I Was Glad I Stayed

 I Was Glad I Stayed

(“In the middle of the night someone yelled out, ‘He’s here! The bridegroom’s here! Go out and greet him!’” Matthew 25:6)

 

How foolish I was, my light began to dim. The hour grew near
for the wedding to begin, and I needed somewhere to charge up
again.

Should I leave to find more energy, or stay with the party to
greet the groom? Would he face me down, disappointed that my
batteries nearly died? Or would he smile that I stayed, that I
waited to see if he would be happy with me.

I admit, I was so anxious to arrive I did not think through all
the possibilities. Half the party thought ahead and brought extra
lights in case theirs faded like mine. I had hoped to borrow
an extra, but they looked at me like I was a fool, an idiot,
an infidel,
and told me to go to the store in town; after midnight; through
the alleys; to try to buy more shine. Some of my friends did and
I’m afraid the store was closed, or they paid double, or froze
in their tracks to be out so late in that part of town.

But the groom was already late (at least as we perceived it)
and I wanted to wait; I wanted to take my chances; I wanted to
see him in the first morning’s light.

Would he reject me if there was mud on my freshly shined shoes?
Would he turn away because my tie was askew?
Would he choose someone to take my place who had better sense,
who was more like the friends who splurged on batteries?

But as he walked into the room there was more light than
any of us needed. Regal, he swept us up in his robes.
Holy, he burned our hearts with love.
Humble, he slowly took our hands, gazed at us like peers,
cheered us like children.

And, though my light had failed, I was glad I stayed, bathed
at last in the cosmic romance of redemption.

We Send Hugs Over Wavelengths

We Send Hugs Over Wavelengths

We send hugs over wavelengths once only for
radio broadcasts. We have spread across the continent
like stuffed animals on a carousel. We live on the edges.
Yet this entire world was conceived in love,
brought into existence by passion,
and expands with the Spirit that breathes only mercy.

Some have heard it and are never the same.
Some have bruised their heads against the welding rods
and live with metal chips in their eyes. They may
scavenge for a grain of sanity, but seldom see the
romance of the ever-circling days. They would rather
pay back the culprits and keep score, regressing to times
before love came calling.

We send greetings through ionized air. We zoom from
living room to our children’s kitchens on holidays and
occasional afternoons. We would do it more often if
only we knew
the ions are packages of minute fireworks,
splashing each conversation with invisible sparklers.
Chrysanthemums fill the sky.

I can hear the Creator cry for those who batter souls
behind the walls. I can feel the tears for those who,
like Samson, take the time to capture 300 foxes
and set his enemies’ fields on fire.
I can hear the anguish over churches ejecting
all but the best and brightest, and leave those,
those with innocence and love, locked outside winter.
I no longer read the writings of those who claim
their inheritance before they have given away
everything
to follow the master of love.

We pick up our guitars, our lutes, our trumpets and our
flutes,
and tune them to cosmic 440. We play them until no
one is left out in the cold.

Do I Pull Back the Curtain?

Do I Pull Back the Curtain?

 

I sat down to write today convinced there is nothing new left
within me to say. I am torn. Do I pull back the curtain?
Do I expose the storm that sits within my soul and never
feels the west wind and sun to blow it away?
Do I cry behind my eyes (no surprise I usually cry alone),
do I, undisguised, open the inner windows where
gloom pushes out in all directions against the
barometric pressure. How can it be that I am
so full of darkness,

I feel so hollow?

Or bloated. There was a time I believed these
were only the beginning of birth pangs,
some new creation evolving within me.
I believed it since I was seventeen,
and 60 years later I fear I must disagree.
You won’t believe the myriad of demons cast out
of me.
Or the midnight prayers, no solace, only agony.
Or the weeping in front of a trusted few,
and, once my guard was down, though the tiny crew
of friends tried to prevent it,
I was branded. I had no emotional control,
and so the caissons came rolling along.

I admitted, even from my elocutionists’ spot,
that I struggled with depression, and they believed it
upon first hearing.

But I lied. I rarely struggled. The fight made the dark
more demonic. I stood like a wrestler and went flat
to the mat at the referee’s whistle, then went to
visit the sick, keep office hours, and pass the time
playing mindless games to keep the night at bay.

