A Southern Breeze

A Southern Breeze

(“They will reach Jerusalem with gladness, singing and shouting for joy. They will be happy forever, forever free from sorrow and grief.” Isaiah 35:10)

So far from home we didn’t recognize the language
echoing around us. Similar, but unknown, it cast its
sounds like the frogs on the bogs near the end of the day.
But when they sang, we awoke. When they spoke in
stories that seemed to be repeated for the purpose reminding
themselves that once they were one, now they are one,
and will always be one. Perhaps they shared battle stories,
or romances around the campfire. All we knew is
we were on our way home
and hoped they would send us on our way
without a map to our name.

We had left years before, fleeing the vagaries of
cold edicts from foreign lands. We wailed and took
our babies with us to escape the fire by night that
no longer guided our steps. We ran until the end of
the city was a day behind us and carried the children
for days until we had no recognition of the land before us.
We took note of the eastern sky each morning as we
wandered like sheep without a shepherd. We escaped
like embers from a fire stoked by the wind.

But the day dawned when spirit blew us back the
way we came. We slowly turned, a steamship in the sea,
and made our way home hoping nothing had defaced
our memories. We had held them in our minds for so long
we hoped to find them unstained from the years we were gone.
But joy overtook us, a southern breeze that warmed the day,
and we danced back home like young elks along the river’s edge.

Letters Flying Everywhere

Letters Flying Everywhere

(“You keep completely safe the people who maintain their faith, for they trust in you.” Isaiah 36:3)

Days before the latest dawn
the thunderstorms snuck in under the blue.
They left the sky cleaned and calm.
We could breathe again, unsullied by the
rain that washed the dread away. The breeze
was easy.

There were echoes of war, distant booms of
violence that crowded those who were listening.
We heard what we had never heard. We begged
for streets free from combat boots and full of
summer sandals shopping for new colors to wear.

I want to write with words wrapped around bombs
exploding purposefully with letters flying everywhere.
I want a conflagration of vowels spinning between the
pages and consonants so crisp they smell of burnt bacon.

After that I’ll write about trees and flowers again,
about bees and buzzes, about sunlight and breezes.
I find my mind so occupied like an overpour at the bar,
that I barely can mutter intelligent sentences.

But look around me and scout the extravagant lyrics
unconnected to the chorus or bridge. Please excuse the mess;
I was just given the arrangement a day ago and my fingers
haven’t traced their melody long enough to make sense.
But once I get my cadence down, once I memorize the breaks,
you’ll be able to dance right up to the final coda and laugh
that the night was over so soon.

Until then, we need words that ignite over night skies to
keep us in line. We need more rhymes to teach us the
daily grind for peace we never knew we would fight.

Do You Remember the Fireflies?

Do You Remember the Fireflies?

(“The Son of Man will come again just as lightning flashes from east to west.” Matthew 24:27)

It was unlikely the way it all happened at once.
We were walking next to the fields where the cattle grazed,
the river in the distance, the clouds slightly amazed at the
unseen winds that whipped the trees like buttery churns.
We had wondered what the day would bring, what would
occur between the horizons from east to west. There were
challenges that kept us up late the night before and crept
towards us so plainly we recognized it right away.
We had heard a dozen rumors over the years, hints that
this cacophony would reorganize itself once we recognized
the signs.

It was never meant to be secret or merely hinted at.
It was always going to be announced like a procession across the skies.

Do you remember the fireflies on warm summer nights?

Lately I’ve been thinking how much it costs to keep defending
hazardous beliefs that harm the hearts of those who hear them.
Oh that we could feel the warm the same way the cold has
infiltrated our bones. Are there missiles bearing down on us?
And what is their payload? Could they be carriers of hope
and a panoply of star-drenched prophecies fulfilled?

It's taken us a long time to get here, this hike around the world.
We imagined things might be tied up by now,
the signs and signals capturing all our fears. But
instead
we find ourselves dousing the toxic fumes from
the fires from self-described holy men. They have
mapped it all and know every turn and every date.
Believe them, they will show it to you for a monthly
contributions.

