Exit Stage Left

Exit Stage Left

(“Jesus answered, ‘I do not have a demon, but I honor my Father, and you dishonor me.’” John 8:49)

You played it deadpan
and we laughed. That was what
you expected.

You took a pratfall;
fell at the heroine’s feet.
And we were silent. It looked too much like
a stumble.

Half of us left the theater and loved the way
the
entire scene crumbled upon our departure.

We knew the lines by heart, and
you spoke a foreign language. We memorized
the entire script, and
you broke it into disconnected sketches.

Why would you leave it to us to
assemble the pieces? The brochure promised
our money’s worth. And our money was worth
less than we hoped for.

Exit stage left. Curtain drawn. Blackout stage right.
The audience for the Sunday matinee were queued
outside and interviewed us as we left.

We did not understand you, so we followed our own
feet to the back of the line.

Morning Brings the Next Door

Morning Brings the Next Door

Morning brings the next door to enter,
the next word to define, and the next
chance to chase the sunshine. Even then,
though,
the clouds can unframe the sky till late afternoon.
I’d sweep them away for you
to feel the solitary rays on your face and
a double rainbow defining the hillside.

I’d roll up the midnight into an hour full of
sounds only the creek can make. I’d spread it
like a carpet
while our conversation winds down. I’d send it
to you the moment it was finished. I’d preserve it
for you
for the days when the moon winks from a starless sky.

I’ve debated how to say so many things,
I’ve deleted a hundred texts that I never sent.
I’ve trusted you could read my heart, know my
hopes, and accept my softness that is better than
the brawn that too many call strength.

Let’s talk about love. Let’s let the words flow easily
like wine,
like a stream,
like the breeze rolling down the hills. Let’s talk
about tomorrow and never regret what we say today.
Let’s fill the silence with our quiet words,
with our healing hands clasped like hearts that
were meant to be as one.
Let’s talk about love. Let the rest of the world
scatter in its anxiety. Let’s be sure we say the
words we both need to hear.

Morning brings a name to me, and I will
never be the same. Grace and pain sit behind
my eyelids awakening.

Our Clumsy Navigation

Our Clumsy Navigation

 

It is true, we have
finally come to our senses.
So let’s take a strong boat to
the other shore. Let’s not leave even a hint
that we know where we are going.
I don’t know how to sail, but we can let the winds
and current
take us tacking away from the harbor.
There are words we could borrow but no one
would believe then anyway. There are miles to
leave between us and our sorrows. There are
angels in the air, mermaids under the foam,
foghorns flailing at the mists, and mystic rivers
ready for us to cross.
We both know our stories by heart now.
We both know the water lines.
We both can finish the day and then,
by the orange light of the setting sun be lured
like monarch butterflies to the trees, like
salmon up the creek,
like souls aching to be left alone,
like souls seeking a reflection we both can recognize.
None of it makes sense. But that is why we must go.
We have waited, hoped half-hearted for all the signs
to point out our next departure. And we have stood
frozen and agonized by the shore
imploring a certain impartation, a cure for our
clumsy navigation.
Noah built a boat before it rained,
but we are drenched and stained by our own
immobility.
Jesus walked on the water in the storm,
but we have been tossed while only hazy ghosts
teased us like sirens on the shore.
Sensing the time is right, let’s embark this journey,
provided, of course, that we can see the stars
and trust their movement from sea to sky.

Ragged or Smooth

Jagged or Smooth

(“Why didn’t I die from the womb? Why didn’t I give up the spirit when my mother bore me?” Job 3:11)

I know the silence that is deafening,
I’ve heard it when noon feels like an encircling winter.
I’ve read the words supposed to revive me
but only fill my gut with sand.
I hear you, though you are not talking,
I’m waiting for the same things. I’m waiting
for the sanity to return.

If we could ration our days,
equal doses of pleasure and pain;
if we could only measure the darkness
to equal the bands of solar flares.
Why can’t we find the answers we
beg for? Why can’t the sunrise turn itself
around to bid us walk lightly again?

I know the pounding of unanswered mail,
I’ve heard the shrieks above stolen slumber.
I’ve read the language I inherited, I’ve translated
every word until I filled the afternoon with
thoughts captive behind the leaden bars of my brain.

I’ll write to you; I’ll talk with you. I’ll listen for
a thousand days. I’ve pounded on the granite walls
decades at a time. I know the hope that seems hollow,
the afternoons that drag on like mausoleums hidden behind
startled and painful sighs.

I haven’t forgotten the days when I would sacrifice everything
I coveted for a
tearful friend to carry my
baggage for a while. I will always sit next to the one who,
seeing my damage, does not stop to ask
at whose hand I hurt. (Though most times, I confess,
the hand was my own.)

