The Next Snare

 The Next Snare

(“They sent some of the Pharisees and supporters of Herod to trap him in his words.” Mark 12:13)

Lately all we do is wait for the next snare prepared
from our opponents, although we never saw them that way.
Are they students of heresy,
or do they snip words from their parchments to
prove their underlined passages could stand the test
of time?

Do you also want to be free? Do you also want to dance when
everyone else huddles in the corners
frightened
they will be exposed by the turn of the screw
experts always use
to disarm their unsuspecting targets.

Why do you bring your questions? Do you want debate,
or do you want answers? Why do you hate the stories
that generate more joy than your microscopic readings ever will?

Hey, could you give a guy a ride instead of piling
backpacks full of landmines on his shoulder? I am
over the tiptoe life. I am done with the squeeze you use
to extract all the juice from me, and then call me lifeless
when all that remains is rind and pulp. I cannot even
give you credit these days
for thinking you were doing God’s bidding;
look at your fruit, look at the faces in the dirt,
look at the gold crosses around their necks,
the movies they create insulting everyone’s intelligence.

What is your vested entrance? Do you simply want more
acreage in heaven by excluding my gay brother,
my muslim neighbor, my democratic senator,
my intellectual uncle.
And me--
the one who used to exclude as many as you do.

What you call truth is just another excuse to squeeze the life
out of every person and group you don’t understand. Then
you sing your songs, clap your hands, pound your chests,
expound your missives, and declare everyone dead except

For the chosen who hoist national flags on their steeples
and wonder why the vacancy rate is so high.
All I know, and by all I can tell, for every person
trapped by your snares,
there are dozens behind them breathing life into
their wounds. And soon
you will have to answer for the questions you used
to make good people cringe. You will be accountable
for the walls the privileged built while dedicating it
all
to
god.

My Soul is Wrinkled

My Soul is Wrinkled

 

My soul is wrinkled,
it is dislodged from the space where
it once felt like a home on the edge of fire.
My soul is shrinking,
it has lost weight. It is buoyant and
leaves its moorings when I am not looking.
My soul is tingling,
it is super-charged and overheating.
The songs that used to feed it now
send it cringing to a neutral corner.
My soul is marooned,
it is waiting for the rescue to arrive
but the sun has blinded, how unkind,
and the waves have erased the laughter of
the pardoned.
My soul is narrowed,
a tiny flow between the cross-stich gullies
fully wanting the summer rain, the kind that
falls on miniature and massive, the kind that
no one predicted.
My soul is swallowed,
it is reversing the recipe that once made it
palpable. Now it is culpable for every heresy
councils have denounced for centuries.

My soul is ageless,
it once was captive but
now is captivated by
a world so fully stained that
every sunset is as viscous as an oil slick,
every breeze plays in a different key than
the day before.
My soul is effervescent,
my soul does not fit within the
bottled expectations of factory-made songs
meant to make you put your hands up,
meant to make you wave them,
meant to make you clap them,
meant to make you stand up.
My soul know what is needs now,
my soul knows it very well.
My soul is wrinkled with time which
is just fine with me. My soul has
enwrapped me with a handmade name and
will speak it to me in a whisper when
reversals attempt to revoke it again.

The Audacity!

 The Audacity!

(“God…set me apart from my mother’s womb and called me by his grace.” Galatians 1:15b)

The audacity!
The angels, the pagans, the sand dunes, the sea
all laughed like a house full of comedy. He came
into town,
his Harley roaring,
his passion soaring,
his vision storing every idea he had planned
from the midlands to the coast. He hit the ground
running
and collected food, mostly cans.
And fed 100 or more on Christmas two years
in a row.
He did all he could, for all he could,
and never locked the windows or the doors.
He had fought in the most unpopular of wars
and knew he would never leave anyone outside in the cold
again.
Agent orange had just begun to tax his holy obsession.
He would ration his health for all the saints he had yet to meet.

Houses crumble over time. But they crash in a moment.
Pain works its way slowly, but pours over the threshold meant
to keep it from escaping. He was never idle, but
he knew how to rest. But how to rehitch his body and mind
to the original epiphany; he found he was losing his breath.

