To Photograph the Moon

To Photograph the Moon

(“I do not cease to give thanks for you when I remember you in my prayers.” Ephesians 1:16)

It might have been luck that brought us this far;
it is hard to tell between the rain, between the mailboxes,
between the houses, and between the minutes slowing
everything down.

One thing we had not counted on was
how seldom we found the cracks in the sky.
It was our habit to number the stars at night
and to photograph the moon like a goddess casting
spells over the trees. Shadows moved in and out
of each other.

We can talk on the phone for an hour,
we can catch up after 20 years. Where are the
connections we’ve prayed for? Where are the
the parties we used to plan?

If you painted a picture of what you see out your window
I would follow it like a map.
If you allowed for just a hairbreadth inside your heart,
I would leave everything intact.
If you spoke the words you never sing for anyone,
I would memorize them and inscribe them,
I would make them part of this poem,
I would enshrine them for further review.
I would never forget how the words are you,
and you full of paragraphs yet written, tales still
untold.

I appreciate your prayers, but next time

Let me see your eyes.

Fragrant Air

Fragrant Air

(“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places in Christ.” Ephesians 1:3)

Fragrant air:
like the tiny pink cherry blossoms new;
like the golden flowers on the broom bush;
like the rows of sweet mown grass yesterday old.

Cotton sky:
like forgotten dreams unmemorized;
like nameless candles mid-center of the room;
like flows of honey on a sticky afternoon.

Satin dance:
like triple robins home for a rest;
like hummingbird snapshots of a Wednesday afternoon;
like elementary children flush-faced after school.

Ageless One:
like mountains and moons light-years from now;
like anthills and anthems, geysers of simple songs;
like laughter and weeping, signs of questions on the

Fragrant air.

Today I Will Chase Joy

Today I Will Chase Joy

(“Christ made us free. Stay that way. Do not get chained all over again in the Law and its kind of religious worship.” Galatians 5:1)

Do you want to be a part of the gathering
drinking beer, shouting across the room with
questions about what else is happening this afternoon?

Do you want to share in the secrets they reveal
once the tavern is full? Do you still want to
laugh like you did nearly every day of the year?

How we turn. How we display our faces which
are not our faces at all. How we decide to
de-occupy the places that once
opened us so wide the tears flowed on tap
and we didn’t mind.

We used to believe that God was the center of it all.
Then we decided there were places the divine
would never stoop to go, so we stayed away;
that became our newest goal.

But today I will chase joy. Today I will laugh
and spill my secrets. Today I will still be shy
(like we think god is shy), and put sticky notes
on my friends to remind me who will laugh with me.

There are people who drop the holy spirit right on
top of you
when they turn to you and smile.
And they didn’t mean to. It just exploded
on their face
and suddenly you are thunderstruck.

Yes, I’ll join any gathering that sounds like
children breaking pinatas at a birthday party.

A Rabbit Scampered

A Rabbit Scampered

(“Let us know, let us pursue knowledge of the Lord; his coming is as certain as the dawn. He will come to us like the rain, like the autumn and spring rains come on the earth.”  Hosea 6:3)

When I looked up a rabbit scampered
at the edge of my vision. I suspected nothing.

I will not waste this day. But I will write honestly and
say—in my mind, not aloud—I’d rather have lunch with
a well-worn friend
than sit like a solitary monk. I was not made to be
a hermit. I was not created for this tightness in my chest.
I worry that I’m less than enough for anyone.
I worry my reservoir will overflow and everyone will see
what I’ve been holding back. So I stay alone in a town
where the river calls campers and dogs to sniff out
the steelhead and salmon.

Circles are better than points on a map.
Guitars passed around the group until everyone
has their chance to introduce the newest tune
born of love,
or lament,
or laughter,
or loneliness.
The four-bar ending of every song always includes
a quartet of hands upon the singer, a place in the
circle’s center
to see the heart that broke or bragged. The soul
that confessed its fears, its agony at possibly
leaving there unrenewed.

When I got up to leave, Emmit the blind
met me, licked my face like he knew me
and walked me to the door. I think I like
old dogs the best.

Cast Our Words with Flyrods

Cast Our Words with Flyrods

(“For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” Luke 14:11)

Can you spare an hour, a sliver of time,
a coffee, a piece of pie,
an hour to see me the way I am?
Can we careen into the afternoon like
skis on powder?
Can you join me and then leave
a piece of you behind?
When I began writing this I
had no idea
where it would end. Starting on a day
when the walls enclosed my room and
then now in the sun in the early afternoon.

