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.

Some Roads Need to be Straightened

Some Roads Need to be Straightened

(“He told me, “Son of man, eat what you see. Eat this book. Then go and speak…” Ezekiel 3:1 [The Message])

I can’t blame you for the gray blanket that
quilted the hills. Like worn fringes of its border,
like unsuspecting fingers, the clouds reached down
from their peaks to meet the recent and average snow
just above the lumber roads.

I’ve had shadows cover my visions on the sunniest of days.
I’ve seen question marks with unrelenting fervor.
I’ve heard too much. I’ve read until my eyes bled.
I’ve spoken up at every chance and rarely come to
a satisfactory conclusion.

I can’t argue with your observations. I’ve seen the same
darkness myself. I won’t suggest we take another route,
some days need to be shaken. Some roads need to be
straightened. And some moments last longer than the
drive we take home.

With shadows cast over us we search for the light
that covers us from the other side of the walls we lean against.
One day the friends I’ve know forever will
stay
until the end of the day
and, with pizza and cheap wine,
rewind every memory late into the night.

Have I told you how much I miss your laugh?
Do you remember the week we painted a neighbor’s house
for beer and a few dollars to spend?
Do you see that night we looked for water, listened to birds,
went to Denny’s, tried to wake the director of the Y?
Near midnight we saw his bike; he was asleep on his couch.
We tapped the window and could not rouse him.
So we found water where you always find water,
and we baptized each other in a duck pond green with slime.

Our heads popped above surface tension as the
sun rose.
And we went home to put our underwear in the dryer.

I can’t even blame myself, longing half a century later
for hikes in the hills or tunneling through snow.