I’ll never forget you, jagged or smooth. I’ll never regret
friendship that lasts from moon to constellations,
from mood to mood. I’ll never remove your name from
the portraits hanging from the hallways of my heart.

What Has Happened to Our Song?

What Has Happened to Our Song?

(“But refuse foolish and ignorant speculations, knowing that they produce quarrels.” 2 Timothy 2:23)

Whas it because of the onion sky?
Or did the poles shift, east and west, just
before the apocalypse? Stand where your
feet are, planted on the earth. Take the poetry
she gives,
taste the fruit on the vine. Wake with the blue jays
who always announce the days the same.
There is no back door out of this place.
There is no one to blame;
only new mornings, only golden afternoons,
only seasons and half moon bays.
There are windows that record every vibration
like a bee wing’s buzz. There are whispers that
can be heard across the neighborhood calling out
from under clouds, from thunder sounds, and
stifled giggles from children being trained by their dogs.

You thought to write an anthem for the ages,
you hoped we would digest every languid rhyme.
You borrowed more than you created;
you migrated below the radar until the organist remembered
the tune was not yours to begin with.
We inflated your ego for two years too long.
We never wanted you to suffer,
we never called you on the line.
We watched the way you denied that you loaded the dice;
we waited until the end of the day to ask you simply
for an honest attribution. We pinned the notes to your
piano keys hoping they would remind you
the author
was the same as the melodist this time.

What is happening to our song,
what has become of our dialogue between
creation and performance? When we hear the theme
that accompanied our birth we can rehearse again
and sing until our voices are hoarse. We can
play like children in the water no matter who
provided the stream.

It Was All Unpredictable

It Was All Unpredictable

(“For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God, which is in you through the laying on of my hands.” 2 Timothy 1:6)

Everybody needs some time because
there’s no one left to blame. Look around you,
all the suspects have been framed. All the runners
came up lame. And you and them and we will all
never be the same. We went. We came. And then I said:

I’m just the kind who won’t show up where I’m not wanted.

It was all accidental, and if it wasn’t, it was experimental.
My roost is too chilly to hatch half a plan. My time too empty
to recreate a masterpiece fully complete with classic characters
playing their music for a king. I steal words now from
songs I listen to. I haven’t written a melody in 54 weeks.

I’m just the kind that would love to sing around the campfire.

It was all unpredictable. Why do you say you thought it would
come to this? I can fill the page with printable ink only to waste it
by the end of the day. I used to have something to say; now I meander
from wall to wall while the memories swirl around the chimney when
the storms are delayed.

I’d walk in the rain if that would warm your thoughts toward me.

I swear I’ll write another song someday. But I have no one to
play them for.
I have no one to correct my cliches.
I swear I’ll sing another tune someday. But I have no one to
sing them with.
I have no one to co-write anything.

I’d sit the afternoon with you. Bring your guitar and your newest tune.

There is a steel wall between my wanting and my writing,
there is a dark gravity that keeps me from the sky.
There are memories of blue, dreams unpursued
that leave me jealous of the crows that yell at the
dogs in the yard. Everything is on standby till I
take pen in hand.

I’d write on the porch today if only I could read it aloud for you.

I Have Waves Within

I Have Waves Within

(“My Father has life in himself. And so he has made his Son to have life in himself.” John 5:26)

And so I sat drinking a beer I’ve ordered twice before.
This time the server brought me a sample and said,
“some people don’t like this one.”
“I’ve had it before”, I said, and wondered what the complaint
could be.
I asked the proprietor and she said, “They say it’s too sweet.”
And I had never thought it sweet before.

Now as I sipped it, along with tortilla chips and salsa,
I decided it was sweet indeed. My tastes run toward the
citrus and sour. I don’t know why I never noticed it.
I don’t know why this time it was far too sweet for my tastes.

I have a brain susceptible to change. I have waves within
that gravity pulls in a constant ebb and flow. I live most of
my days
in the neap tide.

It does not matter, except I would rather be the influencer
than the influenced. I’ve developed a strange
attitude. I’ve had a change of heart. I see the students
of mediocrity hiding in the wings. I’ve often wished
I had majored in artful things.

You have convinced me, and I will never be the same.
Every chance I take I consider that tickling of leaves in
the early summer breeze. I contemplate things I
rarely understand. And understand things far beyond
contemplation.

So let’s share some wine before the afternoon wastes away.

To Sing by Heart

To Sing by Heart

(“Jesus saw him lying there and knew the man had been sick a long time. Jesus said to him, ‘Would you like to be healed?’” John 5:6)

I’ve walked on a dozen sad oceans,
crossed every mountain before snow.
I’ve traveled seven brimming continents,
followed every desert before the thunder growls.

