Run Out of Road

 

Run Out of Road

(“How often I’ve longed to gather your children, gather your children like a hen, her brood safe under her wings—but you refused and turned away!” Luke 13:34b [The Message])

It seems certain now, after observing you from afar,
that you may have run out of road and are spinning your wheels
in the sand.
It is understandable,
knowing only the route you pursued,
but honestly, it escapes my reasoning and knowledge of
your surroundings why you don’t raise your eyes,
look around,
and notice the desert you drove yourself to.

It seems evident how, for how long and for deeper still,
you yearned for a badge of courage, a congressional medal,
an emblem earned to show your commitment to
machines that mowed down the opposition well,
and how certainly you remained true to a narrative
no better than a fairy tale.
What you failed to observe was
the magic kiss you wanted was just in front of you.

It seems ages ago, the first time around, your maiden journey
circling certainty. The snow swirled around the asphalt like
snakes before you found the tracks of previous drivers.
Safely you navigated icy patches with nothing but the taillights
of big rigs to guide you. You arrived. You sighed in relief.
You were safe. And you were lost. Waiting out the storm was
the only choice to make.

Though you did not know it, there was a course correction
waiting for you in that cold café with more space heaters
than tables. The dark wood paneling may have hidden the
wandering one from your view, or you may have been too
busy reading to see him. He longed to loan you his parka,
drive an extra mile with you, and to shield you from the coming
blizzard that would disguise the road back home.

But you finished your breakfast, nose in the best book,
sucked down the remnants of your coffee and walked past the
man in the corner who rose to meet you, who always rose
to meet you
in every rest stop along the way.

I Slowed Down Enough

 

I Slowed Down Enough

I slowed enough for you to catch me,
I slowed down to a crawl,
I slowed enough for you to find me,
I slowed to no movement at all.

I radioed ahead that I was coming,
I radioed so you would show,
I radioed ahead while I was driving,
I radioed so you would know.

But you kept up your breakneck pace,
You kept up your distractions,
But you kept up your blinded race,
You kept up your hollow fractions.

I stood in the road far too long,
I stood across from you,
I stood in the road with my old coat on,
I stood right in front of you.

I slowed down once I had hit town,
I slowed down at this address,
I slowed down so I could be found,
I slowed down to emptiness.

But you would only blaze past me,
You would ignore my telegrams,
But you would not simply replace me,
You would treat me like I was banned.

I slowed down enough for you to welcome
me home.

 

Grain-Sized

 

Grain-Sized

(“Let us know, let us press on to know the Lord his appearing is as sure as the dawn; he will come to us like the showers, like the spring rains that water the earth.” Hosea 6:3)

Have you watched the rain fill the potholes and
the next day the sparrows are bathing?
Have you seen the way old eyes fade
when the lengths are measured so precisely?
Have you missed the sun on a befogged morning
and refused to walk out into the gray?
Have you ever,
even if you don’t remember,
walked barefoot all summer until you
did not need shoes at all?

Have you smelled the lavender and remembered
your grandmother or the florist who loved the dirt?
Have you tasted a strawberry and remembered
the kiss of an early love?
Have you been to the beach, watched sand crabs
swim in your castle’s moat?
Have you watched the orange sunset turn to
red tide under a renewing moon?
Have you seen the ways young eyes fade
when campfires sing until dawn?

Have you felt the verdant forest coating your skin,
the boundless sky caressing your shoulders,
the breezes sigh like a joke gone wrong
that everyone laughs at because wit has become
joy which needs no permission to grin?

Have you hiked a hill until your back was fire,
but would not retreat until you stood higher than the
aspens below you? The alpine lakes show you more
from above the timber line.

And some days do you sit and do
nothing at all
while you think the world is livelier
outside your room?

Have you every wondered how someone so
grain-sized
can imagine universes within and without you
or that the divine infuses
it all like rain, like flame, like
the very next dawn.

I Guess I Grew Up

 

I Guess I Grew Up

(“Turn both your pockets and your hearts inside out and give generously to the poor; then your lives will be clean, not just your dishes and your hands.” Luke 11:41 [The Message])

I guess I grew up without knowing your culture
celebrated
a bath in a lake or a hot tub just off the sacristy.
I guess it surprised me how loud the applause was
when a poor beggar came up out of the water
(and went home without supper, and went home without bread).
I guess I never questioned why
my annual report demanded how many heads went under the water
and had no fill-in-the-blank for how many mouths were fed.
Don’t get me wrong,
I’m glad for every person added to the roll,
but can’t we, just once, or even from now on,
count the toll it has taken for the forgotten and forsaken
to spend food money on rent, and rent money on diapers,
and diaper money on food, and food money on
nothing left at all.