Yes, I lied. They heard me say it, but never saw the
face, the terror, the desire to walk right out of town and
keep on walking until I could walk no more. I kept the
beasts inside. And if they did escape, I stalked them closely
to keep them at bay.

But I see rainbows around your head my friend.
And I’ve heard the trembling which you feel is a permanent affliction.
Do we finally give birth? Or, just as our delightful children,
does it take two souls to draw out the nativity we hoped for
all along?

Most things escape me these days. Even my words are less artful,
prosaic, plain, common and, in a word:

Sad.

But I know I would do anything to hold a mirror to your soul
until you saw the spectrum of beauty that surrounds you. And,
you,
I know now,
would hold the mirror for me.

To Let in The Light

To Let in The Light

(“When God seems foolish, he is more wise than men. When God seems weak, he is stronger than men.” 1 Corinthians 1:25)

It is the simplest thing to let in the light;
even one eye open would do the trick. But
tell me,
if you know,
does the light flow like violin strings,
or does it poke its way through the darkness
like a dog’s nose?

I never think about it until I sit down to
write about it,
until I remember I walk the same two miles every day,
but one house is now empty,
one field has been subdivided,
one dog no longer comes to greet me,
and the same hummingbird has focused my eyes
on things more microscopic than ever before.
Once, looking closely with these old eyes,
I saw a tiny stream of nectar sparkle from the
red-headed beak to the feeder.

Too often, like the birds mistake my windows for air,
I mistake the skies for empty. Pain sinks its
fangs into my head and deep into my mind. And
I, too,
lose sight of the light. It is a burden, a cauldron
of molten lead; and my eyes beg to close again,
and seek a shine within.
Too often, I mistake my tears for
atheism, while others mistake them for
why some days I do not make it out of bed.

It is the most difficult thing to let in the light;
with both eyes open it can break me like
open ice on a frozen lake.

I Barely Know the Questions

I Barely Know the Questions

(“None of the Pharisees could answer Jesus’ question, and after that day no one was brave enough to ask him any more questions.” Matthew 22:46)

I don’t know the answers either,
I barely know the questions. I see a self,
a ghost in the distance,
that is so much better than my existence. My
neighbor’s
husky looks out the window at me
and I wished I looked at myself with the same
all-inclusive eyes.
But I feel I feed on lies, on shells and masks,
on past efforts that now have worn me thin.
There is no beginning from where I sit and the ending
is longer and darker than I want to admit. So I sit in the flurry
of eddies formed where never, not yet, and what was meant to be
meet. Watch me spin. You will see a new face every revolution.

There are kisses I remember, smiles that fade in and out,
the conversations that frightened me then and frighten me again.
The question marks end and begin every sentence,
the conversations straddle bus seats I’ve forgotten.
And the earth keeps moving like iron wheels on rusting tracks;
they’ve changed the destinations, time erodes like that,
and I keep looking for ways to go back to

Find the part of me I left behind like lost luggage
strewn across the scenery.
I did not know what it meant then, I know too well now and
wish for the serenity of staying up all night with friends
whose names I barely remember. The ache, I think,

I was born with it. What were you born with Jesus,
and how did you travel between cavity and crowd?

Kaleidoscopes and Panoramas

 Kaleidoscopes and Panoramas

(“The lame will leap and dance, and those who cannot speak will shout for joy. Streams of water will flow through the desert.” Isaiah 35:6)

There is time to start the journey,
there is all the time in the world.
The road trip is not urgent,
the shimmer will still be upon the
snow when we arrive.
The streams will laugh down the backside
of the mountain pass,
the desert will rise like a bear waking from a nap.
We can stop, then walk, then find the tiny things
so far from the road. Once we start
we will
take our time. The east wind will blast our
faces with laughter,
the crows scavenging crevices for bits of
bologna sandwiches or sunflower seeds left
along the path.

We do not need to be intense,
whatever we miss today will still be here
tomorrow.
And whenever we fall behind schedule, we
will call ahead to say we will be late. We are
not tied to time or fate, only the whims of the
dance-like steps that discovery brings.

I was far too focused in the past. Today I prefer
kaleidoscopes and panoramas. Today I prefer
your voice, your hand, your laugh, and your tears.
Today I prefer something more real than songs sung
into empty rafters. Today I prefer to be here tomorrow,
the day after, and the following years. There is abandon
on the road this time, there are rivers who do not obey
the commands of hymns. And so, we will flow, sometimes
not know,
and sometimes not knowing is the best place to stop for
a picnic lunch.

