Who Unplugged the Words?

 Who Unplugged the Words?

(“Look at the birds that fly in the air. They do not plant or cut or keep any food. Yet your Father in heaven feeds them. Are you not worth more than birds?” Matthew 6:26)

If you had asked me last night, I would have told you,
the sanity seems to be oozing out my pores. Pain inspires
visions of well-locked cages. Rationality fades at the
threat of rain.

But there are the robins again. A dozen in my tree again.
Plucking fruit and ants again. And not worrying
about the rain.

But these walls are not strong enough to keep my sentences
from breaking down between commas and misunderstanding.
You would think my head was porous, my brain-waves bid
me
adieu
as they make me search like a blind man for the thought
they have disconnected. Who unplugged

The words again?

But there are crows again. Commanding the cathedral trees again.
Cawing to protect their babies again. And not worrying
when they will land.

But these days are not long enough for me to send a search party
to find my sentence fragments. I’ve left a trail of them from
sanctuary to theater, from wife, to child, to grandchild. I run
into them
occasionally on walks toward the hills. But they are distorted,
the wind and rain have turned them inside out so much
I doubt they ever belonged to me.

But there are the hummingbirds again. Sipping at the nectar again.
Buzzing near my head like locusts. And not worrying
over unplanted grain.

Moods stay like glue while my words saddle up their horses
and ride into oblivion. But

The birds keep singing, and sometimes,

Some very rare times,

I understand their song.

There Is Enough for Breakfast

There Is Enough for Breakfast

(“These six cities will be safe places for the people of Israel and for the stranger and for the one who visits them.” Numbers 34:15a)

Come inside, you don’t need to run anymore.
Wipe the dust from your feet,
sit in the rocking chair on the porch,
have some wine. Let your eyes shine again
with hope
that has nothing left to hide.

I know you don’t understand,
It flies well over my head too.
But this house,
these occupants,
this rectangular piece of lawn
and mud and
douglas firs and
hummingbirds;
they do not strictly belong to me.

Did you steal? I don’t wanna know.
Did you lose your identity when
the sheriff plastered your face on
posters and envelopes sent in the mail?
It may be too early to tell,
and there may be more losses ahead;
but here and now there is safety.
Here and now there is music, (you
pick the playlist). Herer and now
there are no magistrates or ministers
dropping the gavel like a boulder on your head.

You can tell the whole story; you can sit in silence.
I am not a warden. I have a rap sheet too.
But here there is no violence, no words understood
too clearly to miss their mark. (Yes, it surprises me as well
when the waggled fingers exclaim they never meant to say
anything unkind-only-truthful.)

There is fruit here to be picked: apples are a bit late,
our pears are sparse, and the blackberries believe the
yard belongs to them. But there is enough for breakfast;
oatmeal or cream of wheat? And, since we knew you were
coming
there are a dozen donuts on the kitchen counter.

Let us be your refuge, let us be your sanctuary,
let us take the wrap for the naysaying nation
that can’t wait to send you to face the charges
you never denied. Let us be the child’s fort
that only allows friends inside.

Come now, to the table. Chili is on,
the wine is poured, and we may laugh at how
migrants like us ever found a place
so safe
to stay.

Truth Like a Midsummer Day

 Truth Like a Midsummer Day

(“Let your word be ‘Yes, yes’ or ‘No, no.’ More than this is from the evil one.” Matthew 5:37)

Are you going to say the same things as before,
or have you changed your tune?
And how can I trust you when, late and soon,
your promises are mirages, your words subterfuge?

When you speak, all you say
falls through my fingers and fades away
with no weight,
no gravity,
no import,
no impact,
and no honesty at all.
(“I’ll be with you in spirit” are the coveralls
you wear to disguise your vacuous indecision.)
We all know you had decided five years ago.

I may as well try to shoot down asteroids with
a bb gun.

The day can still be saved,
the friendship resurrected with
honest words without blame. Fill the close air
between us with
substance that cannot evaporate by noon.

While you consider your answer, the pain of waiting
is amped up in nervous energy. And when you
finally
show up
how is it you have the answer for everything we are
doing
when
you never met with us before?
I don’t mean to be this sharp (knife or blade),
but how can you pitch your ideas when the
project is almost done?

