Standing Alone in the Rain

Standing Alone in the Rain

(“No one has ever seen God. The only Son, who is truly God and is closest to the Father, has shown us what God is like.” John 1:18)

I’ve seen you staring back at me,
I’ve heard you whispering with my own voice.
I’ve deduced all there is left to deduce of
who you actually are.
But nothing changes with me,
nothing shines more brightly.
For an hour I laugh and come home
and cry
and forget what I was laughing about.
I never was much good at praying anyway.

Everything feels just slightly out of reach,
everything is cloudy while my friends enjoy the sun.
I’d change my colors, but they are all greyscale,
they are all dots on a screen waiting to be seen.

My guitar sits untouched.
I thought I would be writing music by now.
My words are pedantic,
my happiness a chest of moldy memories,
faint joy for a second of hesitation. Today,
if I must speak honestly,
reminds me why I cannot trust myself,
why I always rush myself to imbibe a spirit
that will get me through the night.

But it is the day that burdens me. The sun,
even when it is bright, is heavy, is gravity,
is elusive. My heart lies inside with the shades pulled tight.
Can anyone imagine what it’s like to have
nearly
everything you want and be squeezed into a box
full of unfulfilled promises?

Before they turn the lights out, I should tell you
I don’t mind standing alone in the rain.

A Family Recipe

A Family Recipe

(“Yes, you are our glory and joy!” 1 Thessalonians 2:20)

I am a recipe for family chili
on a yellowed index card in the back of
the roll-top desk drawer. It is almost memorized.

I am a telephone number I remember
from high school. No one lives there
anymore.

There are stars blinking in unknown constellations
tonight. But I cannot see them through the clouds
that overtake most nocturnes here on the river. They
try to send me a message in code, but I miss even
Venus that once brightly welcomed me home. The
stars bloom late here so near the ocean.

I want a body like when I was 20.
I want a mind that won’t scatter the wind
in disremembered rhymes. I want you to see me
nearer to life than this; age and pain
sap my hopes while lately I find
less hope than I should. I have more than
I deserve.

I am an old love letter written in shaky cursive
stuffed inside an envelope with a date far older
than seafarer’s charts. I knew how to write
without edits. I knew how to edit without restraint.

I am faint, I am brittle. I cannot wait for
the next time around a table
with eyes flashing next to and across the
conversation. I want to remember it like it
still touches my cheek with its palm.

My dreams broke up with me overnight.
I think it was my birthday.
But then they insisted we reunite
over coffee and crying. I recognized the
voices but the faces escape me.

I am a family recipe waiting for
the constellations to come out at night.

A Garden with Poppies

A Garden with Poppies

(“He joined them at the table. Then he took bread and gave thanks. He broke it and began to give it to them.” Luke 24:30)

I would let you stay for free.
I would start the fire and sing the first song
that came to mind.
I would announce it quietly, like candles
entering the stage for the second act.

I might not recognize you. I might think
twice
about the facts of your existence.
Sometimes you are a conflagration;
sometimes you are a whisper.

I should take a walk today along
the road where the tar inscribes cracks
in the asphalt.
I should turn where your driveway ends
and see if you have time for
a leaden heart today. I should experiment less;
I should make the most of my time.

I remember when we first met. Do
you?
It must have been winter when our footprints
turned the snow to ice and children used the
crosswalk on their way to school.
My heart has always had an empty space.
My eyes tear up within minutes of being alone.
My face is far older than the person I replaced.
My songs do not come easily. But I would sing
them anyway,
if only you would stay well into the afternoon.

My intentions are mixed like wine at the
bottom of the barrel.
My last night home might become my first
look at a portrait I haven’t seen since we
learned each other’s names.

I would set a place for you.
I would create a garden with poppies.
I would decorate my face so you could not see
how much I fear that you may not stay.
I would say all the things I wish I had heard.

With all that I write
I still cannot empty my mind of
words etched upon wet cement.
I am too old for another breaking.

Sometimes you are a fire in my bones,
sometimes I sit at home and waste hours at a time.
My words scatter like yearling rabbits,
my thoughts like toy magnets clack against
the inside of my head.

If you receive my invitation,
if you think of me at all,
say the words I fear to say, tell me
everything you have never said.
I will listen.
I will listen,
if you would only call.

