Like Grandma's Perfume

 

Like Grandma’s Perfume

(“And the sweet smell from the perfume filled the whole house.” John 12:3b)

Lose me in time, lose me over the bridges of sorrow.
I still bruise too easily.
I no longer want to be planted; unroot me and
let the winds swirl me to a more suited clime.
My memories have been looted by fairies and demons
who designed these bogs and fogginess.

My subscription is cancelled,
now let the rope unwind around me.
This tomb is too crowded,
I recognize the bodies all too well.
Resurrection has answered me back
in waves like grandma’s perfume.

Tears puddle in this dank cave,
and the air around misbehaves like a slug.
Though I may still weep without reason,
take me outside where breezes kiss them away
like a puppy’s love eases the
disease in me.

To Combine with Mine This Time

 

To Combine with Mine This Time

(“Jesus burst into tears.” John 11:35)

Why must you call it drama every time I cry?
Why must you mock my tears?
Every time my brain buzzes with fears
my walls of security shatter like shards. You can
dig the tells of my anxiety and never piece together
my history well. Generations have piled their
refuse in every layer you run your grainy hands
through.

Do not turn away when anxiety vibrates in me like
mock certainty. Look inside to see the ruins
mixed with the hard rains of volcanic eruptions.
Then pull back your hand. Then act like you will
never understand.

But not until you have picked through the tunnels that
swords and battles have carved through the fading grip
I have on sun or joy. Or the way I slip descending
the lava slides. Or the way the hailstones
have pocked my head into submission.

Turn your eyes away from my failures. I will
stumble
again.
And the rubbish pile will grow larger while I
barter for a simple breath of fresh air. Look
at
me
again
and
again
if only
to dry my tears this time.

I am not dead; I am only waiting for the hands of
one person
who knows me well enough
to let their tears well up
to combine with mine this time.

To combine with mine
this
time.

It Might Take a Choir

 

It Might Take a Choir

(“Now it was Mary who anointed the Lord with perfumed oil and wiped his feet dry with her hair, whose brother Lazarus was sick.” John 11:2)

It might take a choir to
inspire any words today.
I am happy that Mary wiped Jesus’ feet,
but everything feels incomplete.

Even still, I have nothing to prove,
nothing less to lose.

So, I’ll write what I wonder,
ask the questions that pain begs to be asked,
scratch my head over churches teaching
the U.S. constitution and
forgetting the beatitudes.

I am sorry, have I said to much?
Did I offend you again?
I’m not sure where to begin,
but I hope we don’t run out of perfume soon
because we need Mary again to fill the room
with the fragrance of love.

It might take a symphony to
awaken my heart again.
I am happy that Mary wept at Jesus’ feet,
I am happy she was so indiscrete
without studying the demographics or plotting it
all on a spreadsheet. She perfumed the room.

I still have too many questions, I wonder where the
love has gone.
We fight for second amendments, we want all
the firepower we can muster.
It is unlikely we will every connect the dots between
the Prince of Peace
and projectiles aimed at human flesh.
I do not think Mary had a concealed carry permit.

I might be wrong. It might take a sonnet or song
to move me close again.
I am happy that Mary was unguarded;
I have been half-hearted and recently a
man of constant sorrow. Perhaps Mary
will show up again,
and we can see close-up again
the love that leaves us defenseless
before the man who teaches us,
who befriends us
even before the music begins.

How Deep the Kisses Go

 

How Deep the Kisses Go

(“If I go to the east, God is not there. And if I go to the west, I do not see him there.” Job 23:8)

I could add that I’ve looked up and down to see how deep the kisses go.
It is a long way down, north and south, to insist the address can be found
that got rumpled, unsuited for public view.
Yet here I am
answering the phone again
(and who shall I say is calling this time?)

The voice I am looking for shines with sweat,
the voice I am looking for is too soon for regret,
the voice I am looking for is too old to forget,
and still I find every time I turn to hear,
the clouds muffle its silence again,
(and yet, I have not given up the listening.)

Have you ever found yourself exploring holes and ditches
and then climbed down the sides of a six-foot pit
to discover the dirt slid like gravy and
the walls were too gravity to crawl out the same way
you jumped in? I would not call that a sin,
but you probably yelled the name of
a friend or two to
throw you a rope. Maybe no one came
until well after dinner time.

I could add that I have fallen also,
a child-man scraping his knees,
a curious boy climbing over piles of
cardboard boxes in the garage. I could
make a hideout for days against the walls
and behind my cardboard castle. But I
hid there in bare feet and soon the concrete floor
shot its icy cold through me. I would have walked down
the street on warmer sidewalks but my parents had
asked for an All Points Bulletin for a barefoot boy
on the run.

I could add that, though from hideouts or august asphalt,
it still is a long way down. Maybe what I’ve found is
the kisses surround us deeper than we can ever hope
to mine.