Deposit your “yes” and let us keep it for future reference.
Or
Speak your “no” and leave and we will continue nicely.
But please, next time,
find a way to say truth like a midsummer day.
We will doubt you less, and though we wish you were here,
we will paint and pitch, roof and stitch the
project together, boundless.

I Could Have Coasted

 I Could Have Coasted

I could have given up long ago,
I could have bought the homeless corner
next to the stranded avenues.
I could have coasted.

In my head the days were always struggle,
the dead threw taunts at me,
the living were beyond my reach.
I could have toasted marshmallows and
hot dogs to attract a crowd;
but that is not where companions are found.

There was a wife and a husband and
two beloved young adult sons.
She was a church person,
but not churchy.
She was grace and Lutheran and
Scandinavian. Her husband never
attended; he felt he did not fit because
of his smoking habit.

Her husband died, cursed cancer,
and left her weeping for the man who was
better than the church people knew.

Within the year a son also died,
offensive tumor, and left her weeping for
the empty space in her house. She felt barren.
The nurse,
a pastor, and the mom were
with him until the final breath. He was
better than anyone you have ever met.

And she remembers the pastor who was
in over his head,
who took the train to Minneapolis to
sit with her during her son’s last surgery.
And she remembered, 30 years later,
and tracked him down, in a town 1500
miles
away.

I could have given up long ago,
I could have buried my face beneath the
fog that weeps over the hills. But she
would not let me forget that

Simple acts of presence may be
the sweetest moments we share.

Mosaics Missing Stones

Mosaics Missing Stones

(“He gives justice to people who are oppressed, He gives bread to people who are starving! The Lord: who frees prisoners.” Psalm 146:7)

I left half expecting to hear from
you (all); I traveled the distance from autumn
to winter.
I settled, and left my forwarding address.
I found the emptiness too much to bear.
I walked the half a block to the mailbox
every day after noon,
and only found four color fliers and requests
for my contribution to health insurance and
candidates in stride.
I was not oppressed, but depression grabbed me like
a cavern of anti-gravity. I hoped to find a few who
would float with me
once they viewed my broken tether hanging in the sky.
I would stare at the addresses, the digits, and the trinkets
that were friends (siblings) and would not leave my room
for
hours at a time. Out of sight/out of mind/but no one left
this heart of mine. I remember your losses and your tears.
I remember buying lunch and sitting silent by hospital beds.
Now that I was aimless,
I only hoped for the arrows of kindness to land close enough
for me to see the name and address of adoption. The ink
on the certificate melted in the rain.

I returned half expecting to hear from
you (some); I traveled the distance from summer to
the Columbia mid-pandemic, mid-continent,
while the heat scratched my eyelids dry.
Plenty to eat, plenty of time, plenty of stereo sounds
to remind me of loves just inside the next room,
of loves that left too soon, and loves that, though
gathered often before
could not find their way to my door.
Returning, though, I discovered, (like mosaics missing
stones), I was not alone. I was not the only one.
No longer weightless, I sank into the mud
and wished I had, with all my grass and green,
with all my song, not have stayed unseen.
Today I did not arise until well

Into the afternoon.

The Fog Invading Their Bones

 The Fog Invading Their Bones

(“I know the Lord will get justice for the poor and will defend the needy in court.” Psalm 140:12)

Today the clouds covered the dripping hills,
the trees half naked after the leaves have fallen,
the air had the first shiver of the season in it,
and the horizon was gray.

And I am warm. I look out my front window and
see my neighbor’s dog prancing like it is
new year’s eve.
The geese veered across the sky in their familiar
flight pattern toward the south.
Wrens hide in blackberry bushes,
Swallows send their young into the air.
And I am warm, fed, clothed and
have my favorite playlist for company.

How was I to know the first rains could reach
neighbors just a mile from me,
How was I to know they had no cover,
felt the cold, left their bodies aching with
the fog invading their bones?

I thought that sad face was angry with me,
I thought that ragged clothing was just fashion,
I thought that family on the corner was only on vacation,
I thought the homeless like sleeping on concrete.
I thought they had chosen, and having chosen,
should be politely escorted to an invisible part of town.