Did I Use the Wrong Fork?

Did I Use the Wrong Fork?

(“For the kingdom of God is not food and drink but righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.” Romans 14:17)

Would you listen as I rip off the bandages,
would you hear the cry of torn flesh and broken cell walls,
would you be frightened at the darkest parts of me?

I spent too much time unraveling every thought, and then
hiding again behind lofty words and preemptive attempts at prayer.
I kept the rules, some of them, some of the rules I kept.
Other I dismissed as unnecessary,
some I ignored and wept at my weakness.
Once I even un-curtained my uncertainties in hopes
of help with my idiosyncrasies. I was wrong. No one likes
a loser. No one likes a maverick who cannot learn to behave.

It really is no one’s fault. And there were a few who
gathered my tears in their hands and valued them like gems.
But the ones who struck out at me because I did not fit the team
never once
saw my tears as anything but
evidence I was as weak as they thought.

What they did not know, and what I tell you now,
is that I was, is that I am, weaker than anyone ever imagined,
weaker than snow in the Sahara.

Here, let me show you what I could never show. Will you
turn away in ghastly fear. Will you imagine my face so ghostly
you would call for an exorcism to purify your own thoughts?
Did I use the wrong fork for dessert, did I leave too much on the plate?
Did you finish my second helping after I left, did you huddle with others
to determine my fate?

Because I’ve tasted the menu, the bitterness of raw onion skin faith,
I invite my friends to dine, one at a time, and let the conversation unwind
till we get to the end of our piety and rest alone in human reality.

But It Is Nearly Winter Here

But It Is Nearly Winter Here

(“The blind men said to Jesus, ‘Lord, we want our eyes opened!’” Matthew 20:33)

The full array is spread before us every day,
before our feet and after our ears,
we are webbed like atoms,
we are circled like planets,
we are sun and we are shade,
we are remade with each breath.
New molecules that have existed from the
beginning of time.

Not all see who say, not all look who pronounce the
name of God as only heard in their own vernacular.
When the light bleeds through the narrow cavern openings
will you greet it like chilled chardonnay on a summer’s afternoon?

But it is nearly winter here, the tree limbs are roots above ground.
The snow flies rarely and stays only days. The hummingbirds,
now that it is mid-December,
should be migrating away in their charms so high that they
are unseen as they traverse the landmarks underneath flatiron
clouds.

I think hummingbirds do not flock. I think they are duets or
trios. They are playful cousins who show up every day; one
shows the others
where the nectar is and they stay the afternoon for rose hip tea.

But it is nearly winter here, and one ruby-headed friend still
hums outside my window. He knows where to find the feeder,
just above my eyesight as I watch the sky. He knows when it rains
to stand atop the sugar-water dispenser under the eaves to dry
his wings for a while.
But he has not packed for a southward journey, perhaps he will
stay through Christmas. I wonder if he knows that I delight
to see his lightning wings even in the shorter light late Autumn.

I asked for open eyes once. That was decades and lifetimes ago.
But I saw what I was trained to see, the rifle scope was well-aimed.
Enemies flew through the air; sinners, heretics, new age sages and
sugar-coated snowflakes. Dark was magnified until my eyes could
not stand the full light of day.

I asked for open eyes once again. And I awoke. And I saw the
silent attraction that pulls all things to itself; and pulls itself to
all things. And I wondered why anyone would want to
unravel the eternal tapestry of things.

The Orator’s Ledge

 The Orator’s Ledge

How far ahead we stretch,
how we wait for the next answer to
all our hopes and fears
dancing like toddlers in the rain.
We can imagine well past the end of the year,
we can sightsee right into a century
surrounded by columns of sheep rounding the
fall-lines of green slopes. And we take note that,
next time we picnic,
it should be there where the manzanita meets
outcroppings, an orator’s ledge master-crafted
for voices we have only heard in our heads.

But when the air is thick,
when the mist is suspended like fire-ash,
the notes from the blue jays stay suspended overhead
long enough to be grabbed and pocketed by a lonesome wanderer,
unsure of his bearings,
and who never learned to whistle. The jay’s note will
serve in its stead.