We remain vigilant and poised for peace. We remain
outspoken as we scan the skies for a renaissance of
heavenly love.

I Think We Misunderstood

I Think We Misunderstood

(“Therefore, Hebron still belongs to Caleb son of Jephunneh the Kenizzite as an inheritance today because he followed the Lord, the God of Israel, completely.” Joshua 14:14)

There is no distance between hope and possession
though it may seem ages before it is accomplished.
There is no disconnect between faith and profession
though the definitions change as time rolls on.
I’ll read for an hour and a half if the day will allow me.
I’ll write for a day and a half if the weather will allow me.
I’ll stand atop a mountain and perceive the valley below me,
I’ll wander among the grape vines whose fruit is so full of sunshine.
I’ll assess the why we shouldn’t let the occupants of the valley
stay as long as they want. Maybe we forgot they had the land
before us. If it’s the Promised Land

Why should we have to kill anyone to enter it?
Oh, I’ll follow you Yahweh, but I won’t swing my sword.
If you can give them miraculously to us to slash and burn,
I think you could give them to us without death being such
a high priority.

The law you gave us forbade killing (Oh, I know the old trope
that it doesn’t apply to warfare death.) It forbade killing and yet,
the only way you have given us to take it is by taking every life
within the perimeter of what you call the holy land.

How can it be holy when we must slaughter people
made in your image? How can it be holy when we are not
instructed in the ways that produce shalom? How can it be
holy
when we alone are to possess the perimeters? Why don’t
we learn to offload our weapons and bring food and meat,
a true sacrificial meal, and invite them from the distance of
the sunup to the sundown to dine with us here in the land
we both desire. Let us offer our God thanksgiving without
killing anyone who lived here anciently before we did.

Teach us, we have the time. Instruct us, we will listen this time,
and Christ will repeat how it is not our bravery in taking lives
that represents the kingdom,
but the giving away of ourselves that opens the gates for
all who desire to come in or go out.

I think we got it wrong when we thought you wanted us to slaughter
or be slaughtered. I think we misunderstood when we though they
would lead us astray, as if you weren’t strong enough to guide us,
as if you weren’t kind enough to find us when we started to miss the path.

We will follow completely, speak it again and let us hear. We will
let the voice of Jesus give us the instructions this time and wait for
the proper time.

Glam-Spangled Words

Glam-Spangled Words

(“When you swear ‘by the altar,’ you are swearing by it and by everything on it.” Matthew 23:20)

You want to be noticed; you want people to watch you pray
so loud and long and higher than the clouds. You shine your
shoes so bright you blind everyone who stands beside you.
You declare
that the air you breathe is rarified by your piety. Your colors
are white but your heart is blackened by the dust of your hypocrisy.
You want everyone to see how you gather with your
dozen or so patriots downtown and pray louder than the
automotive exhaust. You never tire of making it clear that
you have climbed the ladder with your highly developed muscles
you used to use to kick fingers off the rungs. Now you don’t care,
you are far above all the failures you see from where you sit.
You’ve given more,
you’ve spent more,
you’ve announced more,
you’ve attended more,
you’ve spoken the most,
you’ve forgiven more than most,
you’ve bent the air of bishops and clerks,
you’ve pronounced their names disdainfully,
you’ve pretended you know the most,
you’ve broken the hearts that yearned for grace.

Your disciples are awed by your glam-spangled words,
they repeat them like mantras and receive nothing in return.
Why do you think your words mean anything at all after
being repeated endlessly before adoring crowds?
The day awaits your quiet heart that can give without
breathing a word about it.
It awaits your honest attention to the cries of those you
have overlooked, or seen and just set aside. You think
that extra hour of prayer
bought you a ticket to heaven, and a pass to doing anything
like feeding the poor. You lock up the immigrants and
declare yourself holy for doing it.

There is more of God in one beggar’s eyes and all the
crystal cathedrals you can build.