Sometimes they talked too much and I called them needy,
sometimes they slurred their words and I knew they deserved
far less than if they spoke clearly,
sometimes they fucked and shitted and bitched and bastarded
and I insisted they exchange their language for a piece of bread.
Sometimes I feel I was bad luck to those who were angry
only
because
they wanted to be human.

I think the Spirit is drawn to the huddled families
with snow drifting through the corners in their federal housing,
I think the Spirit seeks the shacks where friends left the
many to fend for themselves,
I think the Spirit warms the unprotected and
warns the unseeing whose privilege has kept them
from the cold.

Somewhere in the Distance

 Somewhere in the Distance

(“Therefore say, ‘Behold, I give to him my covenant of peace.’” Numbers 25:12)

The more I know, the more I do not understand;
the more the certainties, the more the canyons of smoke.
And though the air is filled with ash
and the oceans with reflections of the sun
my world is motionless, save for the unspoken
poetry that lies at my feet.
One day silence is peace,
the next day it is centripetal force
and the quiet bears the weight of the universe.

The more I look, the more I think the world has been
fixed with chewing gum. The more flavors, the better,
I think,
but the chilly air sneaks in through the corners,
the rabbits sneak in through the breaks in the fences.
Some days are paradise,
some days lead to hell,
some days run in circles,
some days lead nowhere at all.

I would stall if I could,
put off the daily pain for another day.
I would procrastinate these whirligig stories
that augur more deeply by their telling. I would
embrace the silence if
the silence was not all I knew.

But somewhere in the distant there are eyes I have never seen;
their arrival is unknown, but days may turn into hope
and dreams into visits from those I wish were closer
and had not departed so soon…
…somewhere in the distance.

Ruined Wineskins

 
Ruined Wineskins

(“Paul saw the Lord in a dream one night. He said to Paul, “Do not be afraid. Keep speaking. Do not close your mouth.” Acts 18:9)

We blamed communists for the sit-in protests
during the civil rights movement,
and socialists for suggesting a level playing field;
and surprise, antifa were the demons behind
the attack on the Capitol. Some believe it
still
and call their democratic foes
the agents of Satan.

The robin’s red breast had rusted
over the summer
but she still explored the thinning yard for food.

And why would a friend of many decades,
a friend to whom I had introduced the
Friend of sinners years ago,
assert that so many blacks are killed by
white cops
because black commit more crimes?
Her assertion sank into the mud.
Someone had poured vinegar into a precious new
wineskin.

The miniature american eskimo pup walked with her master
in deep midwinter up in the north country. She ran
her tongue across the ice as they walked around the
town.
Her name was Halo.

And when did those who use “life” in every sentence
decide death sentences should occupy the same paragraphs.
Why do they buy magazines to hold deadly rounds in
weapons thousands of more times deadly than the imaginations
of the 2^nd amendment authors? And life, they say, begins
from conception. Rights, they say, must be afforded this
dividing morass of cells. And once delivered to the world
in antiseptic chambers,
are sent back to live without a single bit of legislation
to keep that new child fed. They blame socialism
again, and the newborn cries go unheard.

The bunnies played as the snows melted. Rabbit feet,
mud, and slush, lead the way from the warrens where
they have slept the winter away.

And why do some decide the sun shines only for their side?
And where do some think the vulnerable go as the earth bakes,
the fossils revealed at the bottom of evaporated lakes?
Why are they angry at data,
why do they rail against serious inquiry,
why do they enervate every honest question as if
it is meant for destruction.
We are a garden that must be tended.

The lions roamed the savannah. As the oases shrunk
their ribs rubbed against their golden manes. They
could only travel to the next watering hole, if the
next watering hole
only existed.

A More Magical Time

 A More Magical Time

(“How sweet is the taste of your instructions-sweeter even than honey!” Psalm 119:103)

What if we focus on the magic,
what if we run for the fun of it,
what if we write our way healing,
what if we create from the middle of earth
upwards?
What if we let the seasons slide by in their time,
what if we planted more honeysuckle and snapdragons?