How slowly we unwind,
how we throw our good pottery like fodder,
hoping the evidence will not find us reeking of gunpowder.
We are starved, we ache like body slams, and want to
return the favor. We fear there is more power in the
burning of books and barns
than in high school productions of The Tempest.
And, sure as we are, we break the orator’s ledge,
pledging to take down everything gained by honest admiration.
We fool, and will not be fooled again.

The Accumulation of Things

The Accumulation of Things

 

It is not the pain,
it is the accumulation of things.
And, I hate to complain, but today
the weight of solitude caused my knees to buckle.

Yesterday I received letters from friends who
have
melted my heart and let me into their own.
One, a glorious musician, air force navigator,
adventurer and conspirator in all things poetic and
spiritual.
The other, a widow. I attended her grief during her
husband’s final days and her son’s just one year later.
I was in over my head. But we stayed with her son,
her, me and the attending nurse,
until the light faded from his eyes. He was kindness
embodied, shoveling snow from the church sidewalk
with me when the drifts
were nearly high as our heads.

And most days the memories of these living friends,
these who for 25 and 35 years have never ended their
grace to me, their smiles encased within my heart,
a place reserved for fireplace talks and Christmas carol
variations. Most days they inhabit with joy my only alone.

But today it is the accumulation of things. Today
I wish for a finger’s touch on my arm, the kind that warms
you, and maybe makes you blush. The kind that pushes the
button to allow the tears to flow again. Today
I wish for the eyes that do not look away. The kind that
are lyrical, the kind that coax miracles from melancholy
without demanding faith of any kind.

Just like dividing an integer by zero,
solitude upon solitude becomes impossible.
A sparrow’s song outside the window breaks the
ennui for a moment. Maybe some carolers will call.

More Like Trumpets than Cannons

 More Like Trumpets than Cannons

(“The wolf will romp with the lamb, the leopard sleep with the kid. Calf and lion will eat from the same trough, and a little child will tend them.” Isaiah 11:6 [The Message])

Do you see where you are swimming,
can you feel the rising tide,
do you hear the play-sounds coming
from just outside your preconceptions?

The world is brimming with shalom,
the hallelujahs are from babies, from bouncing children
on trampolines with
pet dogs frolicking in the dewy grass.

Do you watch for the river to rise,
do you see through the disguise of the
hardened pharaohs and pharisees who only
sing when they are well paid? Do you
listen to the free-song of the river and rocks,
the whistle of the sand and the bird-flutes above
the marina? Do you wait for the dawn, do you
walk there at dust,
do you see the resolution, the turning of the day
that presages
the revolution of the ages
to teach us all, near and far,
to study war no more.

Kneel at the banks, and bring one more,
to kneel beside you. The scores have been settled,
the conflict that bent us like predatory bludgeons
is dying downriver. Diving downriver into
the baptism that overflows with shalom.

Let us listen; the peaceful sounds are shouted,
more like trumpets than cannons,
and the children will lead the victory parade
from downtown to battlegrounds now refurbished
for picnics and play. All the sun does is
tickle the river below. A lightshow,
a spectacle of wine-cheered rejoicing that
earth is bubbling with the laughter of children who
will
never ever study
war again.

Whether Surrounded or Alone

 Whether Surrounded or Alone

(“He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things?” Romans 8:32)

It was not an accident,
it could have been foreseen,
when the floor rose up to punch me
in my face. Severe anemia stole my balance,
I went down without thinking. I went down without
feeling a thing until
the floor and my nose met near midnight and
as far as anyone could tell
I had been in a barroom brawl fighting over
the levels of whiskey in an old-fashioned.
It was not my first fall, not by far, but one of the few
that could not be chalked up to
a moral failure or indiscretion. My blood was simply
lacking oxygen. And my body stopped mid-step toward
the bathroom
and awoke with laminate and dust on my face.

And what shall we say about these things, how shall we
describe these incidents of black-eyed madness? How shall
we understand self-care in a community that has forgotten
village meals and the healing of homemade soup to lonely
stumblers who spend their days alone?

Some have family. And I am more than blessed, my soul
lights up like Christmas to even have them near. And
yet,
failure should not exempt us from
visiting participants from the hamlet who have also
secretly crashed smack-dab in the spotlights left on overnight.