I was reading a new book, a book of words and
the word called grammar. I read slowly, letting
each sentence linger on my mind like wine on my tongue.
And once the reverie was complete, lost in pages
of scholarly guesses the

Breeze manipulated the bamboo windchime,
hollowly, wholly, and brought my eyes back to
blue skies, green scenes, and a hummingbird
spotted like a border collie. I had never seen her
before.

My invitation still stands. I have circles where no
one exists except in my imagination. I have a thousand
contacts in my phone,
but none of them live close to home. Silence
is untranslated. And that makes writing a greater challenge
than transcribing the conversations of a dozen tables
late afternoon at the bar.

My opinions have changed on their axis; my outlook
is a search for meaning on a sea of love. So, if you can,
if you will, sit at my table and tell me your tale. We can
cast our words with flyrods into the evening. We can
walk past the stream where crows try to sing and
children laugh at everything mid-July.

There Are Tunnels Up Ahead

There Are Tunnels Up Ahead

There are tunnels up ahead,
carved out of the mountain,
squeezed between the peaks,
excised beyond belief,
miles of wet rock paving from
bottom to top.
There are years of darkness when
the turns up ahead have waited for
the eyes of a hundred passengers to adjust.

Perhaps that is where we lost track
of the progress from home to last.
Maybe we were so constricted we all
came out the other side and accelerated
faster into the light.
Sure, and we had no choice but
to follow the taillights before us.

A few began the journey with good intentions;
others, in a rush to satisfy objections snuck out
of town under cover of darkness.
But they all were funneled toward the gaping hole
black as space. No one escaped.

On the other side, though,
wonder of wonders,
a chosen few swore on their life and the
lives of others
they had never encountered the darkness,
nor could they.
Perhaps their eyes had been closed from birth.
But the earth will tell their story
with verity,
the tunnel makes certain of that.

I know there is an opening at the far end,
I can feel the slow whoosh of wind on my face.
But there is no light yet, nothing to guide me to the end.
Sometimes I just want to pull over and wait for someone
who knows the best way around the mountains in my way.

But once I saw the reflection, a tiny wink on
the graying granite, I prayed I might exit with a new
story
to tell.

It Is the Kiss of God

It Is the Kiss of God

(“Three times a day he got down on his knees, prayed, and gave thanks to his God, just as he had done before.” Daniel 6:10b)

Can you see the fusion between what is seen
and what lies beneath it all? I know it sounds
unusual,
I know it might seem absurd,
but there are more things richer in the
silence of things than in many words.

Even the hills in the distance with their cedars reaching
high
draw the slow clouds near until they are
two lovers with foreheads touching together,
and all I can tell you; it is the
kiss of God.

I have endless symbols at my disposal,
invented phrases and bright proposals to
lure the doves to the houses I’ve built for them
on the edges of my eaves.
I only wish I could coo the way they do,
I wish I could woo them to make their home
beside me.

I don’t mind saying that I’ve walked in darkness
far too often. And yet I had few who knew
how night-time fell around me like a cage,
like a cast-iron door welded across my forehead.
If I saw you coming up the driveway, I’d point you
toward the hills, up to the clouds,
and be tempted to escape backwards into the woods
at the back of my property.

Do you know what I mean? My own understanding has
crackled like a broken blister. My own longings are
mostly unanswered. Yet hope refuses to die. And it
is the only reason
I find time to pray between sentences written and
clouds unbidden.

More than anything I wish I could make the words sound
like the doves who sing their alluring songs. More than anything
I would like
another curious day watching the new moon fall on the
fog while we drink ferociously. We will sing jokingly
of the serious decades we spent only to land upon the
hills that kiss the sky barely halfway into the day.

You Hear Love Deeper

You Hear Love Deeper

(“One of Satan's angels was sent to make me suffer terribly, so that I would not feel too proud.” 2 Corinthians 12:7b)

I know you’ve tumbled over the stones that line the
swirling stream; I know the rain fell harder than hailstones.
I know how fast the scar tissue grows
to cover the pain, to make everything numb again.