Sing the Silvery Song

Sing the Silvery Song

(“And now behold, we are in your hands; do to us as it seems good and right in your sight to do.” Joshua 9:25)

Oh no, not today. Not while we are doubling down on
the trouble we have avoided so far. You were far stronger than
we could imagine and bowed ourselves before you with our
hands quivering in the sun. There was a day

When we were all simply people on the sand. But you took your name,
we took our land,
and it all became the worst capture the flag game ever seen.

Your ancestors and ours roamed this dirt in different directions.
Some followed the river, some stayed close to the oasis of trees.
Some built huts while some built tall houses with gardens on the roof.
We all shared the plums and figs and dates and planted new fruit
trees when we wanted. We raised our sheep and goats and a few pigs.
We ate at tables spread for neighbors with enough for children and
elders.

Oh no, not today. Not another gridiron gladiator storming the gates.
Not another flock of locusts setting the air on fire. We’ve hidden
for far too long and now
ask for courtesy, a little sympathy, a new translation for an old
alteration we made up on the spot. Speak the old languages,
sing the silvery song, beat the drum slowly and wake us up with
pipes from the hills.

Let us gather now like we know it’s almost over,
let us share the table set among the sweet clover.
Let us listen for the bell that rings out freedom,
let us grasp hands, and shake them like we just succeeded
and will look for the ways the sunlight plays so late
in a summer evening.

Like Spray on the Crags

Like Spray on the Crags

(“After the people finished crossing the river, the priests carried the Lord’s Holy Box to the front of the people.” Joshua 4:11)

It was an early morning while the fog lay
heavy in the air. We breathed the dew like
an elixir brewed by a master of the day. We
knew another miracle and another crossing and
another trek would take us to the front of the line.
We saw the ark of the covenant gleaming and glancing
while the waters danced like two walls of a tunnel
leading us to new land, found land, new sounds and
new scans of the sky that opened us up endlessly.

We spaced ourselves apart and watched the fog lift
like diamonds in the air. We lasted longer than we
had assumed. We walked through the sun like roses
bloom from their branches; we talked in whispers for
the sacred places we trod. The hours were as long as
they had always been, the air on the peaks was
as thin as it had always been. We dispersed our patience
laterally, let me explain.

We counted hours like waves on the ocean, like
the washing of the breakers across the beach.
They told time like the hinges of the day, managed the
seconds like spray on the crags.

We knew there would be travail on the other side,
mountains to climb and opposition to the long love
we were assigned. But we were ready, we followed across,
we etched our movement and entered the promised places
where we could breathe again. We could dance until the
night grew silent again.

Unlearning is Sacred

Unlearning is Sacred

(“And if you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer.” Matthew 21:22)                

Come on over and set yourself down;
let me tell you the ways of the wind,
Come on over and sit beside me;
let me introduce you to explanations I
have not yet found.
Together we can solve the puzzle,
on our own we only scratch our heads.
Tell me today one way the world has changed
when you asked it to change.
Tell me the transformation you observed while waiting
for sundown to melt into the west.

We were sitting on the curb asking donations;
We were singing the songs we learned from the wind.
We were singing in the park, busking for dollars:
We were sitting awaiting the introduction to a
new world we were promised so many years ago.

We learned to stand up to bullies, we trace lines where
our coffee cups sat to refine our focus. The bullies grew
up
and lowered the boom on the people in the margins and
passed the responsibility on to their part-time managers.

But there are tender years we can discuss;
There are listening ears we can sing to.
There are fascinating trips around the world like
geese migrating to the end of autumn.

Pray now and ask, there is nothing new to learn.
Unlearning is sacred if we will take the time.
So let us sit in the sun of the fading day and
recount the ways we can appeal for a new way,
interceding for a day like kingdom come.

Dance With the Runaways

Dance With the Runaways

(“And the disciples were filled with joy and with the Holy Spirit.” Acts 13:52)

The time passes like a semi on the highway.
The rain hits like pellets of joy. The wind was from the south
and warmed the mid-September air. There was nothing foolish
about spending the day outside.

Words were scarce as he searched for enough to fill a page or a pail;
his appeal was heard though, more thoroughly than he knew.
The wind turned for a moment and blew the lid off the
neighbor’s trash can. It flew like a frisbee across the warming street.

