Chardonnay in the Sun

Chardonnay in the Sun

(“There they stored up a large amount of wine and summer fruit.” Jeremiah 40:12b)

Maybe you’re among the fallen ones,
maybe you’re just living your best,
maybe you’ve always had what you wanted,
maybe your dreams have turned to dust.

I don’t know if your fields lie fallow,
or if you will start your harvest tomorrow.
I don’t know if you’re talking to yourself,
or if you’d rather be anywhere else than
surrounded by the four walls,
closed in by the silence,
waiting for the fruit to ripen,
waiting for the wine to ferment.

Maybe you’ve been waiting to belong,
maybe you think you’re the chosen one,
maybe you’ve learned to shut out the world,
maybe the days are full of best friends and bluebirds.

I don’t know if your doorbell works,
or if your telephone is off the hook.
I don’t know if you’re fixing dinner for three,
or if you have waited all day for company
to fill the silence and your anxiety.
Maybe I should call you,
maybe bring coffee and lunch.
Maybe we are both the same, maybe we are not.

But a walk through the vineyard might do
both of us some good.
Chardonnay in the sun and
a book read out loud,
a day without fences, a week less certain
than monuments of the past; just hearts that
beat and eyes that see
and tongues that cannot wait to taste
the sweetness of the dawn.

Like a Teapot Whistling

Like a Teapot Whistling

(“Therefore let him who thinks he stands be careful that he doesn’t fall.” 1 Corinthians 10:12)

I’ve watched you hold it all in,
every word that pierced you and left you
looking for a corner to hide in.
I’ve watched you carry decades of
winter you your soul.
How could there be a warmer heart than yours,
how could the days treat you so icily?
And I know
you’ve waited for the gravelly statue to
crumble,
the one that loomed over it all.
Weekends are the worst, aren’t they,
the days of rest and celebration
are full of after-shocks and night terrors.
Someone should hold a mirror up to the
stone fists that demand complete oblation.

They are feet of clay,
yours are perfectly human.
They are words meant to break everything,
yours are measured like poetry, like morse code,
like parables with multiple endings. You are sending
distress calls hidden between the layers of a cake.

What to do until the tormentors fall?
What to say, feel, cry, or think of it all?
There are rivers the tyrants dam to keep the
power all to themselves.
There are memories that they recreate
to shape their slurs into acceptable words.
And when they slice away your living hope
they blame you for the wounds.
What to do until someone turns on the lights again?

I’ve watched you let it out
little by little
like a teapot whistling.
I’ve watched you shed the tears that
no one ever sees.

Can We Hear the Whisper?

Can We Hear the Whisper?

(“Call to Me and I will answer you, and I will tell you great and mighty things, which you do not know.” Jeremiah 33:3)

Don’t faint at the irate rantings
of crinkled skin that want to fry the world up
like bacon on the rack. They think they can see,
and all they see,
is darkness, doom, and tragedy. While they wait
for a warrior or a lion to finish off their prey,
there is a better day ushered in by a lamb,
a slaughtered one,
to reflect the possibilities like
fertilized eggs birthing hope.

It is easier,
so much easier,
to elevate the madness of the masses
than to sit in silence with the
sadness of the few.
Penned in like a locked cell,
a walled city shuttered against foreign
interference,
many have missed the inheritance of
a new pentecost that makes us stop
and listen to tongues we have never
heard before,
to see
shades we have never seen before,
to sit in the shadow of trees planted
ages ago
and reimagine every
fighter jet a homeless shelter,
every automatic rifle a garden rake,
and every steel-toed tongue a
poet with healing in their words.

Can time turn in on itself,
can babies lead the parade,
can tigers and fawns share the same lair,
can donkeys convey the king?

Can we offer liberty to everyone and
stop pretending
we don’t know what we are doing?
Can we hear the whisper that, sung often enough
will entice us all to the riverside
to finally lay our
swords and shields down?

Longed For

Longed For

(“Is Ephraim my dear son? Is he my darling child? For as often as I speak against him, I do remember him still. Therefore my heart yearns for him; I will surely have mercy on him, declares the Lord.” Jeremiah 31:20)

There are voices that create images,
a phone call that draws your face.
There are heartbeats that create longing,
a breath that inspires memory.

Yesterday was a runaway train;
ache was a body, ache was a mind,
ache was a stiff iron rod that nailed the day
shut.

There are photos that create voices,
a crayon drawing held by magnets.
There are windows that frame our yearning,
a stained glass that refracts every song.

Today is a blue sky after the snow teased it
early morning.
Winter is crystal, sun is weak, air is crispy,
ache was an effigy, an avatar, a hollow replacement
for loved ones

Longed for.