I know your eyes see more than you say.
I know you hear love deeper than most.
I know your legs ache from standing so
no one will know
how weary it all has become.
I know your arms that tremble at a touch that
should feel like love.

I know the things you do not show.
I have bruises too. I feel the tears you hold
back, but they must go somewhere dear.
Drop them on the ground on your walk and
let the birds be silent in holy hush as they
perch in the trees beside you. Let the breeze whisper
the name of the flowers. It is not that you have forgotten them,
it's the wounds that have erased them.

I would name every day after you,
I would write it out plain. I would listen to
your small talk until
you knew it was safe to unload all the talk
you never share with anyone.

I see more than you think I see. I do not mean
I understand anything. It is just that your story
lies just below the surface where I’ve buried my
story too. But yours is one of innocence, mine one
of foolishness.

Your gentleness hits me hard. Your hesitations
only give me more time to fill the spaces between
you, me, the world, and the divine. I would blow
soap bubbles in the air between us
with our names written inside each one.

To See Your Eyes Afire

To See Your Eyes Afire

(“If your whole body is full of light, and no part of it dark, it will be just as full of light as when a lamp shines its light on you.” Luke 11:36)

All I’m asking is enough air in my lungs to sing.
All I need is to swim like the dolphins swim.
All I want is for you to see me again in
the light.
All I hope for is to dance with slippery feet in the rain.

The stellar jays do not judge me,
they have not asked me my name.
The yearling does in the field only walk away
because they have not made my acquaintance.
The neighborhood dogs bark hello and beg me
to play.
The one friend so close I can taste it,
is so far away we may never see each other again.

All I’m asking is enough time to play more jazz.
All I need is to run into you downtown and see your
eyes afire like afternoon laughter.
All I want is a cookout where old men wear aprons,
women carry potato salad,
children run in gunny sacks,
and no one cares how long we stay.
All I hope is for a bonfire in the breeze that
sends the smoke in every direction.

Yesterday I thought of you,
I jotted down your name.
Your children have children now,
mine live close and far away.
People hold doors for us entering restaurants;
a kind gesture, I know, but it is our grey hair that
incites them to do it.

All I’m asking is enough sun on my skin to swim.
All I need is to sing silly harmonies again.
All I want is for my feet to dance lightly today.
All I hope for is to answer the phone and hear you
pronounce my name.

The Tempo Changes

The Tempo Changes

(“God is able to make all grace abound toward you, so that you, always having enough of everything, may abound to every good work.” 2 Corinthians 9:8)

Don’t worry about the tempo changes,
the tune will stay the same.
It’s the harmony of the springhead,
daylight running and nighttime
replying to the parting clouds. The
waters will rush, they will gurgle,
they will sometimes trickle,
but always seeking their own level,
overflow; capacity unlimited.
Would the river run to the sea where
the brackish meets the sweet? Would the
ecology change in a welcome flock of
fruit trees begging the rain with their leaves?

(I’m the sort of guy who notices when
someone’s glasses are askew. I know they can
afford
to have them leveled about their nose.)

With all the talk of mystic days along the
forest’s edge, the day invites further exploration.
But we hesitate, fretting we will find only mud;
we long to meet a doe who acts like she knows us.
Or a bluejay who is not frightened away by our clumsy
attempts at stealth. We would prefer to live more slowly,
if only the deceleration included a companion or two.
Nevertheless, the air is the same where the river touches
the sea,
and where the forest wraps itself around the village
on the river.

(I should admit, my glasses are crooked too. And to
my knowledge, no one has commented so far. The right
lens has been lower than the left for three years from yesterday.)

Don’t worry about the key change,
we will take it slowly. And if the day offers nothing but silence,
we will put it in the bank and bring it out the next time
the crowds are too deafening.

Look to the Margins

Look to the Margins

(“Then a Samaritan man traveled down that road. He came to the place where the hurt man was lying. He saw the man and felt very sorry for him.” Luke 10:33)

Look to the margins,
take the drive to the edge of town,
find the strangers just behind the fences.
You know their names because
they have visited in your dreams.
Write them down next time,
bring them around next time you
grill steaks for the neighborhood.

The ecclesiastical tornados blow right
past the bloody messes left behind
by unfortunate destinations. The professionals
are keeping score, they tick each item off their list,
and having finished for the day find another way home.