Simply Complex

 

Simply Complex

(“Then Jesus said, ‘I have come into this world to judge: Blind people will be given sight, and those who can see will become blind.’” John 9:39)

Paper thin eyes scan the horizon line
for the next message sent from gathering skies
to caulk the open seams of frightful facades.

Who could shiver more?

It is all piecemeal anyway, this grand passageway
through time. One grain and another falls on top
of endless beaches and some pretend to
count them all.

Who could hide beneath the piers that long?

The handful I carry today will be half as much tomorrow,
the sighs might be laughter,
the racing heart may find rest after
a simple lunch of
wine and cheese.

Who could promise days like these?

Feigning sanity we mow down the opposition.
We protect our position in the castle on the hill
pinning all our hopes on cannons that make fodder
of all who advance on the slopes below.

Who could explain it to the maker of the mountains?

We even write our copy out loud,
read the news, eat green beans, walk the dog,
make love, reheat pizza and save bags of marbles
for another day. We are not complicated, we are
simply complex.

Who could confine grace to words between leather covers?

Perhaps a Mild One

 

Perhaps a Mild One

(“The Lord is my strength and my power; he has become my salvation. This is my God, whom I will praise, the God of my ancestors, whom I will acclaim.” Exodus15:2)

What I want to know is
why the waters do not always part.
This is not a complaint, or perhaps just
a mild one,
simply a question that fills my ache every time
someone else’s sea stands dry, and they pass by
with a satisfied look in their eyes.

I would sing too, and so would you,
if it happened to us. We might stay in
the riverbed
all afternoon building sand-castles
or cairns to mark the day.

You might even say I am jealous for the stories
told in ten seconds or less
about the mess that now looks like
a wedding cake on display. And yes,
my messes look more like pudding or
dumplings,
I admit.

Though it may not be dramatic,
though the overture is painfully short,
though the curtains open on a scene so ordinary
it could be main street,
or ranch style,
or farm house,
or downtown diner,
or just some children wading in the river
with the dogs biting the water and
turning somersaults in the sand;

Though it may not be a masterpiece
of biblical proportions
or an anthem of alleluias,
the story I’ve learned has enough space
for my questions
and enough wonder to keep me
peeking at tomorrow as it comes over the ridge.

Freedom Lives in the Fence Slats

 

Freedom Lives in the Fence Slats

(“So if the son sets you free, you will be really free.” John 8:36)

Today all I hoped for was meaning
alongside my mistaken humanity.
I barely can proofread my own work,
let alone edit soft sell and
hardheaded opinions boiling over
on the page.

And yet,
words I meant as love
have squeezed some wounds I did
not anticipate. The rain fell like
a sandstorm instead.

Here I am, lonely again,
wishing words were more transparent.
But some dots and commas tripped
a person up again
and I must remove them before
the meaning is lost forever.

Freedom lives in the fence slats
that let us see the garden next door
cultivated by spotted hands breathing
the roses.

Freedom lives in the offenses
dropped like guns turned into
garden rakes. The hands dropped loosely
to the side, we advance only in
surrender and silence.

We hope that our folly will
be only a printer’s error in this
loose-leaf attempt at

Getting through the day.

Did You Choose Your Suffering?

 

Did You Choose Your Suffering?

(“Even if he killed me, I’d keep on hoping. I’d defend my innocence to the very end.” Job 13:15 [The Message])

“Did you choose your suffering?”

He read the old fan letter again. The words seemed
a continent away. It was one envelope among many,
and the question haunted him for all its implications.

“Do you think you suffer more than others?”

And his cheeks grew red, his forehead hot at
the words that, worlds away, exploded from
the page like serpent’s teeth.

“Do you know your suffering offends me?”

His fingernails itched, he reached for
the medicine, the resin that filled the fissures in his skin.
He could not put the letter away.

“I’ve meant to tell you for a long time.”

His feet shook, the foundations crumbled at
the sentence he knew was to come. He had read it
far too often.

“Did you know I was healed from head to toe?”

His brain sent spears across his temple
while his face burned with a pain that never
healed. And he prayed.

Do you know me? Do you?
Do you hear me? Will you?
Put your head on my heart.
Put you hand on my hand.
Touch my lips with the first light of dawn.
Let me know, through word or warmth,
that there is more to you,
to me,
than what you think you see
through time-locked eyes.
Come be the size of me
when the questions loom larger
than proofs and theorems can answer.

“Did you, though? Did you choose your suffering?”

Why Don't You Go Back?

 

Why Don’t You Go Back?

(“’You aren’t from Galilee too, are you?’ they replied. ‘Investigate and you will see that no prophet arises from Galilee.’” John 7:52)

Where do you come from, and where have you been
to tell us how to shape our mouths and keep our souls clean?
On the backside of the desert
only the sandstorms speak
of decaying sunlight.
How do you claim to know anything despite
your nowhere dirt roads with pebbles in your shoes?

