a Slow Death

 
It Has Been a Slow Death

(“…as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, yet possessing everything.” 2 Corinthians 6:10)

It has been a slow death I know,

From

Circles on a carpeted floor,
sharing cups of 7up and
crumbs of sourdough in makeshift
remembrance

To

The names I have heard you call
good men and women
who were once the all
you proclaimed to love.

And now I feel the death all around me,
the demons of power arcing above the towers
that once called us to joy (the soul’s sorrow,
the spirit’s release),
that once called us to mercy (the word’s story,
the gospel’s free speech),
that once called us to believe (the child’s trust,
the riches unleashed).

And now I see the black figures swinging swords
and aiming nooses, surrendering the peace for
a withered podium of power. And now I hear
the funeral song and I cannot endure

The divorce

Of the ancient faith from its ineffable source,
the crucified one, the suffering Son,
the one acquainted with grief.

I have died today as well
and do not know which world to enter.
The worst abuse, like stripes on a weary body and mind
has found its endgame in the final clod of dirt
tossed upon the casket of my once
vibrant faith.

From the ground up, from deep within the earth,
poor again, having nothing but the me, the seed,
the pleading for life beneath it all,
something still breathes that was smothered.
Something still reaches that was buried.
Something still sees that was blinded
by the shuttered standstill of sight trained
in only one direction.

Something breathes…

But today is one gasp away from
diving beneath the mud and blankets
and never venturing out again.

When the Signboards

 

When the Signboards

(“Jonathan thought as much of David as he did of himself, so he asked David to promise once more that he would be a loyal friend.” 1 Samuel 20:17)

When the signboards are empty with letters
scattered on the ground
I wonder
how many words
we have forgotten.

If I mailed you my heart as a postcard,
a simple white bit of cardboard,
would you question my sanity or intentions?
Sadly it is me
whose nerves are shot.

I do not want to waste your time,
still I look for days when the sun shines
on the picnic tables by the riverbank
and dream of long conversations (you
remember: the teenage angst, unbroken faith,
the questions that came with age).

Will you help me turn the pages again
without asking why I am no better
than the last time we talked?

Besides, I have seen words and dates
inscribed on granite where George Washington
surveyed the rivers and valleys of Pennsylvania.

When signboards spread big lies with
their letters
I wonder
how may promises
we have forgotten.