Let them sojourn. We can take the drive
to the edge of town and put a few friends in
the back of the pickup truck.
Let them settle. Learn their names, and their children’s,
and their pets’. Learn the way their eyes ask
only for sanity, only for cold water, only for
an escape from the rain.

You used to play in the mud in front of your
suburban house with the lime-green porch.
You used to know everyone’s name that
waved from the sidewalk, every neighbor whose
child was just looking for a friend.
You used to hope that the popular ones would take
you in
to their treehouse, their club house, their secret pledges
made with bandanas around their necks.

Look to the edges,
just outside your peripheral vision. Take the journey
around the alleys behind the restaurants in the middle of town.
Some can’t afford the trip at all. Some would rather walk
than be caught riding the rusting bike they’ve had since
last Christmas.

Expand your boundaries, now that you know you have them.
You’ve seen their skin baked by the sun.
You’ve seen their loves hidden behind pulpit blinds.
You’ve heard their muffled cries. All they want is
to be welcome in your home.

Red Ink on Blue Paper

Red Ink on Blue Paper

It was fate, I have no doubt about it.
There’s not a damn thing I can do,
I’ll never stop loving you.
I could tell you, every day and more,
the well is bottomless, the supply eternal of
the elixir that intoxicates me.

I wondered how many times I will drink of it,
will my thirst ever be assuaged? Or
will this liquid that has transfixed me
keep my feet walking to you. I’ve stammered,
perhaps because there is a place I want to dwell with
room enough only for two.

I’ve seen the surface of you, and I’ve sounded the depths.
And I keep exploring, new, yet, and next. I know I have
layers
I’m still afraid to lay bare. I have words to say, and then
I run away, leaving only vowels behind.
I could write a note, red ink on blue paper,
and leave it where you would find it. And leave it
behind for you to read after
I’ve long since departed.

I’ve held back in too many conversations. I’ve
not asked the questions, I’ve not made the declarations.
But one day, perhaps late before the sun goes down,
I might take your hand,
kneel on the grass,
ask the question you asked me a lifetime ago
(and tremble, not knowing what to say).

Other lives, next life,
and still it is this life.

The same way you adore the sun,
the same way it warms your skin,
is the same way I adore you,
the same way you warm me again.

Living is so lovely now, even if it’s dreams and
imagination. But the pain leaves at
the very thought of you.

Like Cannons of Rain

Like Cannons of Rain

(“We are the temple of the living God, you see, just as God said: ‘I will live among them and walk about with them; I will be their God, and they will be my people.’” 2 Corinthians 6:16b)

If I told you tomorrow I’d be gone
would you save the day, would you hide it away
with your keepsakes?
But You may as well try
to store the sun ‘round midnight.
If I heard my ears would soon be closed,
would I memorize the way the songs make me feel?
Would I heal
outside
where the lightning scores the skies,
where the electricity conducts itself like cannons
of rain?
If I told you I’d never set foot in this place again,
would you remember my name? Would you etch
it on the front door? Would you sound it out like
phonics?
But you may as well try to name the gods,
pin down the angels,
catch the waterfalls midstream.

If I felt the warm no more, caught the smoke
of campfires on the ridges beyond the river
and then turned to go home,
would you come look for me? Would you
insist our way of life could exist on the
warmest beach
or coldest church bench?
If my fingers played notes hidden between
the black and white keys,
would it be another reason to cry heresy?
But you may as well try to keep the
hummingbirds away from
the climbing jasmine.

You might as well try to keep me from
exploring sanctuaries of light with gray
pronouncements today.

Today I will lay me down in peace. Today
I will cram my mind with unimagined things,
and laugh that we could be so certain about
which compass points are holier,
at which destinations the gods dwell.

Once you mark it on a map the mystery
dissipates and hardens like grime. Once
you build your monument
the sighs become yawns and we turn our
mattresses over so satisfied that we simply
cannot be wrong.

If I told you I don’t know how I feel about
precise measurements, would you still claim me
as a worshiper waiting alone?

The Wet Wind Splattered

The Wet Wind Splattered

(“Now He who prepared us for this very purpose is God, who gave us the Spirit as a pledge.” 2 Corinthians 5:5)

He felt the air’s unknown quantities as
the wet wind splattered against his face. Where
had the raindrops vacationed before they
landed
on the field beneath his feet?

He had always dreamed of a
house by the ocean.
He lived on the prairie instead.