Where have you been, and why don’t you go back
to your own shanty town. Rehearse your
sermons
for the horned toads and serpents.
We have heard all we need to know,
our minds our full and refuse to be confused
by your small-water mouthfuls.

Where is your hometown? We cannot find it
on the map. What is your pedigree, where is your
divinity degree? Why do you disagree with every
law we have coveted for so long? If you are right,
then we are wrong
and we cannot fathom anything more permanent
than our wallpapered temples at the center of power.

What is your language, share with us your alphabet.
Why do you think you can speak to us like that?
We have gathered, we have met
and our conclusions prove you are a threat
to all our preconceptions.

We cannot believe that you have not been
arrested yet.

Something Private

 

Something Private

(“Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, ‘Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.’” John 7:38)

I want to write something so private that no one will know
it is me;
then I could write effortlessly and
my hope might rise
that you have discovered honey and
bread in me.

I have been untethered, distant from home,
unconnected to earth or sky,
rain or sea,
and the clouds pass far too quickly
for me.

I have no more meetings to attend,
no schedules to keep,
only the blue light from river to my eye,
and trees gone silent because the heat
choked their upraised feathers now
drooping like midafternoon on a workday.

Still there is something satin within
like an azure banner in the wind.
I wish to be transported to sit at
the kitchen table
with departed friends or standing
at the bar
missing half the conversation because
the dj loves funk and plays it loud.

You would not hear me complain.
His hands spin the discs while
his head bounces like David Byrne.
We all are surrounded, we are sympathetic
strings
on a human music machine. We are
streams
where glances are more private
than whispers. We are teeming with life,
top to bottom. There is always water
in the middle of the ocean.

Silence Sits Like a Scornful Goddess

 

Silence Sits Like a Scornful Goddess

(“Don’t work for the food that perishes but for the food that lasts for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you.” John 6:27a)

Silence sits like a scornful goddess
laughing at the loneliness that invades
uneven thoughts.
When the center is wound tight like
a yoyo string, others watch
as the moods rise and fall
at the whim of the hand that controls
its flight.

Music fills the cavities, smooths
the breaks,
but never makes up for the lack
of conversation.

Silence mocks the inner craving
for more than a day without pain.
Rings on the fingers are reminders,
amulets around the neck,
but they are less than the invisible
waves of familiar voices between
sips of beer and messy tacos.

But the moment one friend captures
the threaded wander of the tears
no one else can see

Is the moment songs are restored,
hands warmed,
and words connect with words
to mean more than their sounds.

Fiery Are the Folded Hands

 

Fiery Are the Folded Hands

(“So Jesus took the loaves, gave thanks and gave them to the people sitting down, and then did the same with the fish, as much as they wanted.” John 6:11)

I don’t know why they ever lied to me,
somewhere tonight they wish they had told me the truth.
I don’t know why they ever kept me from their table,
somewhere tonight they are scraping the extra into the garbage.

Some lives are so shrunken they actually live on
less. Food is sparce, space is frugal, friends are the
ants you try to keep from your dropped crumbs on the floor.

Unless you find someone to hold your diminished life
and not be afraid of its hollow touch, you may end up
just like the rest of us.

I don’t know why I every lied to them,
somewhere tonight they wish I had told them the truth.
I don’t know why I ever kept them from the table,
somewhere tonight I have ordered extra guacamole.

Light is the touch, fiery are the folded hands that hold
my bread
in thanks for the seed, the grain, the miller and the baker,
and for the One who invented seeds and told them to teach
us of abundance when our love is too small,
and our vision too narrow,
and our prayers are checkmarks on a list or
a social network status.

Most days I would take a hug with skin
than the promise of prayer from one I think
would pray anyway.

Having been held in thankful hands by the Master,
you could be loaves and fish to me if only
you would wrap your arms around my neck,
hold my hand for more than a second,
look in my eyes with tears held back
and feed my emptiness the way a mother
brushes back her firstborn’s hair.

Even our Timeless Sighs

 

Even our Timeless Sighs

(This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us. 1 John 5:14)

Even our timeless sighs reach beyond the
disheveled skies, the sheds on the edge of our existence,
the lean-tos of driftwood buckling under the years.

The music is greening, the roses are singing,
the grasses whisper that every wordless ache
is seen before night shadows fall.

Let the circle grow like campfire heat upon the faces
of weary wanderers who just need a place to
call their own. Let the migrant feet be soothed tonight.

Even the fear that rises undisguised from manicured houses
is heard though panes of double hung windows.
Let anxiety’s scent rise like incense from the altar.

Let those afraid to reach the stars feel the touch
of breath upon their faces from
the face of God who is nearer than the earth underfoot.