Another Piece of Cake

Another Piece of Cake

(“Let your speech always be with grace, seasoned with salt, that you may know how you should answer everyone.” Colossians 5:6)

Once the table is set and the soup is poured
we talk between sips of warmth and hope.
We haven’t talked this way since they siphoned off
the last bit of joy that once ran like honey.
Between sustenance and governance we stubbornly
held our ground even while our ground was sinking.
Now, with no more arguments left, we sit nervously,
almost bereft,
and our emptiness opens us to rounder words that
fit our hearts more evenly. Food makes us family,
the first course was served before we knew each other
at all.
And now,
perhaps the last course,
can be shared with no expectations at all. There is
always another chair at the table.

The next day we just might
sit outside. I watched, looking down my gravel driveway,
to see if you liked my invitation.
I peered through the knothole, the question mark
in the middle of my fence,
to see if, after our Monday evening repast,
we could paint a backyard portrait on Tuesday,
carried across the street on the
grill smoke from a half dozen neighbors.
There is always room for you on the patio.
There is always another piece of cake.

I’d Wait on this Rock

I’d Wait on this Rock

“’Father,’ said Jesus, ‘forgive them! They don’t know what they’re doing!’ They divided his clothes, casting lots for them.” Luke 23:34

 

I’d fall across the border just to get a taste
of the streams that flow from the mountains,
that carry the refreshing waters of grace.
I’d stumble up the mountain just to get a glimpse
of the clouds that carry the rain to the valleys,
that sends the water for deer, and us, and others to drink.

I would stop short at the painful sound of
one calling out in their grief, that all the pain of the universe,
all the anger of the world
cannot stop the constant flow from Godward on
to creatures who sometimes ignore the clues that
beauty resides in the deepest wounds.

I would not presume to know what you do not know,
I could never guess what keeps us so far from the
spring breezes
that refresh the darkest brooding. I might find a lucky trail
that winds its way through the vale until I find
the burbling stream that flows from the granite cracks
just below my feet. Did I hear a voice, did I perceive it?
Did the blue jays lead me there, or the spirit, or the thirst
that drives me on?

I created ways to replace the water that flows through the blood,
I scouted deserts to find a place where performance was king,
I honed songs out of nothing, I jotted notes I promptly threw away,
I underscored a hundred lines in a hundred books I never read again.

I waited for a voice, a bell that sounded it was time to arrive;
I called like a begging dog, I cried like a summer storm.
I didn’t know when the replacements would arrive,
I didn’t know if there were any at all.
I just hoped the war would soon be over and
all the sparring would be done.

I’d wait on this rock until the promise arrives,
I’d watch the sun set minutes later each day.
I’d scan the horizon, just passing the time,
I’d follow the path of the rabbit to her warren.

But on the days that feel flat,
on the mornings the air pushes hard upon my mind,
I sometimes discover what is always there;
I sometimes feel something heavier than fear
that displaces my wandering with
words that feel like home.

Untied Shoestrings

Untied Shoestrings

(“Watch out, worthless shepherd who abandons the flock!” Zechariah 11:17a)

Faintly I put myself in your hands,
silently I waited for another sideward glance saying
I’m not easy to hold.
I could have been bolder,
said my piece,
made you feel the way you did to me.
Your religion inflicted more pain than
my missteps deserved. You could explain
everything that your devilish assumptions ordained.

I never wanted to be exonerated, never wanted to
skate away free.
I just wanted to be another human
who tripped over his own untied shoestrings,
taking all the blame.

But you whispered to others and
raised your eyebrows at me. You listened
to the scowls around me that sculpted my cheating
like a statue at the end of the game. I was left on an island
guarded by gunboats blasting the reefs around my knees.

I shared my shadows and should have lied.
I confessed my persistent cough that plagued me
while you blew your nose behind my back. I just
wanted someone to see
me in the dark like the moon after your eyes get used
to midnight mass. I wanted to sit in the balcony again
while a best friend sang
O Holy Night.

Now the knots have been tied for so long
I cannot loosen them. I hope, after enough time,
after I’ve forgotten every trap set for me,
that the rhymes will come easier,
the light will shine like a meteor before the
northern lights shower the deepening night.
The sun fell into the horizon too fast for me to follow.

Faintly I offered my pain,
silently I sat like a broken vase,
sadly I thought I deserved so much worse,
finally I know better, but my emotions are tied fast
to the shepherd’s rod that bruised my back.