Don’t tell me BLM is violent until
you dismantle the razor wire around the
enclaves of elite purveyors of happy blessings
and pastoral greed. Don’t tell me
all lives matter
until you disarm the anger that puts
each shade darker than you
at risk. I don’t care how many tithe
checks you have written. Don’t tell me
you love everyone the same
and then complain
that the manicurists speak in Vietnamese
right in front of your pale english face.
Here’s a tip: leave an extra 20
for the ones still learning the language.

I guess I grew up without it getting through
my thick wooden head
that guns and god are on equal footing.
I guess it surprised me how much those
who never take a drink
don’t mind a little anger in the name of
the
Prince of Peace.

But did I digress? I do not think so.
I have digested 100 different tales of
presidents who are muslim,
care bears that are devilish,
teletubbies that are gay,
and the correct way to pronounce
the name of g-d when, I dunno,
there were no tape recorders beside the unburning bush.

What was the last time you looked in on
the disabled pastor
and offered refreshment, a little water,
a little oil, a candle and a quiet whisper that
says
sometimes uncertainty is

All we are allowed.

I guess I grew up.

The Tightness of Things

 

The Tightness of Things

(“Those who are wise will shine like the brightness on the horizon. Those who lead many people to righteousness will shine like the stars forever and ever.” Daniel 12:3)

There is a light that penetrates the tightness of things,
a love that inhabits the elements and atoms of things.
Most live like lantern fish, mine workers with temporary
lamps on their heads. With factory-direct flashlights
they hope to illuminate the world.

There is a sun that irradiates the life-ness of things,
a grace that infuses the core and the splinters of things.
Most live like tiny kings, squires collecting rent from
lean-tos and taking tea in their receiving rooms. Underneath
the stars and moons they reduce it all to capital gains.

There is a flutter of wings that directs the spirit of things,
a peace that whispers behind every leaf and fingerprint of things.
Most live like boiling water, vapor blasting its way to the
top and casting each thought in scorched confusion. Above
the timers and schedules the blossoms have not moved

An inch since this morning.

Candles Flicker

 

Candles Flicker

(“Father, may your name be honored. May your kingdom come.” Luke 11:2b)

Candles flicker though the wind pinwheels the leaves
on the old cedar bridging earth and sky.
Framed between the windowpanes,
the light reflects; the flame a translucent etching
on the glass revealing the trees. Flame a stained glass
hologram, trees the earthy energy of well-designed atoms.

Through whirlwinds and warring factions
the view was nearly besieged by the time
my heart had dried rough as my thinning skin.
Almost extinguished

I felt the Spirit supply the fuel for the wick
that smoldered in molten wax. The quiet became
like a hurricane; the quiet reframed
what I could not explain. The quiet renamed the
noise of my pain and lifted it past the oldest

Branches touching the sky.

Tears, painful rhythms without reason,
had seized me awake and asleep while I
begged
for relief. And still my dreams cried like
a fugitive waiting to be apprehended.
What father would leave me to suffer on my own?

I clawed my way back to you. (what god demands
this scraping of knuckles and knees?) I clawed and
I could not escape you. (what love follows to
the bloody foxholes and awaits our wounds?)

My house is built on land where the Clatskanie
once hunted and fished. They say I own it,
I wish I didn’t. The hills, the river, the salmon, the
douglas firs and dancing streams belong
to no one.

And mon père, that is when I remember how the
Spirit speaks,
how she whispers around spinning leaves and
glowing candles,
how the world is engulfed so silent that
it has taken these crumbling days alone
to replace the agony of war-torn fissures
with the kingdom of one, the kingdom that has come,
the kingdom that is from and through,
that never withdrew, but lights one more
candle until the storm and still
are one will done
on earth
as in heaven.

Only Vagabonds

 

Only Vagabonds

(“He answered, ‘The foxes have holes to live in. The birds have nests. But the Son of Man has no place where he can rest his head.’” Luke 9:58)

Is there a space in this world for my kind
--he sighed.
Adobe or stucco, bamboo or thatch; a place where
a heart can feel at ease, though the feet may obey every decree
that sends them homeless and walled.
--he cried.

Is there room for my story in a town this size--
she sang.
duplex or guestroom, fireplace or furnace; a simple cube
with a window where guests can visit one at a time and
I can watch the doves coo and chortle alone.
--she sank

Into the only offer that stilled the curses that made her nerves
shout like carpet bombs,
her thoughts grind like
catacombs of dead words that kept
living inside her mind.

--he lied
every time someone asked if he was happy, if he was content.
His house was warm, his family free of charge,
and his rent was paid. But blue sky or hardwood floors,
his shadows hung heaviest at midday summer. He
relied
on visits from the Homeless One
and others who offered only the comfort that
vagabonds provide.