I won’t be remembered for keeping my mouth shut.
I can sing the joy, I can speak the prophecy, I can hum the tune
that calls for freedom to flow from the surrounding hills.
I can, in a word or two, remind you of redemption,
the song that is meant for everyone.

Can you hear the echoes, can you feel the rejoicing of those
who feel the vibrations and have set the captives free?
Have you listened long enough to dance with the runaways
who have fled the dirges of the day?

Come, leave your vitriol behind; find a new word to terminate
the sentences you have imposed. There is time, though it may be
running fast,
to catch up with the jubilant sound of every voice freed to
sing the day away while others are blindly following their own
scripts into dark and silent caverns of gloom.

The Circle Widens

The Circle Widens

(“Let me tell you, it’s easier to gallop a camel through a needle’s eye than for the rich to enter God’s kingdom.” Matthew 19:24 [The Message])

The circle widens as we look toward the horizon and see
the way we waste our efforts in converting 400 people to become
just like us.
The night darkens while we light another lamp to create
some smokey brightness to break open the faces that are
just like us.
The private jets whoosh past above the timberline where the snows
stays trapped from middle Spring squalls, captained by people who are
just like us.
We never expected to be such consumers of black plastic bags and
thousand dollar bills. We had only hoped to have enough to eat tomorrow
and to have a little lunch for later in the day. But billions landed
next to us, from a suitcase in the sky,
and what could we do but spend it like a black-tie dinner.
Some, I heard, spent their earnings in little bits at a time:
a power boat, a jet ski, a Mercedes or two, an indoor tennis court
and spices that come all the way from china. Money made us think,
money made us lose track, money made us turn black what would have been
the brightest of skies.
The rich point at the homeless and refuse to listen to their stories,
and accuse them of not taking advantage of programs made for them.
One fool says we should take their lives involuntarily. That is what has
become of pursuing Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

No wonder it is nearly impossible for rich people to enter the kingdom,
they are so bloated, so overfed, so obese they cannot fit their
fat asses through the gates to the kingdom. We wonder how to remember
people that were once
just like us.

A Pretty Good Day

A Pretty Good Day

(“Then he said, ‘I tell you the truth. You must change and become like little children. If you don’t do this, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.’” Matthew 18:3)

Splash is a sound that slaps the salty sidewalks on
summer afternoons. Children take the water seriously,
pointing the hose at the nearest victim. Giggles turn the
corners round the houses of everyone who has come out to see
the joy that fills the street.

They were mostly grandchildren dancing like fountains,
toddlers tasting the sunlight as they hugged the water
spraying over them. They had not learned

(Like so many adults do)

That it feels so much like earning the days that
are given for free. They invite us to misbehave for just
a triangle of time each day.

Children take what is offered, unabashed liberty.
They point the water hose at each other and the liquid
looks like diamonds bouncing off the sod.
The day turns late, the shadows grow long and parents
whistle for children to come home. One more slide down the
wetted grass, one more mouthful of water from the hose,
one more dousing of your crush, and one more towel to
dry everyone off

All in all, it was a pretty good day.
No of a certain age needs to be taught to play.

The State of My Brain

The State of My Brain

(“The Lord makes our human spirit like his lamp inside us. It shows us what we are really like.” Proverbs 20:27)

I’ve got enough time to read a chapter or two,
to turn on the overhead lamp and see what the words say.
I’ve been reading from the day I knew that one word and
another
could take me to world without moving a muscle.
A man down the street asked me what kind of books
I liked the best. I was eight or nine and I said “adventure”
though I wasn’t entirely clear what the word meant. He gave
me two books, one about the thirteen original colonies and
I don’t remember the other one. Maybe a Hardy Boys mystery.
I made weekly trips to the library; its front steps were marble.
Sometimes I walked since it was only six blocks from home.
I would take a volume of an encyclopedia and start reading articles
in alphabetical order. I wondered who wrote all this candid information
and how they knew so much stuff.

Reading captured me as a teen. I read all of Shakespeare in one summer and most
of John Steinbeck. The next summer it was Ray Bradbury along with the
poetry of Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Rod McKuen got an occasional look.

