The Inner Critic

The Inner Critic

(“…one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all.” Ephesians 4:6)

All you ever wanted was to be heard,
to be seen,
to be understood as
simply a boy who wanted to play
under the trees with half a dozen friends
who lived next door.

But you ran away sometimes,
you hid in the garage sometimes between
the musty moving boxes filled with photography
magazines.
You ate the candy you bought from the neighborhood store.
There, with a home-made crystal radio plugged into your ear
you heard
“Stop in the Name of Love” for
the very first time.

You knew you would be found,
you knew you couldn’t wait it out past
supper time. You wished you were
somewhere else where moods were quieter,
where
you knew how to build a playhouse out of
wood scraps from the back yard.
Or how to make a paper kite from yesterday’s
Herald Examiner.
Or were smart enough to know when to cry.

One day you started away toward downtown,
a half mile from home,
six blocks south where you bought your first
walkie-talkies that barely worked a block apart.
You dropped your bag filled with coins you had
saved since
Christmas and walked home to try them out
with your brother.
Nothing ever was as good as you hoped.

You made robots out of tin cans and pipe cleaners,
models of the San Gabriel mission out of shoe boxes,
and read encyclopedia articles randomly.

The voice you liked the least was the one
that critiqued everything you tried. It was
not your father’s nor your mother’s nor even
the voice of the principal at school. It was your
own
that scolded you, that told you how short you
fell below the norm. Even getting straight As
could not silence it.

The voice chased you, didn’t it, right past
the age when you married, had kids, and then beyond
the day when the last left home. And you tried
everything to make life sing the way you had
read about in those Faith Magazines.

Nearly 70 now, not 7, you rummaged through
storage boxes in the garage and drank a glass of
wine midafternoon. Some days the critic is
silenced while the divine soothes the DNA
that it damaged with its harangue demanding
perfection. The critic needed to

Feel loved too.

We Should Try That Again

We Should Try That Again

(“You, too, are being built up together, in him, into a place where God will live by the spirit.” Ephesians 5:22)

Arms-length can feel like miles away.
I’ve seen too many cornered smiles to
believe anything less than this moment.
Every space you leave between me and another
multiplies by the time it takes to reply.
And so we sit on mudbanks quilted with the
apple blossoms the rains knocked off the trees
the night before.
And we long for velvet instead of hardship,
sanity to replace excused absences from our
place in the circle. You had me on the ropes once;
I cannot allow it to happen again.

I apologize for the shields I’ve built upon the
back of fears. I’m guilty of it all. There is something that
bubbles hot like Yellowstone geysers
every time I remember
the way social lunches erupted into
debates we had no way to adjudicate.
Some people appealed to a higher authority,
but the secretary put them on hold

Indefinitely.

Then there were days, decades previous to those,
when a breeze blew through from the southern skies
and our picnics ended with frisbees and kisses.
Our babies laughed and looked for worms beneath
the gingham tablecloth. The puppies never stopped playing.
The salamanders sunned alongside the stream. I can
remember the faces even if I cannot recall the names.

We should try that again.

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.