With dreams bigger than self-esteem, he embraced the pastoral
scenes
along a wide lazy river. I cannot say that another poison
entered his system,
but agent orange was volatile and could have mixed with
local politics
to burn through the hope that surrounded his heart.

Eventually the two by fours rot after the years, eventually the roof leaks
from dew as much as rain. Eventually the abandoned self,
once up for any noisy gathering,
cannot abide more than a friend at a time.

Sometimes life crashes so hard on someone, even one called
from birth,
that the mental,
the physical,
the emotional pain
cannot be contained.

We would do well to audaciously
dress the undeserved wounds.

We All Live in the Mountains

We All Live in the Mountains

(“But many who are first will be last. And the last will be first.” Mark 10:31)

We all live in the mountains,
we all live in the valleys,
we all live by surging streams,
we might live in yellow submarines;

We all sit in the same sun,
we all watch the river run,
we all stand in the deep sand,
we all buy the same name brand.

If you think that’s silly,
imagine anyone ruling from the ground up or
the sun down.
Imagine anyone commanding from situation rooms or
abandoned tombs.

We all flunked the test,
we all passed the rest,
we hoped to do our best,
we all only guessed
at the good that kings and queens could do
when so few lived where flowers perfumed the vale,
so many gave wrong numbers, so many lives were for sale.

We are all poets,
we are all painters,
we are all dancers,
and we cannot wait for
the show to begin.

If you think that’s dizzy,
imagine watching from the last row, imagine
waiting from the outskirts of town,
imagine excusing the harshest blows, imagine
kneeling before the circus clowns.

Suddenly a world that cannot turn
upside down when nothing is over and nothing
is under,
nothing will ever be split asunder;
can you imagine, will you wonder,
that our puny vowels mean much when
all the world is aching for the touch of anyone
with an ounce of breath to
step out of time,
to step into the sublime moments
when metronome beats are suspended,
inviolable rules upended,
and caution is thrown to the wind.

Hearts Turn to Dirt

Hearts Turn to Dirt

(“If anyone wants to be first, he will be the last of all and the servant of all.” Mark 9:35b)

There are days when hearts turn to dirt,
not rich garden topsoil,
but crunchy desert crackling underfoot,
shrunk by the sun in judgment.
Those days are long days. Those days are empty
and thorny.
Those days are fraught with heat dreams and
cold fevers. Those days pierce your ears
with isolation and your soul like uncreating
everything that once welcomed spring.

You left a forwarding number (or so you remember),
you told a few best friends where to find you if you did not return
by early September. Yet by October you have lost your way home.
No one phones. No one brings heat for your heart or ice
for your head. In the meantime, suburbs have risen all around
your saguaro hideout. You live outside in the elements,
they live inside with molecules and compounds in boxes
and stained-glass bottles. They play music your heart remembers,
but the chances for joy feel as remote as the friends you
remember from grade school. (You are sure you left them
your number.)

Some are managers, some housewives, some are the principal
paymasters, others dig minerals donated to museums. All were,
at least for a day, or another,
the loves who would massage your heart until the color
returned to your face.

Now, alone, no way home, and no one to keep you from
evaporating to the bone, you rattle. And you wish you could only
be
as silent as they are
when silence was the last thing you needed.

Permeate Us Like Rain

Permeate Us Like Rain

(“This is My much-loved Son. Listen to Him.” Mark 9:7)

Permeate us like rain,
let the clouds surround us with the intense
privacy of light. But our ears are
stuffed and marooned on the islands of
powdered wine. We pass nothing to each other,
and can think of nothing more to say than
we hope it all turns out okay. But ok
is nothing more than
saying I want it to turn out my way.

We pass the sidewalk saints for the black
and white
that describes every person’s plight in morality plays.
We make do with lists of rules. We tailor our
prophecies so fools can fancy themselves kings.

Lord it over us, we ask you, please. And spill the dross
from the outliers of the gold rush we hoard for ourselves.
We can sell the dust in vials of water from the Jordan,
we can make a killing on gilded pages too holy to read.