Day Breaks

 

Day Breaks

(“Then a voice came out of the cloud, saying, ‘This is My Son, the One I have chosen. Listen to Him!’” Luke 9:35)

Day breaks in on my dreams
as the sunbeams crash through my
windowpanes. Whether born with a
knotted mind
or
twisted like that over time,
the only voice I hear frightens me,
reminds me
that I have never belonged.
(When I did, so they thought, they invited me to
their homes. We played games. We laughed and
got donuts in the middle of the night.)
But either because, in desperation, I tried
to no longer hide behind cinder block certainties
or
I simply could no longer carry the pain of a slowly
exploding brain,
many scolded me. Many, my god, who once sang
the same songs about you.

Day breaks and the light slices unreliably,
strings and waves and particles so discordant
they escape my present reality. I have constructed
a crumbling world
where floorboards squeak every time
I think someone wants to enter. If they make their
way past my threshold I would certainly show them
the cobweb rooms where others before them
had left this unclean vacancy within. No, it
did not begin with them;
truly, I did little housecleaning from the start.

Day breaks up the waves that flow from river to sea,
and, for the life of me, I cannot discern how I ended up
flotsam upon the ocean with
no way to swim to the shore. I’ve flagged others
down with my words
but perhaps the foghorns have drowned my voice.

All this to say, let me hear the Daybreak. Unwind my
savage mind.
I am a child who cannot swim, a foreigner who does not
understand the language,
a castaway who stranded himself for
want of good navigation.
Let me hear the human voice of
the Living Son,
the Chosen One.
Because the way things have broken
every word I hear spoken sounds like
just one more reprimand. I need a voice
that gently breaks over deepening cracks
like ocean over sand.

Pleading Behind Old Eyes

 

Pleading Behind Old Eyes

(“The purpose of my instruction is that all believers would be filled with love that comes from a pure heart, a clear conscience, and genuine faith.” 1 Timothy 1:5)

I wonder when the door will open,
I fear the day when one comes.
I remember I was with my son on New Year’s Eve,
I have no idea who was not there.

But this transition reminds me of
Every absence that split open my heart.
While I grabbed my head in pain,
filled my cranium with ice to meet my
obligations,
too many relations waited in office
or alleys,
never venturing in to wrap me in
arms of skin.

For a decade my temples throbbed as I went about
my job, my call, my vocation that
I always thought
had chosen me. I dreamed of family,
of circles of tears, mists of laughter,
a band of brothers and sisters
who only aimed to love better than the day before.

I hobbled to my duty, held on to the rails as I
walked down the hospital steps. I phoned because
I could not leave the couch that day. I phoned those
who needed soulful eyes and a hand on their hurt.

Finally, I stopped. Full-on dead end, no turning around,
no U-turn. They deserved a shepherd who could care for
the sheep. In the end the pain emptied me. Hollow,
I knew I must leave. And yet, for a dozen years
I dreamed of comrades, I imagined playful affection;
all kidding aside, I hoped we could hide inside the sanctuary
that giggles provide. Some of us were too serious, others too
hurt. Some were stone, wanting to be softer. Some were
oblivious, and some had their own lives contracted
by needles in their body, brain or heart. We used to touch,
but with some of them and
some of me
subtracted, the distance grew apart.

I retired far too early. The pain would not negotiate
with my heart. But I never loved less. I think I may
have loved more.

Two and a half years ago I walked out the door
of the place we met to wonder about wonder,
to feel Spirit sing through human things,
and to watch the children dance noisily before
the meetings ever began. Perhaps disorder is the
way of the Spirit
when we prefer that little voices pipe down
so adults can hear the word of the Lord.

And we aimed South for a year and a half,
then returned to the beautiful hamlet we left.
Out my back door is wilderness and a couple
of rabbits that visit in the Spring. Out the front
are fruit trees and flowers that paint our windows
and, if I let them, spill their aromas inside my dreams.

But still,
I wonder when the door will open,
I fear every day when no one comes.
I remember I was at someone’s bedside,
I remember weddings and babies,
baptisms and weeping,
children and jellybeans,
and the wonder that God was in it all.

But now,
I wonder,
when is it my turn,
(my head hurts like hell today),
when is it my turn
for the human touch
now for me?

The house is empty except for
my chihuahua and me.
My music plays constantly, keeping
my worst notions at bay.

Please, take one long look in my face and
see the pleading behind old eyes that have always
smiled for those who could not find their own.

The Top of the Staircase

The Top of the Staircase

(“The people were silent. They didn’t answer the commander at all, because King Hezekiah had ordered, ‘Don’t answer him.’” 2 Kings 18:36)

They were right behind you staring a hole
into your friendships and assumptions;
you could see them from
the top of the staircase shouting, “you’ll fall”.
You could hear them from the second story window yelling
spattered buckshot into the air. They inhabited the lawn
and the ground floor
like evictors without cause.