Perhaps as the sun takes years for its final setting
we know we would be weary whether surrounded or alone.
But we do not desire the tears to end,
but to be seen, collected, and shared; a toast
to humanity’s spectrum, the gift that includes pain and
joy, sometimes equally in the same moment of time.

The First Chords of a Folk Song

 The First Chords of a Folk Song

(“So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus.” Romans 8:1)

It was time to get serious again about all the subjects
that kept us in line. The law, the rules, the injunctions,
the tools, the courtrooms, the judges, the preachers so used
to fudging the tightest belt out of the most
ill-fitting passages they could find.
It was time to unwind the heresy that anyone
could be happy
simply tasting the rain on their tongue
or
dancing like a toddler with no one in particular.

For a while their lecture halls were full,
for some time the students took notes in bluebooks,
transferred them to laptops and cleaned up
the illegible handwriting that had made them miss lunch
dates
with too many friends.
For a while the pseudo-prophets prospered.
No one doubted their word. Not one. And those who did,
(we all knew who they were), those who did were treated
like outcasts and backsliders, though most of us believed they
never belonged in the first place.

After a while the acrid smoke blemished the best presentations,
after a while the manufactured scents caused women to cry,
after a while the flags that waved, the allegiances pledged,
lost their luster when everything was a battle,
and no one could escape the arrows’ gleaming light.
The doors were heavy as lead and the post trauma songs
only sent true believers home.

And then, like fireworks on New Year’s Eve,
a toddler spun at the edge of the campground,
a puppy danced in the campfire reflection,
a mother cried who had never cried before,
and hugged her baby who (she knew) had escaped
the death that had been peddled in pamphlets
passed out by preachers and their proteges. A mother
who had insisted the pamphlets were literal and inerrant,
a mother who had never missed a class before.

And then like nothing ever described,
the dawn broke; water, sun, and sky met at the east end
of the river. There had been baptisms, there had been ablutions;
but now it all was oceans that kept the dance going, that
kept showing the songs that opened like the first chords of
a folk song no one had ever heard and
that everyone knew.

A Sleepwalker in the World

 A Sleepwalker in the World

(“But God gives us the free gift of life forever in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Romans 6:23b)

He’s a sleepwalker in the world,
from hallways to alleys,
from church aisles to turnstiles,
from cumulus clouds to accumulated sorrows;
he does not always see
the static fluidity
that flows through everything.

Some days are different, some eyes are open,
some skies are descendent, some pages close until
the proper time.

The doors are always open leading from tired sitting rooms
to wonders between the darkening rain and the snow that
mirrors the light; sometimes awakening desires
rewrite the pain.

This day the steam rose from the powdered hills,
white dotting the green
becoming pink as they meet above the sky. The
clouds were a thumbprint the color of baby’s cheeks,
the clouds identified their owner.

The steam that rose from the factory across the river
was an airy pillar supporting the snow clouds.
The river did not sing. Today it chanted in plainsong,
barely audible. Only those who walked toward the water
could hear the passage of time, of dreams, of loves left
on the banks and friends passing each other. Tonight
they might
share a beer and remember when they were young and
beautiful
and wide awake so late at night.

And the streams they began with verses and choruses,
were divine
though
they only discovered it when unearned joy
woke them from daydreams to circles, sonnets,
new earth, and ancient script with heaven begun
before the first breath was drawn.

Blizzard Blindness

 Blizzard Blindness

(“But immediately Jesus spoke to them, saying, ‘Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid.’” Matthew 14:27

Some storms are diseases,
deadly or benign.
Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you
long for
what was subtracted by the pain.
Who will hear the anguish, who will cross the line
between judgement and smokescreens,
who will resign their executable proverbs,
who will sit while the blizzard blinds every
direction out of the isolation. Who will be the
echo, who will assuage this flirtation with madness?

The highway was lost in the white-out and blowing
snow.
The bearings were lost, the directions frozen against
the windshield and the ice grabbed the jeep from
underneath and behind.
He would rather steer clear of deer than
inch through the drifts and snakes where the
asphalt broke more metal and steel the winter before.
If he slowed down it only meant
longer on the frozen path that whistled and cawed
like laughing ghosts. He held the wheel tight.
His knuckles were white. And the ditches were
camouflaged, the ditches were the dump grounds where
vehicles rolled like dogs in their sleep. Six inches from
the ditch on the right,
then six from the one on the left;
the road would not let go of him,
no one heard his voice and fear. The road
was clearly his enemy.