I read early twenty century playwrights and imagined their words in
my mouth.

Ten years later I was a newly formed follower and read books on
prayer and spiritual gifts and how to manage your emotions by concentrating
on Christ. Truth? I found myself falling woefully behind.
There was a method to pray an hour a day. I managed 15 minutes.
There was a way to speak in tongues, and I mumbled them well. I
never got my mind swept clean from thoughts that invaded constantly.

Today I read memoirs and liberal theology. Today I quiet my mind
with music before I read. Today I talk slower and less certain.
Today I am not sure of my purpose, but I do not shame myself
for the state of my brain.

Follow the Messengers

Follow the Messengers

(“The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run into it and are safe.” Proverbs 18:10)

Beyond the borders there is a square of
safety for me. I had studied the rural forms
for nearly 20 years and found the remains of
remote islands on the run. The tables were turned,
the tallest cedars burned and returned decades later.
All I could see from miles around atop the largest hill
on the grounds of a dozen acres of refuge, were angels
winging their way to me.

I discovered my identity in the motion of their wings and
the song of their mouths that echoed like childlike giggles
up and down the face of the canyons and the depths of the
muddy river running candidly.

I started listening to the way the wind blew through the
narrow windows of the tower and I could swear the birds
had stopped their chirping so I could hear the way the sun
made the grass grow. So I could hear the leaves inching out
toward the sky.

There had been trouble outside the fences,
there had been blockades keeping the stockpiles empty while
the children starved. They insisted it was legal the way
they turned away international aid. They imagined they
owned the soil where the tears of the mothers watered the dust
where innocence fell.

The angels moved past me. I was not their project and now I know.
They were moving me to move with them;
they were sent to melt the hearts of so-called kings who devastated
tens of thousands for an incomplete retribution. They have
nowhere to run, so let us run to them and leave our watchtowers
behind. Let us follow the messengers whose words are peace
and whose ways are love.

The Next Page of the Book

The Next Page of the Book

(“Depend on the Lord in whatever you do, and your plans will succeed.” Proverbs 16:3)

So much depends on how we carry our load and how
heavy it sits upon your back. There are some who would
steal your soul
to upend the work you’ve done to wake up where you are.
The mistakes you’ve made only take you closer to
learning what is no longer needed. The image of God you have
needs to be erased so only the naked reality remains.
Half of it was prayer, half of it was doubt,
the day remained misunderstood whether cloudy or bright.
He was sure there were few who knew or understood the
ransacking his brain had endured or how late the scars remained
after the pain.
He wasn’t sure about healing, or what it meant. Too many
wounds
were self-inflicted, others were done by those practicing their
religious vows. He wasn’t sure what was worse, or whether faith
was still part of the picture at all.

He understood little the longer he contemplated what remained
and the change of scenery hadn’t paid off anyway.
He was distressed it came to this; he was silent about
all the rest.
He had been depending on divine intervention for so long
it felt like his breath in winter, vapor vanishing in the air.
He had been hoping for renewed inventions but his hopes
were too high
and they seemed to fly past his field of vision.

And yet anyone looking at his surroundings would conclude
the plans had come together full. He knew that. It was
all in his head. And he knew that now as well.

He decided to turn the next page of the book he was reading.

Above the Weakening Waves

Above the Weakening Waves

“Jesus said, ‘Come.’ And Peter left the boat and walked on the water to Jesus.” Matthew 14:29)

I’ll be the first to admit the whipping wind almost
was too much for me. The day turned on a dime and the
evening screamed like a child with a lost toy. We were
afraid

we would never get home. Once the storm hit, we
threw out hope like a lifeline cut in two. We could not see;
the waves crashed, and the wind was a banshee. No one
predicted this, no one had it on their radar. The radio scanned
for boats nearby but all we heard was static etched by lightning.

Fear rose like a monster from the waters. Our throats were tighter
than the rigging we hoped would hold.

We thought he was a ghost. The tempest tainted our vision.
But we heard the words urging us toward courage and we thought
we knew; it was so familiar. I steeled myself, shivering in the wind.
“Could that be you?” And then insanely I said, “If it is,
tell me to join you on the water.”