The schoolboy’s objective was always the same,
to walk the
three blocks to school
and pick a blossom from the neighbor’s
overgrown garden and suck the nectar from
the stem.
Another friend had taught him where to find
the sweetness
and he never passed by without a tiny taste
of morning.

What if we danced at the pow-wows,
what if we tore pieces of frybread to share,
what if we learned the ancient languages,
what if we create from eyeline to sightline
in tempo?
What if we love the cultures we stumble upon,
what if we burned more sage and drank more wine?

The young man’s objective was always the same,
to find the footing
and join the round-dance
when “all tribes” was called. No one
corrected him (though he knew his feet fell
like rusty anchors). They teased him the way
friends and family do
and he smiled larger. He wished he had taken time
to learn from his best friend
the joy of the fancy dance
and the drum songs that moved the earth
to a more magical time.

Setting the Thermostat

Setting the Thermostat

(“I’ve sought your favor with all my heart; have mercy on me according to your word.” Psalm 119:58)

Tonight, I dreamed the same dream
I have dreamed for half my life. I was a pastor,
an assistant pastor,
and had been away for a week of vacation.
I returned to my duties: setting the thermostat,
leading worship, and any other tasks, pre-planned
or last-minute,
assigned to me by my boss: the Pastor.
But the thermostats had been replaced while
I was gone,
and no one told me. I broke into a cold sweat,
remembering how sharp the words when I
had failed similar orders before. (Someone standing
by the door took pity on me and instructed me about
the mystery of turning up the heat.)
It was time for worship, it was time for the opening song.
It was time for me to be ready, and I got it all wrong.
I could not find the music, I forgot all the lyrics,
sweat accumulated under my arms. I finally sang
a familiar chorus, “Praise the Name of Jesus”, and only
remember my own voice cracking like last embers dying.

There was a tiger on the prowl, outside, next scene,
in the dream. He turned upon seeing me, back into the
gray hills where dreams unload their fears.
I ventured out again and saw the same tiger,
a giant rendition of a black and white striped kitten
who used to be a pet. And the tiger turned again,
and did not reappear in the dream.
But a cougar did. A mountain lion crouching,
menacing, stalking, and moving toward my scented fear.
 It would not
take the same path as the tiger. It would not walk
away. I kicked at it. I yelled. I tried to crawl away until,
kicking yet harder, I kicked the blanket off the bed
and, waking, the cougar, the tiger, the pastor and the fire
disappeared after I opened my eyes.

Did I say I have dreamed this same dream
for half of my life? Did I mention that the place
where peace should be present
has been the source of nightmares ever since?

Demons do not haunt my night sweats,
it is the abode of those who were good at
what they did
and insisted on perfection: something I never
completed.

So now I ask for favor. Now I ask for mercy.
Now I sit quietly. Now I write my own lyrics.
Now I cherish imperfection. Now I adore the
pet dog and children next door.

I Would be Your Shade Tree

I Would be Your Shade Tree

(“Let my soul be at rest again, for the Lord has been good to me.” Psalm 116:7)

You won’t chastise me for my complaint, will you?
Do I come across as needy?
Sometimes I am. I’ve also been accused of impiety.
The steel fingers have poked my mind
for nearly a decade and a half,
I do not mind my occasional breakdowns.
I would attend your crying fit; I’ve seen the playgrounds
where skinned knees and pointed fingers meet.

I would take you to the river,
I would become your constant shade tree,
I would be the silence in your agony,
I would bring you wine mixed with my own tears,
a long pour sparing nothing.
I would bring you my eyes which have seen the same
pain and brittle dehydrating while others play flag
football
in the sun.

You won’t run away from me for my sadness, will you?
Do I come across as morose?
Often I am. I’ve been accused of undiagnosed illnesses
unmindful of the offered cures.
Purely because I know how the light filters through
pulled curtains
when the late summer sun taunts a day’s immobility,
I wait in the darkness with you, sit in the sadness
and view your soul as more lovely than my own.

I would sing the song we wrote,
I would relive the times we walked on slippery hills
just after the first rain.
I would bring the bread you baked while you pieced
together the insanity of darkness again.
I would bring you my hands which have held other
hands
just as curled as your own.
I would let my pain be the beginning of two souls
finding rest simply from
being seen.