But there is a turning, a do-si-do that is deeper than earth,
higher than your cruciform steeples. But there is a fancy
dance
that invites every tribe to see the leap of child to parent,
clasp to sharing, strangers to lovers, and an imitation so
clumsy we all fall down laughing.

And we never speak of locked buildings again. We have
seen what we have seen, we have died how we have died,
we have lived

How we are loved. And we can never die again.

The Doves Have Returned

The Doves Have Returned

(“Bring balm for her wounds, in case she can be healed.” Jeremiah 51:8b)

Perhaps our distractions can soothe us,
a butterfly interrupting our train of thought.
The doves have returned to their favorite tree which stands
still naked until the spring clothes it in green.
We nailed houses to our eaves in December in hopes
they would take up residence there.
For now they pierce the sod, soft from the snow that
is melting. Surrounded by robins they share the square of land,
a mound of weeds and grass and mud where the worms
have dug a home.

Perhaps we could watch it together, no bother if they
finish their meal, there will still be more silence to share.
I know I am clubbed overnight by misshapen dreams and giants
of my past, threatening to break bonds that I thought
would cover me until winter had passed. I don’t do much
these days. I used to talk to pay for life. I don’t do much
speaking these days. And, in my dreams, I am nearly silenced
as well.

Here the snow is an attraction. I know for you it is a chore.
Still, I would rather be soaking in crystal waters with the
sun healing all my backward thinking; healing all our
shivering and hidden tears.

It seems to me, in miniature lucid moments,
that there is warmth within. And yet my skin still
yearns for sun to cloak my body and drink summer’s
full spectrum of light.

Could two friends in silence reheat the day? Would we
send the frost away? Could we slay those giants that grabbed us
like puppets and slung us, forgotten toys, behind the furniture?
Could two friends restore, even sadly, the smiles that
first graced our faces as children?

I used to speak of life. A hand, a wink, or a graceful look
would suffice these days.

When the Noise Has Scattered

When the Noise Has Scattered

(“Perhaps the Lord will see my affliction and restore goodness to me instead of Shimei’s curses today.” 2 Samuel 16:12)

When the noise has scattered,
when the sky is shattered,
when the paths that mattered now seem
unfastened from the hillside,

How do we hide our fear? How do we regroup,
(circles or pyramids) outside the doors that
once invited us in?

When the songs are deployed,
when the prayers are employed,
when the chants we enjoyed now fall
unwritten from the towers,

How do we hid our grief? How do we refine,
(ignite or liquefy) inside the walls that
now all box us in?

When fire is rewarded,
when love is reworded,
when the priests discarded the low
unwelcome from the banquets,

How do we hide our tears? How do we resolve,
(theses and discourses) above the debates
that lock us all out?

We waited the way patients do,
simply hoping for some good news.
We tasted the honey, imbibed the perfume,
we drank the new wine, dined beneath the blooms.

And still we wondered why,
despite every well-oiled presentation,
so few wandered in, and when they did,
why they never stayed long.

Barely Touching Beauty

Barely Touching Beauty

(“We are ruled by Christ's love for us.” 2 Corinthians 5:14a)

The neighborhood dogs come out to play
on days this bright in February light. The ones in pens
bark their intention of joining in.
Sweatshirts give way to t-shirts stored since September,
the clouds are thin, the sky is reachable,
the breeze has taken the day off, holding its breath
until the next storm finds its way upriver, the front
moving the water ahead,
the back pushing the sea lions along.

A mom and her daughter stop midday
to make lunch for the elderly man who once
was sharp and clever. His wit and good nature
have withered with his health.
Why do we hang this skin on bones,
why do we age so fatly and fade so thin?
Machines push air through tubes into our nostrils,
the noise they make sounds like lungs hung outside the body.
Where are the people who pledged their money to
keep the church afloat when he was their shepherd.
Where are the pledges, where are the alleged gospel
followers
who cannot wait to see the world converted? Did he
assert mercy too deeply? Did he sink the shaft of
grace divine
into the muck of everyday lives? And EMTs
now tend to the one who tended souls in love.