We slide from one storm to the backdoor of
a stranger’s house. We are slick in the ways
we substitute armaments for fear. We sweep away
what everyone knows,
so no one can see that
we all cry out in the storm alone. We all
cry out. We all deny the moans when face
to face
with the barely brave.

So we wait for the echo, we wait for the voice,
we wait for the choice to be afraid on the road.
We move in silence, we sit alone, we dig the oars deeper,
we weep or break the wine glasses on the kitchen floor.

And this, we simply implore and want to hear the
words again that only the frightened transcribe:

“It is I. It is I. Do not be afraid.”

Drenched in Rain and Wine

Drenched in Rain and Wine

(“The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and hid again. In his joy, he goes away and sells all that he has and buys that field.” Matthew 13:44)

My thoughts are drenched in rain and wine
while the sun and shade play in shadows and shine.
Everything is, and if everything was, then I could say
all is well
on a day when frowns are immodest.
Faces from every town,
voices from every conversation,
the store that sold 50 kinds of hamburgers,
the coffee shop that served espressos 50
years ago,
the tiny toes of my first-born son, and the fear of
getting it all wrong.
The playful pranks of my second born, and watching
him grow full wit.
The dance that began upon the birth of our unplanned
and only
daughter, and wondering how I stumbled upon such joy.
The wife I met when she was only a child,
and the child that still resides inside her. I only hope
I have not, in my pain, in my dark demeanor, in my
trespasses and sins
stolen even a single laugh that was lavishly rationed
upon her.

I do not know. I have no artistry in this. I stumble.
I mean,
I stumbled into all of this. While snow-and-dust
sandpapered the prairies; while gales-and-gusts whip
up the mighty river; while songs are sung (the ones
in melancholy minor keys, my delight) I tilt my head
to wonder how I ended, given so much pain falling,
and stained recalling of misconvenience;
I wonder how I found this treasure and why
its simple contents are indexed in my heart;
my bucket list of joy.

The Pain Descended Like a Metal Plate

 The Pain Descended Like a Metal Plate

(“There is nothing better for mortals than to eat and drink and find enjoyment in their toil. This also, I saw, is from the hand of God.” Ecclesiastes 2:24)

The pain descended like a metal plate,
boxed my head and locked it away. With
all the extra weight
the trail was longer than the day before.
My vision crashes like needles and fog,
I turn a corner and am startled by a puddle
from this morning’s rain. It had not happened before;
I hope it will not happen again.

I have asked before, and still have no answer,
where is the key that unlocks the crushing pressure
nearly cracking my brain. I’m given an
hour
a day for recreation and find time only to recline
to keep the fire away.

I would meet you for tacos, I would. Or coffee and
croissants. But no one knows the hours when the
warden unlocks my cell. I can hardly invite you to
my unkempt ramblings and misfired hope.

I would bring a bottle of wine. It’s true. Or your favorite
Irish whiskey. They are my habitual escape. I forget
I don’t have the combination to free me, and believe me,
I’ll laugh and smile for a while. But I’d rather grin because
I can move my head or my neck or my shoulder without pain
again. Still, I’ll bring the bottle.

Can I send this to you in the mail? It is too long for a text.
If you read it would you understand? Would you think it best
to
bring a chocolate donut to my door. You know why I have
not
visited you often enough, don’t you? You know how my
entire body
is imprisoned by the cold steel of a decade of pain.
You know, since I solo nearly every day, the time may
be short until, insane,
I stop trying to understand anything.

You don’t need to have the key to visit me.
You don’t even need bread. Give me the wine of
your company,
and a few stories from our friends.

Stars Pouring Milk

Stars Pouring Milk

 

I want to see it the way you are seeing it.
I want to hear the sounds of your hidden scars.
I want the silence of a corner booth,
a glass of wine and piano music playing
songs we do not know.
I know it is not the way you planned it.
I know it seldom is.

I would add your pain to mine,
I would join you in the cloudy thoughts
that seep in so unexpectedly. I would
sing you the lyrics we both forget so well.

I want to hear your hurts, though it may be
I have heard them one thousand times before.
It never matters if you repeat them,
it never weighs on my mind.

