I Tried to Count the Stars

I Tried to Count the Stars

(“Jesus answered, ‘The foxes have holes to live in. The birds have nests to live in. But the Son of Man has no place to rest his head.’” Luke 9:58)

I tried to count the stars last night and
thought of you.
How naïve to believe they were
just lanterns swinging from an overhead dome.
I tried to measure the miles from them
to where I stood
and fell asleep as the earth turned toward morning.
I tried to count the years in our days and
wondered how we mourn a friend’s passing one morning,
and attend a christening the next.
Light and dark fight it out for our
attention. We are membranes with ears,
eyes diffusing summer leaves in sharp relief.

I assume I have passed you on the street a thousand times,
or met you on an overpass while chrome machines roar
underneath.

I tried to think my way through the last two decades,
pray my way into unconscious flights of ecstasy.
I have missed every face I’ve known,
have remembered la anciana begging on a sidewalk
in Cancun.
I’ve trimmed my roses before the snow fell and waited
until May to watch them bloom.
I’ve seen the rain spit up dust on a Texas afternoon.
I have swallowed my song too long
fearing the tune would elude me.

But I’ve watched, though I rarely see,
your way through the galaxy and your
face that dropped tears on the cheeks of a child,
on the forehead of a child,
on the first blue tulip, the first daffodil.
And I wonder how many abodes we count looking
for home.

Questions Like These

Questions Like These

(“A discussion started among them about who would be the greatest.” Luke 9:46)

Questions like these cause the world to stop spinning
and laugh like onions in a chocolate milkshake.
They are misguided missiles,
thought-bombs that explode far from
the source of every noun, every verb,
every proclamation complete with non-sequiturs
and slovenly rhetoric.

Give me children who wave at me,
neighborhood pets who run to me,
eagles ignoring me,
and breezes that barely whisper the names
that have
gone before me.

The strongest among us find their bones
becoming brittle eventually.
The few on the pyramid above us
find their breath thick and cannot spare
a single respiration. Inevitably.

Look inside my cedar chest, a few blankets,
mildewed clothing, chipped teacups and saucers.
We keep mementos because we could not keep
our ancestors alive. And two more generations,
maybe three, maybe all,
the keepsakes will crumble to dust, the wind
changing their course from owned to loam hundreds
of miles from here.

Give me a baby crying in the night,
give me the mother nursing the child,
give me the father walking the floor,
give me the make-believe that should
never die.

Questions like this keep our fists closed,
grasping rods of iron,
clenching thrones of power.
Set a child before me, let their eyes
loosen my hold on unearned titles.

Let me learn the lessons of upturned faces lifted
toward the sun.

Weary We Come to You

Weary We Come to You

(“He welcomed them and spoke to them about the kingdom of God and healed those who needed to be cured.” Luke 9:11b)

Weary we come to you,
shoulders slumped by weights we wished
we did not carry.
Fearing future, our breath caught in our throats,
we wait for words like soil opening to the sower’s seeds.
Bereft, but not by birth.
Spoiled by demands that devalued our momentary
lucid dreams, we want to be wakened by promise
that understands we are dust. Tell us
our worth again.
Like sparrows, like lilies.
Clothe us in poetry,
baptize us where the river meets the
sun.
Do the waters reflect your face?
Do the hills echo your voice?
Do we hear the ribbons that wrapped us
newborn with each syllable you speak?
Our beds are sometimes sodden,
our sleep interrupted by memories that once
stung us between the close and open of days.
You know every point on our timeline,
you know every shadow we’ve hidden.
You know the cancer that beat us into
unwilling submission
to beliefs that stained the pages of our stories.
Will you call us to join you
while we flail on the waves?
While we are waterlogged will you walk to us
though we mistake you for another figment of
our imagination?
We would bow,
but you bid us stand.
We would divert our eyes,
but you take our hand and heal
what we could not understand.

My Broken Casements

My Broken Casements

When electricity burns through you nerves like
the hum of a dozen engines,
and your head is encased in wasted dreams
you would rather not remember,
days shake you like a rug and heap more reasons
to close your eyes than stay awake watching
for something meaningful to happen.

I cannot confess enough; my confessions are meaningless.
And yet there are more sins I’ve committed than sins I’ve
admitted. The numbers do not matter. My broken casements
would still let in the cold though I was young and innocent.