A friend sits by the bed,
his head full of all the stories they have shared.
Both knew the wonder of barely touching beauty
as they lifted children in their arms,
seeing the blue eyes of one, green and brown of others,
who broke the water from death to life.
Both knew the spears that struck their hearts might
take a lifetime to heal.

While the bald eagles fly, we on the ground are
left to rely on each other.
Even canned chili in the hands of a friend
can end the grieving for a season.

There Should Be Angels

There Should Be Angels

(“Why shall not the ministration of the Spirit be much more glorious?” 2 Corinthians 3:8)

If you would, God,
could we make a deal, God,
to switch out my brain for another?
There is less shine here
than I thought there would be here,
the days are no different, one cloud after another.
Nostalgia does me little good,
the ones who knew me well are dead,
and the one who live speak of light even after
the sun goes down. Me, I weep
and wish the chemicals that keep me lonely
would catalyze into a new solution.

We can predict the tides and decide
where the salmon will run.
We can predict the weather and decide
how the clouds will sound.
But these moods are feral and unbroken.

The weather is so thick here that you can
grab a cloud with your hands and put
it in your pocket.
My moods are thick like molasses.
The clouds will evaporate, my pockets will
still be dry.
But my moods stick to everything I touch.

Another friend lies sick with congestion
thick around his heart. More than brothers,
he is cranky the way I wish I could be. Between
crashes on his hawg and attacks on his heart,
his body is no longer his friend. So I will be his
pastor,
the shepherd to my pastor-friend. And wish I could

Make a deal, God,
to switch out his life for another. To see the
joy of the man who took me as his brother
a decade ago. To elicit laughter from his
agony and anger. There is less shine for
this holy one
when there should be angels sitting at his door.

Wait for the Green Breeze

Wait for the Green Breeze

(“He told her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace and be healed from your illness.’” Mark 5:34)

You cannot carry the crowd upon your shoulders.
You cannot lay down the law and expect everyone to obey.
You cannot walk through walls, you cannot dig to China,
but we can hire the verbs together,
watch the sky untether,
and wait for the green breeze that makes
the rocks hum.

You cannot dictate the future from your comma.
You cannot lay down a straight line to curve gravity back.
You cannot always run, you cannot cook without fire,
but we can rent the day together,
question hymns together,
and wait for the tide to turn that
takes us home.

Are your feet cold today, this February,
has the ice stained the impulses that leapt like fawns?
There is a melancholy that fills the spaces,
there are hard stops and soft memories that
fill our minds with faces that once kissed
our silences. Some have gone too soon,
and it feels we may never stop mourning.

How you fill my heart departed loves, how
your laughs and questions marks sit upon
the opening of the day

And mark it with smiles, tears, and
a longing to replay walks through courtyards
where we manufactured words to fit between
our cobbled dialogue.

We wait for the touch that makes
all whole again.

Would You Cry with Me?

Would You Cry with Me?

(“He helps us in all our troubles, so that we are able to help others who have all kinds of troubles, using the same help that we ourselves have received from God.” 2 Corinthians 1:4)

Would you cry with me even
when
I could not tell you why
the days roll into one another like
boulders left behind by an ancient glacier
and a mind frozen by in time?

Would you bring me cake?
Would you buy me a day on the beach?
Would you give me your island in the sun
and stay as long as I needed
to hear someone’s tears besides my own?

I do not mean to bother you,
your life is no different than mine. The air
between us is space or it is connection.
But the fences have divided us into sections
and served us up separately.

I would rather sit with an ailing friend,
play with the neighbor dogs and laugh with the children.
And I can, a few minutes at a time;
but mostly I sit inside wondering
how to find a river in the desert,
a place to visit where it does not matter
that I speak less often than I used to.

Last night I dreamed I was going on a trip with
my two sons,
but we never finished packing. We could not find
enough socks.
And that is how all my dreams end,
anticipating a life that looks more like a mirage.

Your hand on my shoulder,
your loaf of fresh-baked bread,
your song when I cannot find my own,
your heart traded for my fainting;

I hate debating. I need only eyes that
tear up
because mine do too.