Near The Top of The Hill

Near The Top of The Hill

(“Because of our God’s merciful compassion, the dawn from on high will visit us.” Luke 1:78)

The trail was no longer visible,
time and rain and winds and snow
had scraped the surface down to
virgin earth again.

All anyone could see was the lone stranger
silhouetted on the hill and
no one
asked how he got there.

But he knew.
But was too far away for his voice to carry.
He knew the company he kept at the
trailhead years ago.
He knew the risks they took and the
trout they caught
in waning daylight.
He could remember it all

Alone

Near the top of the hill.

Only a few had left him,
the rest simply scattered to other adventures.
Now the only connections he had were
electrons--
and wifi--
though that was spotty on the solitary lightyears
where he dwelt.

All anyone could see was a foggy figure
on the gray days when mist
turned the mountains to mystery again.
Those were the moments that prompted
theories of myth.

He was only a man.

Some days it felt as if his heart was left behind
somewhere near the beginning of the trail.
One degree off course and decades to walk
led him to the lonely seclusion he
had not chosen.

Each day began and
each day ended.
And those who looked on

Wondered what they had missed.

EverySong

 EverySong

(“He has brought down rulers from their thrones. But he has lifted up people who are not considered important.” Luke 1:52)

You have been waiting for the miracle to arrive,
we have been waiting too.
You have been watching for the change overnight,
we have been watching too.
The skies crowded with blooming clouds and
the earth shook like the barrel of a gun
and we were all stunned that the end had not
begun.

You were aching for a new frame of mind,
we were aching too.
You were asking for further review,
we were asking too.
The grains of sand tore at your shoes
while the pains in your head shrunk every
thought of rescue. We were all hoping
for overnight lifeboats to arrive.

But the tides turn slow as leaven,
justice arcs less sharp than mustard seeds.

The foundations, our assumptions,
the ascension to the throne;
the notions, the oceans,
the VIP receptions; alone we
hoped to be seen by the mighty
and be changed in an instant
as proof we were waiting like
a bride for her groom.

But the healing arrived well after
all the RSVPs went home.
The relief was chanted like a solo
sung into the unknown.

You have been searching for heaven’s reversal,
we have been searching too.
You have been schooling for the final rehearsal,
we have been schooling too.
The lame will walk, the blind will see,
the pain will be swallowed by nickname’s embrace
and the lowly;
and slowly the oppressed will see freedom’s
announcement in every song and
every story told of
the kingdom to come.

My Knees Buckled

My Knees Buckled

 

It was not clear whether I had been
left in your care.
Others laughed as I fell
down the stairs.
Was it the way my knees buckled,
the way I struggled to grab the banister
and find my feet again?
I wish more people would think twice,
even once would do,
an ounce of consideration before
they lock the door down tight and
decide they know my fate.
Believe me, it was never my intent
to lie crumpled like the want ads
at the bottom of the landing.
Nor did I plan to do it twice.

Decades ago I could find a room
filled with paisley pillows, sandalwood incense
and corners where friends talked, scribbled
and planned the magic we dreamed for the world.
Sometimes wine, sometimes weed,
but mostly rolled up together in the need to
believe better days for the world that seemed
far too crazy
to ban warfare for good.

It was not certain whether time had been
broken in pieces.
Others massed at the borders insisting that
life was so much better “back then”. And
my
knees
buckled.

Somewhere I dropped the dream. Sometime after
the King offered me a place in the court, a place of honor,
the jester, of course. And I followed wild and cautious,
tiptoe and raucous for one brief chapter. I was told
by those in the know
that serious study would be required.
So, gaining my voice I lost my mime,
and made everything so plain there could be
no mistake.

Decades later I find a room,
and want to be a clown again.
I’ll light my incense, call a retired
carney or two,
and ask if we might dance again
in the park,
in the court,
in the rain,
in the shortest moments between
scribbles and songs.
And for once, at the end, the magic
will be new again, be eternal again,
like friends who can’t wait to hug
like we hugged back then.

Darkly Sparkling

Darkly Sparkling

(“Do you not know that you are God's temple and that God's Spirit dwells in you?” 1 Corinthians 3:16)

The world is darkly sparkling,
mystery and delight.
Your soul is dancing starkly,
filled with holy light.
The day breaks like crinoline,
sometimes like silk.
The day rests upon the hillside,
sometimes milky and unseen.
The world is faintly breathing,
a baby at rest.
Your soul is pleasing saintly,
royally dressed.
The day grows like reunion,
sometimes like solace.
The day rests upon the ancients,
sometimes afire and unchanged.

The Spirit finds
every breath another reason
to unveil the connection of all things.
Every morning aglow,
every evening bestowing rest
like magic strands woven from
soul to soul,
friend to friend,
this world and the next,
the context full of original blessing.

The world is riverly streaming.