I barely have to look past my window to know
that life is better than I perceive it. And yet
tears are my food,
heartache is my refreshment,
boredom is my religion, and
loneliness the name I call nearly everything.

I rarely create. My mind watches the calendar for
the next date that I’ll miss, or sit silent among people
I know, unloading my defenses privately at home.

I would board a train to yesterday if I knew when it
departed. I would post my arrival to be sure someone
would show up for me with my heart in hand.

Today I’ll blame the pain, tomorrow the people who
promised to refrain from warfare. Next week I’ll accuse
the loosened nuts and bolts for not keeping me together.
Everything is out of joint; everything is knotted tightly.
I’d tell you all my stories, but I know it would not end well.

So, I hide myself within myself. I confide only in the rain.
Inside this jar of clay I see only through the cracks
inches away. Outside I might look in. Outside I might
laugh that a silly man can find so little joy in an hour
of neighbors and celebration.

But the electricity still runs, sending my mind a thousand
times around the same stories that never did end well.

All I Know of Flames

All I Know of Flames

(“No one lights a lamp and then hides it in a clay jar or puts it under a bed. Instead, they put it on a stand. Then those who come in can see its light.” Luke 8:16)

I thought last night was just a vast alibi,
an opportunity to hide behind the stone walls that
increased my isolation. My chihuahua was there and
can vouch for me. The power was out and there were no
flashlights to be found.
We did light a few candles but kept them far away from the windows.
We had grown accustomed to silence,
but we needed the visitation of friends.

It's not that I’ve fallen, it’s that I’ve learned light is
full spectrum. Tunnels are fine most of the time,
but a wide beam wash of a hundred faces at once
might change your mind.

The light I carry now, or, more accurately, that carries me,
turns like kaleidoscopes, bends around black hole, sends insects
the direction home and birds the tune of their waiting nests.
I swear I saw
light
like this once before. But now that I think about it,
we were all white privileged kids walking in the mountains
because our parents had the money
and we had the time.

Once on an autumn night, standing with an Arikara brother
over a vat of propane-fueled water boiling beef for a memorial,
we talked of deer and ice fishing
and then saw behind us, north toward Canada
the Aurora Borealis. Our conversation was punctuated,
like staccato notes. The beef would feed everyone in the hall.

All I know of flames this time around, is that they are the heat
of love that burns eternally. All I know of light that ebbs and flows,
I know my eyes are closed far too often.

Verbs Like Green

Verbs Like Green

(“But as for you, return to your God, hold fast to mercy and justice, and wait on your God continually.” Hosea 12:6)

What if there was a new name for everything;
not verbs like
green or
running. And have you caught your limit yet?

What if hills were lions’ manes, the clouds fastened to
nursery rhymes?
What if Saturn’s rings were alligator dreams, the stars
tethered to geothermal springs?

What if no one was king, what if you were circular?
What if fences were holes in our theories? What if
space/time was clearly a one-way street?
What if the universe is on virtual repeat,
the daylight a single page in a book?
What if everything shook loose until
random was sequential, rational was inclusive,
geology was playful and
immigrants ruled the world?

I won’t say love should be defined,
I won’t say wine should be refined,
I won’t author definitions,
I won’t offer explanations.

I won’t be I. I won’t. I want to
be we. I want. We.

What if we are stick figures drawn
by a kindergarten class.
What if every notion was our last, every
first a cats-eye marble left by
debaters who decided

There could be a new name for

Nearly

Everything.

Doubt Is Not an Ink Blot

Doubt Is Not an Ink Blot

(“Calling two of his disciples to him, sent them to the Lord, saying, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?’” Luke 7:19)

Doubt is not an ink blot,
not an erasure,
not a final forecast of gray.
Doubt is not blindness,
not soulless,
not a symptom of falling away.

You can go around the same block,
this day, under the sun’s rays, watching blue jays,
or wishing you had stayed a hundred miles away.

The forecast says rain,
the daisies and daffodils, intoxicated,
sway with the barely breeze, and beg us to notice
their debut appearance. Doubt I’ll miss them
this time around.

Questions no longer frighten me, thinking is my
favorite pastime. No longer cast inside plaster,
beauty is the language I crave. Why would I
want
a warrior shooting blood from a lily-white cannon
when there are
sheep in the fields that turn my thoughts to
feasts for enemies and goodness surely following?