All he said was, “Come”.

I cannot explain it, or why I asked. But putting my feet over the side,
I touched the water, and it was solid under me. I was dizzy with
wonder; my breath escaped into the waning storm. I could see
him
as I had seen him so often before.

Then the wind whistled, the waves spit, the boat still rocked like
a jazz band warming up, and I saw it from the corner of my eye.
My feet slipped. “Help” is all I knew how to cry. And “Lord, save me!”

I felt my hand in his, the strength grasping me. He told me my
faith was small, but I thought
I had endured pretty well. It was the storm that spun me away.

But his presence calmed me and calmed the wind and waves.
Like a morning after thunderstorms our hearts were overcome,
believing, hoping, wondering, stuttering a new faith
that danced above the weakening waves.

The Dream of God

The Dream of God

(“God’s kingdom is like a treasure hidden in a field. One day a man found the treasure. He hid it again and was so happy that he went and sold everything he owned and bought the field.” Matthew 13:44)

It was a normal day, and by normal, I mean he took the same route by foot
that he always took, walking five blocks west, crossing across the park and
lingering briefly at the fountain (it always seemed to know his name), then
continuing north the building where he worked for 25 years. He still hadn’t
quite figured out what his job was. Or better put, how what he did intertwined
with what everyone else did. They had departmental meetings, but only one
department at a time.

He was not bored, he was hypnotized. The same walk, the same pace, the
same project, the same people, the same “how are yous” and “hope you’re fine”
every day had cut a highway through his mind that all the electrons followed;
a racing oval without knowing the perfect ending. All that was missing was
the checkered flag.

One Tuesday (he knew it was Tuesday because that’s the day he bought a
coffee and croissant from the vendor at the park. One Tuesday, croissant in hand
and the coffee warming his mouth, he traversed the park one more time,
the itinerary well remembered and rutted through his brain. Just as he was about
to move from the grass to the concrete of the roadway something caught his attention.

He thought it a toy. Maybe a dime-store keepsake. It might be from a child’s
Halloween costume or a young salesman’s sample case. He picked it up and
held it in his palm.
Blue like a stellar jay, more blue than his grandson’s eyes, darker than the sky,
but brighter than the water’s flow; its weight told him it was more than glass.
He had started the day like every other Tuesday. The sky was the same as yesterday,
the stoplights blinked the same time as they always did. The same doors
opened to the office buildings that never changed, not just day to day, but
year to year.

He set the jewel down, and with his well-groomed fingers scratched a hole
in the dirt deep enough where it wouldn’t be discovered. He marked the spot
with gps location and continued on to work.

But the sapphire, that precious treasure, stayed hidden within his churching mind.
He had never seen a thing like it before. He must have it. He must make it his own.
Leaving work he walked back to the spot where the gem was buried. He wrote down
the coordinates and the next day went to the bank, asking about that spot of land.

Though surrounded by a public park, this bit of land, this mini-acre, was private
land and the owner had long ago wished it sold. The man, gathering all he had,
made an offer, and, accepted, he sighed the papers and rushed to the site again.

He was apprehensive. What if someone had come across his treasure while
he was gone? He gently moved the dirt away from the treasure, and there it was,
gleaming as the late afternoon sun danced on its facets.

He laughed. He danced. He held a party. He left his job. He fed the homeless
man who sat outside his building. He stopped by the hospital to see his
adversary and wish him the best. He took his wife to the club, and bought
his children the biggest, brightest books they had ever seen.

This is the kingdom. This is the joy. This is the beauty of God’s dream
for the world. Lean over. Pick it up. See its beauty and dance…simply dance
at your good fortune. God’s dream of peace not war is upon us.

God’s dream of light not dense is here.

God’s dream of sense taking the place of lies has begun.

God’s love that heals the sick and the sorrowful is fully formed before us.

God’s dream of circles of people owning nothing but the need to share
everything one on one to each other.

Nations dissolved their boundaries; missiles were decommissioned and
turned to playground equipment.