The siding is nearly complete on the
new house around the corner.
The workmen eat at the Mexican café.
They order tacos,
he ordered a burger.
They drank water,
he had a beer.

It split his day in half to
sit in the back. He opened his book
and hurried to the end of the chapter,
anxious to start the next one on his list.
But today he felt disconnected

From
the world, though he talked to the waitress,
though he waved at his neighbor.

He was younger yesterday but older
than Monday. He wanted to put away
every tilted distraction that keep him wandering
between tears barely forming,
sighs barely storming on the horizon like
the next thunderstorm chasing him,
breath and step.

He mostly smiled in public, no one deserved
his weepy face. Reserved only for those who
knew already
the source of his distemper, his misadventure
on nearly every piece of land he had paced.

But the rain still dropped from ocean to fields of grain,
the thunder still rumbled after the hidden lighting struck
nowhere
in particular.
Someone might say he was mostly sour, finally
assessing his silence. Taking his sadness as
ego, they withdrew their offer of condolence. He
withdrew from his own self too.

II.

You do not have a bad attitude.
You

Are

alone.

III.

He was only looking
for his way
home.

The Homemade Mint Jelly

The Homemade Mint Jelly

(“Yes, for your sake and with Christ as my witness, I have forgiven whatever needed to be forgiven.” 2 Corinthians 2:10b)

Knowing you, knowing me,
knowing the panels painted across the banquet hall,
we could have danced better if we had
the chance.
We could have picked our names out of a hat
instead of waiting for circumstances to turn
us toward each other,
forward like brothers,
singing the light that rarely enters the dark creases
of monochrome minds.

I will never hold my breath again waiting for the
banquet to begin.
I’ll share every loaf of bread until
their shelf-life expires. We’re all just
sons and daughters hoping to hear someone
cheer us on. Please pass the butter and
the homemade mint jam the neighbor brought by
when she saw us pull in after ten days gone.

Remember how the sun came out, five in the afternoon,
after the thunder unloaded its hoarse voice all day?
Remember how it felt let go a sigh once we knew
we did not control anything?

I wish I could update you in person; ride into town
like Jesus on the donkey. Not that there is any
comparison; the beast is the only loaner I could find.
I walk unevenly, but want to play fascinating rhythms
too late in my career. Just the time I get the hang of it

My audience will change.

Seeing you, seeing me,
seeing the grass leaning into Spring,
we can find another chance (the second act?)
and take our original names into the dance hall
where the light falls, spun like abalone shells.

Do you remember when we drove all night
just to find a new
address to call home?

A Trio of Deer

A Trio of Deer

(“I will also destroy the false gods and put an end to the objects of worship…” Ezekiel 30:13)

When did the roots dry up;
why were the lifeless crosses lifted like
national flags to salute?
There is nothing impossible, there is nothing there,
there is everything we hoped for, there is more than
thin air.
Where did the beautiful deeds go;
who snuffed out the lamps of a hundred hearts?
There are silences greater than the rants
just before noon
on Sundays. There are still dreams to
plant in the soil. There are still sundowns to watch
together while a trio of deer eye us curiously.

I walk the same route every day. I have now for
three years or more. I stopped by your house on my way,
I stopped and knocked less often than I should.
It is nearly a year since you have gone,
nearly a year since I sat with you in the silent hospital room.
But today, I swear it is true,
a trio of deer stood in your yard. A trio of deer that would
have caught your eye like
the cargo ships in the river you could see from your front window.

We both hated the idols, didn’t we?
We both stumbled more than most.
But we knew the difference, didn’t we,
between solid ground and dust.
We both loved too many, didn’t we?
We both felt unloved and wrongly.
But we knew the difference, didn't we,
between spinning tops and curiosity.

When did Jesus become the way we
crucify beauty? When did thoughtful contemplation
become a chargeable offense?

All I know, a trio of deer were in your yard today.
And one doe walked toward me, and I knew that made
you smile.

An Overpopulated Dream

An Overpopulated Dream

(“Be on your guard, stand firm in the faith, be courageous, be strong.” 1 Corinthians 16:13)

I will not be ignored, unseen,
unheeded.
I know you say you did not recognize me,
I know you talked about your children like
they were captives of evil.
I feel the faint vibrations, the thinnest veneer of
unsubstantiated claims to greatness.
And all I want is to be heard a
time or two times more.
I will not be passed by, compassed by
the blind eye you never turn my way.
I know you have forgotten me,
but I still see your face every other night
staring back at me in my dreams.
How can my sleep be so well inhabited when my
waking is so desolate?
I grew weary a long time ago,
and now weight of years has touched my hip,
made me limp,
and wonder where all the goodwill went.