The Bathroom Mirror

 The Bathroom Mirror

(“His miracles are unforgettable. The Lord is kind and merciful.” Psalm 111:4)

He stared into the bathroom mirror,
the one with 1970s décor,
the basin was avocado, mirror framed in
wood masquerading as bronze, with even the hint
of varnish turned green.
He had looked every day for nearly seventy years,
20,000 times in his life the image appeared behind the
mist he had just toweled away after shaving and a
shower.
The hair was whiter, the face fuller, the eyes bore more
sadness than he desired. And, reversed as it was,
he rarely saw
himself as others did,
and negated their compliments when offered.

But, one Thursday morning, waking late, he opened the
bathroom door, put the dot of toothpaste on his electrical brush,
and ran it over teeth more rugged than he remembered. He rarely
used the mirror for
dental hygiene.

He took the shaving cream, a can of green and white circles,
and put a dollop in his hand. (40 years ago he filled his palm with
a snowcone of cream. It only created a beard of tiny bubbles.)
He learned the tiny amount was sufficient and massaged it into
his warm cheeks and chin and neck. He took the razor, now
five blades. He wondered, if he lived another 70 years, would he
heft a shaver with an even dozen cutting surfaces. And laughed
within. Applying the razor to his left cheek he checked the mirror

And his hand refused to move.

It had not been like that yesterday. He had never noticed it before.
Today, glancing at his image, the mirror was cracked, deep cracks,
long cracks, leaving large pieces of glass looking like continents
on a sea-less map.

He had also felt like that. He thought this was the truest
reflection yet. There were four of him, or were there five?
One had two eyes, one had three. One cut off his chin,
one enlarged his mouth. He never liked his reflection,
and now liked it less.

He never replaced the mirror. He had the money, but
maybe not the time. And he did not cry over the broken image
he saw now, each morning. But, for the next 3,000 days found
new things about his face. And picked one to show the world each day.

The Water Kept on Flowing

The Water Kept on Flowing

(“For He has satisfied the thirsty and filled the hungry with good things.” Psalm 107:9)

He stood at the faucet in the bathroom
at the farmhouse
where his parents had dropped him off for
the evening. It was supper time
in the country
and he was washing his hands before going to
the table with ham and
fried okra.

He turned the faucet one way and the water flowed.
Warm and clear the soap slipped between his fingers
and bubbled on his knuckles. Four years old
or five
he knew the ritual well.

But the basin was unfamiliar. When he turned the
faucet again
the water kept on flowing. He turned it back
the other way
and the water
kept on flowing.
His face turned red, tears began to burn his eyes,
he turned it again and
the water
kept on flowing.
Confused between clockwise and counter,
baffled by left and then right,
his host, probably the mother,
wondered why he was not back to the table.

She wandered in, the door was open, and saw the
boy
so
anxious because the water
kept on flowing.

She took his hand; her fingers were warm.
His were numb.
She turned the faucet and the water
stopped flowing.

And all he could think was only adults know
how
to make the water flow.

Stir the Waters Again

 Stir the Waters Again

(“He listened to Paul speaking. And Paul, looking intently at him and seeing that he had faith to be made well...” Acts 14:9)

There is a stirring that wakens the heart from
daydreams and midnight specters. Forged in love and
distilled in peace it
dares with hope to see
summer fruit on a fruitless tree.

We make up animals, clouds in the sky;
we hear new melodies, waves on the shore;
we dance on the gravel, we run on the topsoil,
we see a feast, bread and wine.

We set the table in anticipation of the
next divine guest who,
venturing from the tent city,
finds our door, no longer a door,
but an entryway to laughter seldom heard among

The serious scholars of tradition,
the preachers of discontent who believe their words
are the lodestar to god.

Stir the waters again, God.
We are not well.
Some limp, but most disguise their pain behind
compromises and grins. Simply pretending
to find
sanity in the repeated lines meant to
monitor their mistakes and keep them crawling.

Stir the waters again, God.
Let us go sailing where the tides are moved by angels,
and the tears we have hidden are dried
by secret handkerchiefs that were never quite our color.
But dry them anyway.
Stir us again.