But I have never heard a song like this before,
never conceived a tune that would set me on the road again.
I rarely leave my chair these days,
save to walk with the dogs and children thirsting for summer.

I’ve met you in a score of buzzing cafes,
called you every evening after you have gone home.
I’ve shared a beer with a jovial patron who asked me to
follow them down the road for a spell; listen to their
story for another hour before the bars were all closed.

But somewhere along the way I lost you, didn’t I?
If I unfolded a vintage map, could I find the street where
we both once played? Could I persuade you to
sit outside and wait for the day to fall quietly across
the horizon?

I’ve listened to a decade of polyrhythms,
danced to a wailing mariachi band.
I’ve cried the blues played with the best of them,
listened to lofty hymns at my worst.

But I have never sung with you, have I?
I hate singing alone.
Let us write something to cross the chasms,
let us announce our concerted effort.
Let us abandon our reservations,
let us sing by heart the songs we both
already know.

Into the Afternoon

Into the Afternoon

(“Ezra opened the book in the sight of all the people.” Nehemiah 8:5a)

If you listen between the words,
if you prophesy with sunset orations,
if you sing like you used to when we were young,
if you decorate the air with perfume sprung from honey and clover,

I will sit through the afternoon to watch
peace descend upon the watching and waiting.
I will share the light with you, the sun of 1000
days in June.
The smoke from the campgrounds below us
is almost floral, opening our senses to songs we
once knew by heart.
I gave away one of my guitars I used
to sing at campfires and living rooms. I hope it
is still played with joy.

The gentle sunlight has radicalized me,
the voices of justice are part of my vocabulary.
I’d be more brazen, less cautious,
emblazoned with fire in my heart;
and, less flawless than ever, I might sing
out of tune and

That is why

I invite you to sing with me into the afternoon.

We Might Learn a Language

We Might Learn a Language

(“The goal of this command is love that comes from a pure heart, from a good conscience, and from a sincere faith.” 1 Timothy 1:5)

Let me share a secret most preachers will never tell you.
Let me unshroud a mystery that only poets and prophets see.
Take a seat, hold on tight;
I won’t ask you to repeat anything too gritty for your grain.
I’ve got 20 minutes of your time,
I’ve got 300 words and not a rhyme.

When it comes to the end of days
the earth
will breathe a sigh of relief again.
Why do you nearly beg for blood,
for battles, for generals, for warhorses
apocalyptically advancing?
Do you want the world to blaze?
Do you think hell is reserved for the latecomers
who forgot to charge their batteries? Did you make your
wifi
free
for the teen who is homeless (or so it seems).

If you look in the back of my coat closet,
under the luggage and bath towels
you will find a dozen journals. Some with
cardboard binding, one with leather and
a silvery pen, another made out in verses
about the girls I loved in high school; another about
the one who stole me away from them all.

Read them slowly. They are my heart: fear and wildly.

Now, if you can decipher them,
analyze them and untangle them,
you are well on your way to renewed words
out of their usual order.
If you can make out the scratched vowels and consonants,
and remember my name when you are done,
we might be friends. We might learn a language
that holds the heavens in its words, that releases us
from the bromide and potions we sopped up from
study after study of biblical proportions.

For me, the secret must be a mystery until
you can read me without redacting a thing.
If it helps, we can walk by the lake at the end of days
and celebrate the blues and greens and geese and grays,
and leave our sharpened wit buried behind us.

Go Easy on Me

Go Easy on Me

(“May the Lord direct your hearts to God’s love and Christ’s endurance.” 2 Thessalonians 3:5)

I wish I could replace these words in my head;
every unbidden thought,
every unbolted shelf where memories hang by a thread.
Don’t believe everything you hear;
there are better days,
go easy on me.

In the most unconscious of ways my
soul has been shattered like a
deflated skeleton. I am dust among the stars now.

In the most mysterious of ways the
rain has smeared the ink
on my paper trail. But the directions to find me
are plain for those who seek them.

I could find you in your loneliness if only
you would search for me in my blindness.
On my most private days,
in my most inhibited hour
I still look for your form coming up the road.

I am scattered, I am whole;
I am tattered, I am just a stroll away
from words that ring with truth and love.

If only our words did not matter, if only
we were sponges heavy with water. If only you
could hear every shaky verb;
if only you knew I heard every accented note of
the song you’ve hidden in your heart.

Patience, infinity. Information, passivity.
Exhaustion, and a little rest.
Exhalation, and untested, our song will land
like a dove upon its nest.