I pulled up outside your door, but you don’t live there anymore.
I confessed everything, and sorely afraid you could see through it all,
I confessed twice to be sure I had covered it all.
And you never stumbled. You never cried.
You never needed forgiveness, did you?
You were methodical in dismantling me.
And I, squeaking machine already, nearly died
of pale fright in front of a plate of spaghetti.
No, I don’t eat much when I’m under the knife.
I don’t eat much when you magnify my whispers to
everyone else in the restaurant.

I will be heard. And I’m sure you will hint,
or state strongly once I am gone,
that the root of bitterness is strong in me.
And I believed I deserved it all.

But no more. Not today. You have harmed me
with your holiness. You have cut me deep with your
satiny shards.

I will be seen, even the bloodied me. I will let
every word of failure be plainly spoken once you
open
your own life to my investigation.

The Lengthening of the Light

The Lengthening of the Light

(“He came near and touched the coffin, and the bearers stood still. He said, ‘Young man, I tell you, arise!’” Luke 7:14)

One day, or maybe two,
perhaps it will take a week. And now
I am pondering time as if I have more to spare
than I’ve been allotted.
But I’ve seen a baby smile and change the
conversations in a room.
I’ve seen a lover laugh and make the sun
keep shining for just a while longer.
I’ve seen the light lengthen late on a
pre-Spring evening.

But I’ve watched the rosebush I planted
die over winter with roots withered after snow.
I’ve cried as a pet died, my American Eskimo named
Halo.
I’ve held the hand of a saint until their last breath left
and we said the final Amen.

I’ve stood at the front of a hundred people waiting for
another song.
I’ve stood behind a hundred more and wondered what was
taking so long.
I’ve sat with five waiting for news from the surgeon,
I’ve stood with a dozen waiting in the rain, children
covered in mud and not running for cover.

What I’m waiting to observe is a resurgence like a river
following the cloudbursts that wash our scales away,
like new wind that freshens the doldrums of summer.
Here is what I’m hoping;
more.
Here is what I’m seeing;
seeds.
Here is what I’m hearing;
hymns.
Here is what I’m writing;
weeds

So beautiful we cultivate them and never
ignore
dandelions again.

The Water Pump

The Water Pump

I heard it on the radio, maybe last year,
perhaps a decade ago. But there was a water pump
in the backyard of a farm in the Ozarks,
red paint peeling from the combination of rust and time.
I saw it in my memory, over a century ago,
how the children’s muscles burned straining against
the handle embedded with fingerprints at least half
a dozen
generations old.

It was always summer,
that’s when grandparents took their family
to Missouri to visit Aunt Bess and the kids.
So the oldest grandson,
wanting to try new things
leaned hard against the water pump to
see how it worked, and finally felt the handle
move toward the ground while he rode it like a
hobby horse.

It was sweaty heat and his green t-shirt stuck
to his wiry arms. He was used to turning a tap
and drinking water from a hose hidden in the shade.
But the pump delivered nothing; no air, no noise,
no encouragement, no instructions for the city boy.

Pushing until he shivered, he moved the pump down,
up, down,
up, down,
up. He lost count and nearly lost time.

But the nozzle finally spit and mumbled like a colt,
then trickled the cool spring water at his feet.
Exhausted and curious, he cupped his hands and brought
the welcome liquid to his lips. He did not think he
had tasted anything sweeter, and he had brought it up
from beneath the earth with his own perspiring effort.
He doused his hair, his face, his shirt and ran

To see if he could catch another trout in his
great-uncle’s fishing pond again.

The Boy Who Survived

The Boy Who Survived

(“But it is true! Christ has been raised from the dead!” 1 Corinthians 15:20b)

I came here because I’m the boy who survived.
I write home about it nearly every day.
I sing sadly for the wasted laughter that was spent
mocking unsolved mysteries. Though I still do not see them
well,
I know they are the disguises divinity wears when we
see the sky,
drink the wine,
hear the robins,
spy the deer just 20 feet from here.
I know they are the patterns for everything.