This Day Has Drained Me

This Day Has Drained Me

(“’Don’t be alarmed,’ he told them. ‘You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has risen! He is not here. See the place where they put him.’” Mark 16:6)

Today was dusty, though the sky was
airier
than normal.
It’s not up to me to
judge,
what with the law of relativity,
but I’m not sure I can break even,
or that evening breaks me.

I’ve waited for angels to pull me aside,
widen my view,
point out the empty place in the tomb.
Most days it is merely damp.

Not that I don’t hear the simple syllables
that insist
there is more,
much more than this.
It is all the other voices I’ve collected
and the dark strings of connected incidentals
that have swarmed my silence.

There still is a narrator that insists,
an immovable rock or island,
a force exists that resists my localized
view of things. How can this inner cavern quench
such glorious light,
how can a few chemicals in the brain
convince me the sun does not shine.

Whether it’s the smoke from the forests
or the haze from the factories,
this gravity will not let me spin out of control
even when the whole day has been wasted.

He is not here
(they
say)
and I nod in assent.
But if I understand the angels rightly,
(or the record of their descant)
I may find him on the next turn
down the road.

For now, I cut and paste
words and phrases
trying to edit my life.

Speak it to Me Warmly

Speak it to Me Warmly

 (“I always thank my God for you because of his grace given you in Christ Jesus.” 1 Corinthians 1:4)

Speak it to me warmly so I can hear.
Allay my fears.
All I want is to know you better
so my bones don’t shatter every time
you want to talk to me. 

The clouds shrouded the hills across the river,
a film noir in February,
and the douglas firs on the ridge looked like
castles in the fog. 

I do see it in you, the things I miss in me,
it has always been this way.
From the onset of my first failure
to the day I sailed to your door
I have seen poorly and heard the thunder
on sunny days. 

The marina invited all the neighbors and their
dogs
to ease into a winter sun that reflected off the
green glass water where boats moored still as
stopped clocks. The ducks dove below the surface
nonchalantly grabbing lunch. 

I do hear it in words I have forgotten.
Remind me then.
All I want is to breathe easier
so my arms don’t shake every time
I sit down to write. 

Don’t call me crazy, but I hear bagpipes
that sing of Scottish highlands.
I hear fiddles and babies bawling for
their mothers.
I hear the sheep bleating, the sky receding,
and evening calling out to dance.

Sometimes a Note

 Sometimes a Note

(“Provide her with anything she may need, because she has provided help to many people, including me.” Romans 16:2b)

Sometimes it was a note on the windshield
one winter day that froze the ink and paper to the glass.
Sometimes it was the merest glance,
or a song shared with lyrics you both had memorized.
Sometimes it was silence when pain
shouted too loudly to overcome. 

I ache when I see others
who brag about their latest silkscreen
shirt:
“Let’s Go Brandon”
thinly coded to mean
“Fuck You Biden”,
and then teaches littles about the Bible
on weekday nights. 

No one recorded the phone calls
or archived the memos
but each word was an invitation to
relax and create space
for gnarled feet limping from the journey.
Sometimes it was dinner,
sometimes beer and wine,
sometimes a movie,
but always time, always
time. 

I ache when I hear others
who silence the voices
(and thus the heartache)
of the traumatized who cannot enter
the buildings of american worship because
the triggers are everywhere. You learn
who you can tell your stories to. 

Some homes were heated with wood,
some were trailers dangerously cold,
some were nomads, others sojourned longer.
They entered the friendships like doors to a cathedral
and breathed the air so ancient that you knew the origin
of every word. No one took anything for granted,
but most gave more than they had.

All I Can Say Is

 

All I Can Say Is

(“Of what use to me is frankincense that comes from Sheba, or sweet cane from a distant land? Your burnt offerings are not acceptable, nor are your sacrifices pleasing to me.” Jeremiah 6:20)

All I can say is
brother, your head’s not right.
You were so thrilled to follow Jesus
after making your first million
that you bought a bracelet that said
WWJD
and sported it in 14k gold.
All I can say is
brother, your head’s not right. All I can say is
sister, you are awake.

You were promoted and applauded,
offered the moon and a couple of planets,
and you gave it serious thought.
Then moved in where
at-risk babies lived; taught them as your own.
All I can say is
sister, you are awake. 

Let’s meet in the abandoned warehouse,
let’s make the floor warm for vagabonds.
Let’s make our own clothes, stretch the leftovers,
enlist the teenagers to share sacred bread
house to house. 

Let’s bathe the feet of widows,
let’s listen to the old men’s stories.
Let’s make our own laughter, stretch the muscles of joy,
enlist the CEOs to move into the neighborhood
and give away their gold.

All I can say is
brother or sister,
we have enough and more than enough,
we are a far cry from simplicity
and could start the journey
any day now.