I Might Mend My Boat

I Might Mend My Boat

(“We are God’s creation. He created us to belong to Christ Jesus. Now we can do good works. Long ago God prepared these works for us to do.” Ephesians 2:10)

I never expected smooth sailing,
but this felt like a peaceful place to land.
The shore wasn’t far from dreams and visions
and the waves lapped gently most of the time.
Yet today, when all the universe rattled like a grain elevator,
I wanted to hear a fellow sailor say
they knew what it was like

When the swells were ferocious,
when they hit at acute angles,
when they propelled you higher than
the houses that hugged the narrow shore.

Those were the days that the box where I lock my troubles away
creaked at its hinges and threatened to unleash a bigger storm
than the river’s wild crashing.

But these days everyone’s boxes are full,
everyone’s docks are splintered,
everyone’s words are a slice of white bread
parading as pie.
Every person I’ve told about my journey
is far too polite,
(at least the ones who knew me when I embarked)
which I know is the nice way of saying
they wish I could just work things out,
could see the storm would pass,
would agree that everything happens for a reason,
(when I ask about the ones who died in the shipwreck
they tell me about the one that was saved)

They tell me to have friends I should be one;
but I have been one from the day I arrived.
I hear some say I’ve gone off the deep end,
but they have no idea how deep and which end.

If I had the strength, or the time, or the help,
or the tools, or the sunshine, or the courage,
or the health (oh mental health that wraps the
brain in cavernous sludge), I might mend my boat.
But my body would not allow me to enjoy it again.

No one likes lament,
no one like shipwreck stories without
survivors.
No one likes the brains that
capture darkness at noon and
silence in cafes full of burgers and
retired men.

And, if I am created, if I am

Art

Then, let me be the art that I am.

Like I said,
no one likes lament. We want
broth of carbonated shallows,
we want to wade in frothy waters.
We would rather tie up the loose ends
than admit walking barefoot sometimes hurts.

But, if I am art,
and am made of mud,
let my artwork be earthy and
my tears salty and loud. Let my heartache
in quarter time
be the one song that someone needs

Who has forgotten their own.