Your story is my story. And I guard it
in the archives of my heart. Your sadness
is my sadness. And I see it like stars
pouring milk across the midnight sky.

We will sit until your hands warm up,
we will talk until our hearts beat to
the same rhythm, the one the universe
gives in ebbs and flow of seasons, tides
and ocean waves. We will weave our stories
together,
a quilt of crazy choices, and someday laugh
at everyone who never showed up
when our faces were red, and we bled
in front of them all. We, you and I,
will stay far later than last call.

I want to sit back and sigh. I want to
never
say
goodbye.
I want to defrost the fear and
find the few who do not care
that our stories have such sad chapters as these.

I want to know that, between every slowly pronounced
word,
lives a prayer and a love that is always heard

In the silences we wish other people had seen.

People Walk Right Over Him

 
People Walk Right Over Him

(“’Is it right to heal anyone on the Sabbath day?’ they asked him—hoping to bring a charge against him.” Matthew 12:10b)

While you colloquy and cant about
Sunday Mornings
there is someone who is housing impaired
ditched behind the house of worship
and grasping whisps of dying grass just
trying to get to street level again.

But who would want him; clothes smelling worse
than a cat box,
noxious fumes would fill the room.
Who would want him; so much surgery to stitch his
soul,
unroll the gurneys and send him to urgent care.
The Lord’s business happens in
this
building,
and we must not be interrupted by a case of
idleness gone to seed.

“oh no one says that. no one talks like that at all.”

Then why don’t you make a few calls,
search the tall grass,
take your offerings,
bake your good breads,
and find the leaking trailer where
despair and anger have damaged a mere man
in pain who never planned to forsake baths for
weeks at a time. He never imagined soggy socks
midwinter, and never asked for the isolation that
stumbling in the snow brings. People walk right
over you and
notice nothing until spring.

“oh but how should we know. we could not know about the hidden ones.”

Haven’t I just spoke to you in this short tome?
Haven’t I described him, (half of you know his name.)
Don’t you remember how he comes for coffee and donuts
and leaves before anyone can shake his hand?
Don’t you see that sheep limping and lost
are the mission statement of the Shepherd’s own?

Of Puppies, Children and Autumn Days

Of Puppies, Children and Autumn Days

(“I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding and revealed them to little children.” Matthew 11:25)

Mid-November in a Pacific Northwest village
along the Columbia River there is a neighborhood where
dogs and children run free and kids play basketball in the
middle of the street.
There are netted trampolines where the
boys and girls squeak
and dogs named “Winnie”
and
“Simmie”
and
“Kitty”
visit each other’s yards.
(Though the chihuahua is ferocious and rumored to be
demon-possessed, her owner knows she is only a child
protecting her new home from the giant monster puppies
that live either side of her.)

Two brothers smile at the old man in the middle,
moved here in pain and resigned to never move again.
The older, maybe 13, loves Kitty the chihuahua, ignores
her hackles and brings puppy Winnie over in hopes
they will play. The oldest of the trio of pups,
the chihuahua only cuddles with mommy and daddy.
But the neighbor boy may know something the rest of us
do not;
how to lure the love out of a silly little brown dog.

The younger brother skips just like puppy Winnie
and laughs through the wet grass in mid-Autumn.
His name is Cooper and the old man in the middle
told him his name means
“Barrel Maker”. He smiled. Ran and told his mom.

And they both waved at the man who loves having
children and puppies cut across his lawn on their
sunny day adventures.

Tin Daisies

 Tin Daisies

(“To find your life, you must lose your life—and whoever loses his life for My sake will find it.” Matthew 10:39)

Everything we need has already been found;
every stretching tree was once a seed in the ground.
Every friend, (you know your name)
has entered time to greet you again,
and all you thought you needed was another
new
face
when the souls of the beloved have
never changed.

That which cannot be tolerated has already
evaporated into healing rain.
That which cannot be comprehended has daily
communicated the artwork in and out
of the frame.
That which was unspoken has
filled our hearts at last.
That which was broken has
first been recast as tin daisies
welded by an artisan. Sand
and sparks,
the arc of the sky inspires darkness
to unveil everything the day had not
yet revealed.

And I hear your footsteps a dozen years removed,
and I hear your voice a thousand miles from here
singing the sweetest blues from
the pub where birthdays are marked,
where adulthood began.
And I stand and wonder that we have found

Anything at all.