Faith is not certainty,
not an iron rod,
not a rule that is cast in stone.
Faith is not foresight,
not tap dance,
not a promise of simply whole tones.

You can take the same walk again,
this day. 

I’ll Get a Handle on it Soon

I’ll Get a Handle on it Soon

I’ll get a handle on it soon, -I said-
I’m not crazy, -I joked-
I’m just embarrassed over everything
no one knows. -he left it hanging like that-

I’ll jump out of bed tomorrow, -I thought-
I’m only tired, -I whined-
I’m just embedded in concrete curing
in the sun. -he was not sure what he meant-

I’ll drink a beer this afternoon, -I planned-
I’ll meet some friends, -I mused-
I’ll just wait around in the corner booth
quietly. -he was not sure who would show-

I’ll go back home and read my mail -I sighed-
Ghosted postcards -I signed-
I’ll just find the return addresses and
unwrap them -he had lost his contact list-

The last two weeks were heavy with sadness,
not like fog or night darkness, more like
walking in the mud on the way to church.
No one showed up there except
memories of children’s feet,
elders’ invitations,
and the brave soul he had met
last night behind the segment hall
boiling beef in a cauldron fired with propane torches.

They had talked about the Northern Lights,
asked about short form stories and long flute songs.
The birds listened in.

I forget so many of my friends, -I hummed-
I’m not young now, -I moaned-
Phones calls from a generation ago
echo low, -he was not sure what he knew-

I Have a Few Leftovers

I Have a Few Leftovers

(“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” Luke 6:20)

Come let us sit together, it is nearly lunchtime.
I have a few leftovers; your choice, ham or tacos.
I’ll pour the wine if you will simply grace me with
your time.

It’s the stretch of the year when the sun awakens the sleeping earth,
when the clouds part for an hour at a time
pulling back the curtains of playful daylight.

My deck is in the sunshine now,
50 degrees feels like 70.
My conversations are softer now,
words come and go like the stellar jays
that light on the fence inspecting our faces
and the moss on the walnut tree.

I am too rich, I know I am.
And I have too much to carry.
I do not believe in poverty,
but I believe in you and the hidden
gems underneath your voice.

You should be hosting me, for you
possess
more than my easy confessions.
But today, let me pretend to be poor.
(Though tomorrow I will turn up the heat again.)

Sometimes I see as through the darkest mirror,
sometimes I see nearly well.
Today I want to hear how
sounds of weighty compassion,
the pipe organs of pain,
lifted you like hymns on a high
Holy Day.

I’ll grab the refried beans, or the horseradish
for the ham. Come sit with me and
remind me who I am.

Love Is Easier

Love Is Easier

(“No one pours new wine into old wineskins.” Luke 5:37a)

Love is so much easier than
reading from the scripts winding in your head
like chains and locks, like handcuffs and square knots.

There are more than the old, scribbled writings,
life is richer than the ransom notes we send
human after human,
year after year,
sermon after sermon,
election after election.

Joy flows if you will find it,
the grapes burst with sun and earth.
The wine brings color to the cheeks and
brightness to the eyes. Why protest
the radiance that
sets the bluebirds flying?

Love, rain on me here.
Joy, shine early and near.

On a planet, bio-diverse, sing the choruses
that list each divergent tongue as the number one,
the melodies that launch embraces instead of
vacuous mumbles repeated for effect.
There are far more faces than fit within your
narrow theology.

Love is easy. Love is wind and rain
and wine and mud. Love is never asking for
a decision or,
holding unknown soundwaves in derision,
shouting louder than the spectrum you think you
invented.

Love, fill us like daysprings.
Joy, etch our faces like newborns.
Love is easier if
we take the time to share new wine
trampled by feet we never knew.

Love Returning Love

Love Returning Love

(“For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.” Colossians 3:3)

All I see when I gaze your way is
love returning love.
Your eyes seeing mine are the same as mine seeing you.