I’ll be who I am since the pain will be the
same
no matter how close I am to the end of the trail.
Faintly I hope my words will vent, my syllables
the agents of my partial health as stars shine the
same for me as the chains are chiseled off of me.
If I could forget

I’d gladly cast off their restraints.

I Want to Take the Long Way Home

I Want to Take the Long Way Home

(“He will rejoice over you with gladness. He will bring you quietness with His love. He will delight in you with shouts of joy.” Zephaniah 3:17b)

I can’t help it,
these thoughts of dancing,
these images of your eyes flashing,
these songs with words only you will understand.
I can’t help it;
I want to take the long way home.

The moon loves to light your face,
the stars cannot wait to shine,
the sun has reserved you a place
where no one intrudes. I can’t help it;
I want to tell you everything.

We were plopped down on the water,
we learned to swim on the fly.
We were left here almost forgotten,
we found each other swimming for shore.
We had no one to tell us what all the excitement was for.
We thought the river would be deeper,
we thought the current might suck us under,
we thought we might not make it to the sandy beach,
we thought the night might come on us too soon.

But we were mistaken, weren’t we, even before we
knew each other’s names. Even before the morning
rose from the foothills we learned we were not meant
to be alone. We were not meant to fear the touch
of a newcomer’s hands. And the river hugged us
as we camped where the trees met the water in
a private circle enclosing us like love. Sleep
evaded us,
we were learning each other’s songs.

We were a kiss and breathless,
we were stories we only told each other.
We were laughter, we were hot tears,
we were puzzled, but we were not alone.

And that is why, this day and every day,
I wanted to take the long way home.

I Miss the Small Spaces

I Miss the Small Spaces

(“For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of Yahweh’s glory, as the waters cover the sea.” Habakkuk 2:14)

Hovering above the terrain of a thousand different
portraits
I wonder what the next face will bring.
Would you believe I was a dark horse?
Would you believe I’ve survived more undercover
obstacles, I’ve beat the odds too many times.
Now my inhibitions are stronger; I only dance on
command. I’ve slipped through the grasp of more
midnights than I can count. I’ve lasted
well past my expiration date.

That is not to say the world is more sluggish,
or the air full of flood and mud. It merely means
I miss the small spaces between us. I long for
something longer than hello and goodbye, something
stronger than a quick snack from the kitchen.

You don’t receive red ribbons for barely escaping
with your skin unburned. No one celebrates the days
you spend five minutes singing before the rain. But sometimes
the fog can hold you as near the ground of your being
as a day without uncarpeted skies. They all serve to convince me
my debts are paid manifold.

When the table was set there were more places than there
were
chairs. Never mind. Sitting on the floor is easier on the
back-log
of unfinished conversations. There are too many stops
in our talks
and not enough commas. Incomplete as we are,
we could find a place where words land like summer rain
instead of arrows.

Ribbons Without Rhyme

Ribbons Without Rhyme

(“Wake up, sleeper! Rise from death, and Christ will shine on you.” Ephesians 5:14b)

I’m not the same. Are you?
We look for a face that will match
the spirit we’ve always known.
But I’m not the same. Anyway,
I’ve lost the instructions that I followed
to play the games so perfectly. I knew the rules,
and so did you. And we masked everything that
didn’t line up or
kept leaking out from the margins of our mistakes.
If only someone had woken us earlier.
If only we took the sun to bed during the longest
night of our soul.

Here I am. There are you.
The air has lifted the notes that drifted
from our pens into the desert expanse.
Faintly we promise we’ll find them before
the day is over. Granted we won’t remember them;
sainted we’ll still search for them two years hence.
I spent some time looking for the words in ink
that once flowed like a midnight moon above the
hard-bed floor. I didn’t guess it. Did you?
And did we quote those before us,
or pretend we are the originals? Strings of
poetry, ribbons without rhyme, we wrapped up the
day, the shortest
day in the cold.

We could invite others to write,
we could open our circle. Couldn’t we?
Laughter has become so expensive, can we
afford to investigate all the reasons why?
Or shall we simply find another band of brothers
to walk along the riverbed, look into the sky,
smoke a cigarette or two and admit we never knew
why
anyone would understand the game we created
or the
words we weaved so seriously when

We walked further than we planned and discovered
more than the mixture of day-to-night. We would
tell the story decades from now.