Untitled

Untitled

(“The rich and the poor are met together; the Lord is the Creator of them both.” Proverbs 22:2)

I.

He wandered the galleries
circa 1970
of the New Berkeley Art Museum.
The gray concrete Brutalist building
housed Warhol and Pollock,
and in a shaded enclave Richard Brautigan
read,
with easy inebriation,
his newest poetry. It was magical in the 70s;
He was 15 in 1970.

Brautigan paused. Or maybe he finished.
The students who drove through the Caldecott Tunnel
could not be sure.
Some of his poems were scratches on parchment,
some rambled the east bay hills. But, after he
put the last drop of whiskey to his lips and
sat down to light a cigar,
the curious teens wandered the galleries again.

He wondered at some of the installations,
walking around pop art and soup cans
and curious to their meaning,
looked at every label in the gallery.

Untitled.
There was more than one. Un
titled.
And questioned the creativity of
leaving off the name.
For him the title was a gateway to the meaning,
a miniature explanation of the dots and explosions
on canvas or melamine sculptures. There was no one
to ask
when the card read
un
Titled.

He vowed to write an anthology of poetry and,
right in the middle of his collection,
leave one page blank except for the title:

“Untitled”

II.

Half a century later, labels mean less.
Perhaps we come into the world as the perfect
artistic medium.
Perhaps we do not need the titles. They may not
be
gateways to meaning at all,
but a tin box lithograph with “sardines”
on the label.
The name tag was affixed so early
the artist’s name has been forgotten.

Another Happy Heretic

 Another Happy Heretic

(“Go and learn what this saying means: ‘It’s mercy I want, not sacrifice.'” Matthew 9:13a)

She was shunned because she
loved people
more than she
loved their god.

Imagine that. A rat in the church
for all that time who refused to
be crammed into their rigid frame
and hung on the wall.

She wore her hair long. The men did not.
She wore her dresses long so the men would not
be guilty of lust. Every time she complained,
they said,
“it’s bad company you’ve been keeping. Now,
go seek the Lord and learn to fit in.”

She could not shake her love for people,
and the god they applauded was always throwing darts
at the unsuspecting. The music was nice: some-times.
often: not.
It could have been her blood shed; that’s what she heard.
It should have been her death, till she looked her
neighbor in the eye and
realized how absurd was the thought that kept everyone
in strict mean time and away from the devil’s chords.

So she, shaking, scathed, praying that god was not
the tyrant she had been taught,
slipped away, cut her hair, posed at the camera,
took a selfie. And smiled.

Then she took her neighbor a piece of pie,
and gave the server at lunch a tip, a grin.
A chance to begin again to be
simply human. Though her stomach was twisted,
her heart churning like a dragster on the quarter-mile,
she knew she could wander in the wilds safely
and love people

More than she had loved their god.

It Was a Fast Train

 It Was a Fast Train

(…to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord. Deuteronomy 8:3b)

It was a fast train that got him there,
it was a straight line from fame to desertion.
No one knew his name, no one noticed the lines
in his face
etched over time, etched by tears like iron fillings.
He had studied. He had memorized. He had written it
all
down
and hoped that his journals would suffice to answer
the critics who were saddened that his trip took him
so far out of his previous circle.
There were curls of smoke; there were headdresses
he remembered and colors he could not describe.
He knew that every chance he got
he would listen carefully, he would diagram
the plot
for anyone who wondered how the hell he ever ended up
so far from pressured versions of sanity.

Someone else had paid the ticket; they asked where
he wanted to go. He did not know.
East was hungrier, west was warm. South was
catchier, north was torn.
But he could ride for days without interruption;
he could think for hours without answering a
single question
about his intentions. He wished he had written
more of it down.

He didn’t mind the passengers; they had no expectations.
He tried to sleep but found the dreams were scarier than
the visions of wakefulness. He only wanted a glass of wine,
a friend to break bread, and a hand upon his forehead that
understood the changes of time;

The changes of seasons;
the range of opinions that any one person can have.
He fasted once or twice; his menus were spartan.
He looked for an eye, a smile, a wisp of hair caught
by surprise. He did not like to dive into himself

Until

He arrived and heard that all had been cured by
manna, by oatmeal, by simple fare and
dimpled children who never asked him why.