I’ve seen Mayan ruins rising above the jungle,
I’ve seen babies so small they barely fit in your hand.
I’ve seen storms so fierce the world disappeared,
I’ve seen the night so black it blanketed everything.
I’ve listened farther,
seen thinner,
cried when my mother died,
and cried again for my father, my sister,
my partner-in-crime, my sweet young student,
and a mentor of mine.

My body too, grows slower through the rotation of days,
through the years when love eluded me, and I chased it looking for
christmas lights at noon. I was certain far too early,
I was convinced far too soon.

I’ve seen sage smoke cleansing basement temples,
I’ve seen incense painting a mood from sterile to starlit.
I’ve imagined midday with you.
I’ve eaten from the hands of an enemy just once,
but I would do it again if
given the chance.

I came here because I’m the boy who survived.
I sing for you to bring you back to life.

We Might Be Halfway There

We Might Be Halfway There

(“Love isn’t rude. It doesn’t think about itself. It isn’t irritable. It doesn’t keep track of wrongs.” 1 Corinthians 13:5)

From the time it has taken so far
we might be halfway there. The territory
is unfamiliar;
the road signs, riddled with birdshot,
are unreadable.

We could turn back.
But we will not.
We know where we’ve been
better than where we are going.

We left friends behind, it is true,
but only the future holds daylight in its hands.

I saw you on my video screen 20 years after
the last time we drank coffee in the rain.
I only tuned in to see what the man was preaching,
and your eyes, weary but smiling, were the same eyes
that teased me late summers at the powwow grounds.

I tried to call you, but it did not go through. I wish I
could share the etchings I’ve drawn like
friends share a glass of wine.

Time is a bird that returns to its roost,
that builds permanent nests next to current events.
So we take our time
and spend it too much along.
So we remember the moments
and populate our days with neural images,
undreamed states of being.

I will try to call you again before
the end of the day.

I Saw the Spirit

I Saw the Spirit

(“The spirit of the Lord is upon me because he has anointed me to tell the poor the good news. He has sent me to announce release to the prisoners and sight to the blind, to set the wounded victims free.” Luke 4:18

I saw the spirit like a lodestone urging us north,
I saw the spirit cooling the workers sawing wood.
I saw the spirit in a daisy chain giving birth
to the knowledge that the spirit had been everywhere I
ever stood.

I saw the spirit pleading with Netanyahu,
I saw the spirit bleeding over Gaza.
I saw the spirit imploring Hamas,
I saw the spirit shoring Palestinian hearts.

I saw the spirit but barely.
I saw the spirit carrying me through a door
to find the one ignored by the sunshine.
I know he once rode the hills,
I know he rarely sat still.
I saw the spirit now clearly
urging my own feet to the heart of the
needy.

You’ll never unlock that door, boy,
when you only pound it more, boy.
Fix the key, oil the tumblers,
remember the combination,
and try it again.

I saw the spirit reminding you
the days are surrounding you.
I saw the spirit and hoped to notice
how the spirit was no respecter of
borders.

You Hugged the Rain

You Hugged the Rain

(“So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.” 1 Corinthians 10:31)

I remember everything.
Except your words.
I remember your face like the aura
of a child. I see the way your eyes crinkled
every time you smiled.
I remember everything.

I’m sorry if I ever ignored you,
or if I ever cut our phone calls short.
I was guarding my own heart for so long
I sometimes thought an early goodbye was
better than
adding more words to your memory. You already
seemed
to be filled with too many lectures.
But I could have listened longer. I could have.

I thought you were ready to explode like
a water balloon landing on the ground. And then
I’d look again
and the water, seeking its own level,
settled behind your eyes. I know what it’s like
to shut everything tight
and lock it up for fear of being exposed. Usually
I would discover, walking in the cold, that I could
find and alley where the snow had not yet been plowed.

I’m weary too. But I’ve seen you when you forgot the
pressure. You played like a child. You hugged the rain.
You waved down silly hitchhikers to give them directions to town.
But it wears me out too.

I should have met you for ice cream more often.
I should have mentioned the waterfall that washes our
shame away like
the first sunny day following the snow.
I wish I knew because I would have
remembered everything.
Your words. Your pain. Your loves. Your refrains
of distant songs. Your worth. Your worth. Your worth.
I would have remembered everything.