Churches closed because the celebrations just never ended and spilled
out on the streets. This is the kingdom that no empire of the world can defeat.

The Spirit Does Not Shout

The Spirit Does Not Shout

(“Jesus answered, ‘The person who sows the good seed is the Son of Man.’” Matthew 13:37)

The Spirit does not shout,
she does not garner support by surrounding herself with sycophants.
She is agrarian, sowing seed like the Son of Man.
She does not make demands, does not insist your property
be remanded in some sort of trade for later projects without
your permission.
Her position is always within and without, her invitation
can be heard in the ways the leaves rustle in the freshening wind.

The Son walks softly,
he does not break the broken reeds and leaves the flickering wicks
to find their light again.
He is domestic, but untamable. He is accepting and oh
so
challenging. He invites every lonesome wayfarer,
he picks up the fallen braves who were called cowards
for all their fighting. He wields a sword full of words
planted in the fields prepared by quiet meditation.

They do not shout, the Father does not condemn,
they do not schedule rallies to rile up the red-hatted minions.
They tell the truth, the truth is love, and faith is expressed through love,
and so is
missed
by some who only want noise and accusations. They prefer gunshots
to the light touch of divine inspiration that lies before them in the
fields gold and ready for harvest.

Through the cycles of suns and setting,
of births and dying,
of beginning and ending,
are the voices that speak like velvet to the
fainting hearts and hammers to the pious folks
who will not give up their seats.

The Spirit does not shout,
so be silent, let go, and leave the puffery behind

Let’s Be Clear

Let’s Be Clear

(“Then the Lord put a message in Balaam’s mouth and said, ‘Return to Balak, and speak what I tell you.’” Numbers 23:5)

Let’s be clear,
not everything that is spoken can be heard;
not everything in creation can be seen.
Not every pocket is empty and not every
wallet is full. There are holes in my jeans
I never paid for; there are angels assigned to
lead us, or so we hope, or so we believe,
or so we tell everyone when it was all just
a matter of coincidences. It was two atoms
in the same place at the same time and they pulled
each other apart like the yoke of oxen in the field.

Sitting up straighter I can peer through the window;
my posture has been bent by pain and years. You say
you don’t believe, and I understand. Doubt is a ladder
up or down, depending on how you’re persuaded.
These noises have continued unabated and fill the silence
that anxiety brings.

I would speak if there was anyone to hear. I would talk,
but the varying results make me fear the knocks at my
door and who may be waiting to criticize my past
agony and my present
disquiet mind. I would apologize, but I’ve tried
that before. Forgiveness was granted but the
icy wind still blew through the cracks in the windows.

That has left me suspicious of everyone who possesses ears.
As much as they pretend to hear, I know they have never seen
the authentic me, so I may as well paint a picture they would prefer.
I may as well lock myself away. It is a risk too far
to assume how the highwire will hold the full weight of
my blended truth. I’ve welcomed the vagrant whose
story was as murky as my own. And now, in my spiritual
vagrancy, I look for someone to listen to my vague
incarnations of stories and stumbles.

Wordless Moments

Wordless Moments

(“I tell you, on the day of judgment people will render an account for every careless word they speak.” Matthew 12:36)

Do you allow it all to spill out unmeasured,
do you take the time to filter the multitudes that hive
within your head?
Do you hallow the sounds from your mouth or
do you treat the silence with sacrilege?

Have you added to the trauma, and left the victim
lying in the mud? Have you cocked your brain like
a gun at the person in pain?

Do you spend your days searching for another reason to be right?
Have you kept track of the arguments you can use to keep back the light?
Children are dying among the rubble while you discuss
second comings and end times. Mamas hold their children while
we debate arming soldiers in the streets.
I’ve watched uncounted moments dashing people’s hopes
with unsightly doctrine.
I’ve felt the shrapnel ricochet off the sky and paralyze
the objects of your screed.

Come with me to the river that speaks its peace without a word;
walk with me upon the hills where gatherer’s trod ten
thousand years ago. What did they say to the day as the
sun warmed their foreheads? What might the river remove
from all our speeches and dissertations?