I’ve left the mirrored lake behind that caused Narcissus
such blindness. The reflection was flat and deceptive until
I saw the image of every human infatuated the first second
the rippling vision hit their eyes. We are static at the reflection
pool
to fool our inconsistencies. Echo helps by answering back
every elegant name we beget staring into water that
has no devices of its own. You are not you in the mirror,
you are not the royal we or the enthroned epitome. You
may need to walk a while, down the trail, toward the cavern dark
where bats and dimness breed forgetfulness, where damp silence
leaves you outside camera lenses and microphone intentions.

But in that motionless moment,
if you will let the watery image die,
you may find yourself seeing in the dark,
fascinated by mossy green and iron reds on the
cavern walls. You must go there alone, though, once
alone,
you will never need to venture into the darkness again.
If only you find the companions that wait outside,
that guard the entrance from intruders,
and watch it for friendships that have been stripped
of illusion
and, though mildly confused, the man is a child again,
the woman a toddler hopping in wonder.

All you will see when you gaze divine is
love returning love.
Those eyes seeing yours are the same as yours seeing them.

I Will Come See You Soon

I Will Come See You Soon

(“The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.” Luke 4:18a)

Brother man, you really set it off when you landed in this town.
“Gospel” was your favorite word,
but people heard with ears so tired it sounded like babble.
“Good News” is what you proposed, echoing the First Igniter
who stood to declare the Story all creation had listened to hear.

You were known for your Harley and Big Bad Bob
your Excitable Boy. (He was named after Bob Marley.)
Four legs and Labrador energy,
he kissed everyone full on the lips while expecting a game
of catch
in the living room.
You bought a sidecar just for your trips through the hills
along
the Columbia river.

The poor were your heartache, the earth was your cause,
the outcasts, oh, let’s be frank, the gays that were kept
from wearing vestments. You walked in their parade. You
collected more canned food than pickups could haul.
You fed a hundred on Christmas, recruited our town’s best
chef. You joined me for Thanksgiving, sometimes just five
around a table.

Every word was like a roman candle, some called you irascible,
others saw only the flames of love. You shall always be
my favorite Lutheran,
and I your favorite lapsed Pentecostal. You called me your pastor,
but it was your friendship I treasured.

You and I, no longer standing behind pulpits, lived only a half mile
from each other. I would turn the corner, stroll past the view where
the river can be seen between the trees, then walk up your driveway,
inside your sliding glass door, and find you watching a classic movie
that you had watched a hundred times before. Oh Brother man, I
have a wife to keep me company. You have no one. Our visitors
are
zero. And I mourn the emptiness you bear.

So I don’t know
if it had to happen this way. But life started to leave
you weary, it leaked from every pore. Your heart, so
over-exposed,
had less than ten percent to give. You coded
four times
in ICU, Covid invaded your lungs and the man
who never canceled a service or appointment
now relied on a tiny cohort of friends. You would
breathe on your own
for the shortest of days.

They call it
comfort care,
and you are feeling no pain. Today the
chaplain
anointed you with oil, your friend standing by
while the nurse disconnected the last tunnel of
oxygen that pumped your lungs full.

Your body was beaten, but your body is tough.
I do not know how long, brother man, before
you expire; slowly, or all at once.

When you do, slide like the ocean breeze into
the slipstream as Christ leads you home. Please
wait for me, I will come see you soon.

Sit With Him Who Has No Breath

Sit With Him Who Has No Breath

(“He also described to us the love that you have in the Spirit.” Colossians 1:8)

Sit with him who has no breath,
set the table for her who cannot taste;
when the air is heavier than sotted fog
let silence carry you,
let ritual be the rails you ride until
breathing comes naturally again.

There is no moment without effect,
there are no movements without the tree leaf twitching.
When time has subtracted more than you wished,
let memory guide you,
let summer laughter reside a moment longer until
the lyrics return.

I prayed the Our Father with you, three times,
maybe four.
I am ashamed to say I forgot some words of that
Ancient Prayer
I prayed
every Sunday till my teens. On the last time I
whispered it
I think I remembered every phrase, though
out of order and halting. I sang Hallelujah to
you, and Amazing Grace.
But mostly the ICU room where you lay was
filled with machinery whirring, rewording our silence
into every breath you took.
I tried to match my own with yours,
to be present on perhaps our last moments together.

Angels attend you sweet friend, and may you know
how much love clung to your boots and pain,
how our crocks of clay eventually decay,
and how our spirits awake, here or elsewhere,
to human touch as well as divine.