You checked your forehead for a fever,
your lungs for the next sultry breath. But the invisible
brooded above you, silent in the velvet sky. And their
momentary pause
waited for the universe to be created.
They were fierce as flames, as beautiful as sequoias
mastering the ocean breezes from their inland abode.

You inhaled, about to answer the accusers and present them
with your certificate of authenticity.
And then sighed in your uncertainty;
the silence had descended, a cloud, a flame,
and revealed the crowd was full of comic book
characters
with no dimension at all..

My Trees are Old

 

My Trees are Old

(“And the seeds in the good ground are the ones who hear the word with an honest and good heart, hold on to it tightly, and produce fruit as they patiently endure.” Luke 8:15)

My trees are old, gnarled and unruly.
They toss their fruit like tennis balls on
the grass courts of Wimbledon. Cherries,
peaches, and plums. Their blossoms prepared
a pink and white carpet on the mini-forest floor.
Their life began a generation before
I stepped onto these three-quarters of an acre.
Now I own towering douglas firs
and more rhododendrons than is proper.
The roses hug the west wall and drink the sun
between raindrops. Red for passion, yellow for friendship;
they whisper that growth is slow and never inevitable.
They ache for my care lest their canes tangle. I put off
their winter pruning this year, so their arms and elbows
are thin as a grasshopper’s legs.
The wilderness begins at the end of my
back yard, a logging trail at the bottom of the hill. I have
not yet
grown weary of green.

Perhaps I Will Hear a Voice

 

Perhaps I Will Hear a Voice

(“Then she stood behind Jesus’ feet, crying, and began to wet his feet with her tears. She wiped them with her hair, kissed his feet, and anointed them with the ointment.” Luke 7:38)

I.

What no one knew is that I would
have stayed there all afternoon.
Perhaps they assumed I had grown weary
of mud on my feet; so very tired that I
had thrown everything away they though I believed.

II.

I heard your voice in a dream last night,
a voice I had not heard in forty years.
It sounded just the same as I remember,
only it was me-in-the-dream that heard the words
and not my waking ears. Still,
something was broken and
something healed
at careless sentences and curious
memories. There were fevers and living room corners,
my brother and the one high school class we shared;
was it world history?

So many question my departure; so many minimize my pain.
I am sorry that I had to dig so deeply into the archaeology of
my dreams
to hear easy laughter from the wrong side of religion.
I have no idea where you have gone, but I can find others
without trying
who have dismissed the crying in my soul. And, as in
all dreams, you were not you,
you were me,
and met my ache with simplicity.

III.

What no one knew is that I could
stay here forever.
Though they cleverly reeled me in to
their angry godless Jesus,
I can only fall awake-asleep,
and weep,
and repent for salting his feet
with my tears.

And now my heresy grows
as I stay where I can never leave.
He has reduced me to essence only.
It is lonely here. Perhaps I will hear a voice
awake I recognize from down the years
tomorrow or today. I still break,
I still heal,
I still have stories I am not allowed
to tell.

But I have stayed in the place where
my stories are safe, my proofs are optional,
and the voice I hear is spoken in things
more solid than

Dreams

or

Doctrines.

Would You Stop?

 

Would You Stop?

(“When the Lord saw her, He felt compassion for her and said to her, ‘Do not go on weeping.’” Luke 7:13)

Would you stop the world for just one moment,
would you look at me and see the scars
My clothes are worn, my heart is torn,
and my eyes cannot form the beauty I once knew.
No one sees me, no one notices,
no one watched me drenched in tears.

The gentle hands have become hammers
to
drive home points of disagreement. The voices
that once cracked with mutual grief
now shake in appalled increments like
the last line in obits where it tells who
was left behind.

Would you please pause time so they can see me,
would you place a parenthesis please so someone can drive
by and remind themselves why we were
friends in the first place?
Would you help them remember their promises of love,
would you help them see what has died inside?

There are no more discussions; even debates would revive
the barren patch that goes against the grain within.
They stay away while the pain twists my brain like a spigot.
They feign loyalty, while correcting me for the density
of death I express. If I lied about life, they would applaud me.

Would you please lift me off the carousel, the horses have
run their course. Would you revise this edition of me?
I want no thrill rides, just a quiet meal with anyone who
once pledged their love
and is still unafraid to
give it.

Would you look at me? Would you stop the calliope and
hear me closely? Would you (not tomorrow) attend to this
compressed sorrow? Would you see how the years and hours
have piled up on me? Would you stop and start
with me again?