Silence can be holy, stillness a sanctuary,
Unspoke can open the soul,
this-day can lighten the load of a million
thoughtless words. The sun can purify the
wounds left by experts in law. The breeze can
speak without talking and leave you wanting
for more days where life is lived inside the spheres
of pleasant and wordless moments on the road.

Nothing To Say

Nothing To Say

(“He will not break a bruised reed, and He will not put out a smoldering wick, until He has led justice to victory.” Matthew 12:20

The words escape me today like bats lodging together midday.
The page is blank, my mind is slow, the ocean is miles away.
Imagine a smokey jazz club but the piano is out of tune,
or a summer afternoon when the squirrels don’t need to
climb the trees; the walnuts have begun to fall to the ground.

There is a quietness that feels intrusive; there is an emptiness
that feels oppressive. There is a heat wave on the way.
My branches are dry and my mind is unreasonable,
my memories are weak and my eyes are blurred from
thinking things should have been different. Thinking
I should have changed it all.

I blame myself for the lonesome trench, for this
yearning that extends past my reach. Light as a
hummingbird’s feather, the smoke from my candle
is flickering low.

But sometimes the next day is better than the last,
sometimes the routine is disrupted, and you find the
tiniest
glow of impartation. It is impractical to dig in
yesterday’s sludge.  

Sometimes it is someone’s smile that strengthens my mind,
sometimes it is jazz playing in the background.
Sometimes the light hits the window so subtly that
I can discern all the colors of the spectrum one by one.

I need to train my voice again to sing the songs that
capture the moments that ignite the love that only sets
us free
from having nothing to say.

They Redrew the Boundaries

They Redrew the Boundaries

(“Native-born Israelites and foreigners are equal before the Lord and are subject to the same decrees. This is a permanent law for you, to be observed from generation to generation.” Numbers 5:5)

They redrew the boundaries and stone-built it higher than
anyone could climb.
They turned their language into a test for allegiance and
turned their ear away from unfamiliar accents.
They acted like the world was a trinket they won
at the county fair midway. They pretended no one
else could play.

The land did not come this way, divided up into uncomfortable
portions of triangles and dust. The skies do not argue over
languages. The sun extends every ray without filtering
for nationality or gender. The moon gently shines on
us all.

Lanterns of suppositions pretend to show the way,
but only hide behind the walls erected like underrated mazes
to analyze those who go astray. We have driven too many
underground. We have complicated the translations of
the simple sounds of equality and freedom.

The answers are easy; it’s the questions that challenge our
very being. We could have lasted longer if we had let
the binds between us be as flexible as time. But our
bipolar world kept demanding that they are not us and
we are not them and all of us are separate like the verses
of a long-forgotten hymn.

We taught it to each other, and as long as we listened carefully,
the tune wound itself in and around us, through us and
outside into the waiting air. We knew, after all, that the
differences we see are just the imagination of games played
with loaded dice. We needed the advice of those
who listened to jazz even when they did not understand it.

Let’s Not Pretend

Let’s Not Pretend

(“Even though you are so high above, you care for the lowly, and the proud cannot hide from you.” Psalm 138:6)

>Did you notice that day was new,
and did it seem they had all forgotten you?
Were the walls still stained with grease and pain,
did you ever try standing and found that you were faint?
Where is the mighty magic promised by the priests,
where is the comradery promised; where are the feasts?
It is frosty in their presence, the center is sub-zero;
I want to meet the fiery ones, I want to know another anti-hero.
Maybe being alone is the best option, maybe missing the day:
Maybe my pain is the place God meets me, my ache when I pray.

I don’t discount your stories of falling under the power, healing the blind,
uttering tongues that no one can understand. But from here it looks
like so much showing off (I hope that is ok to say). Jesus kept his
works semi-secret, like only one square of chocolate left,
dark chocolate that only pairs with a good red wine.
I haven’t tasted either for quiet some time. Here is what
I know…lowly to proud…

Life passes at the same rate for all of us. We all have an
end date stamped on our best years, and no hand stamp to
get us back in again.

So, let’s not pretend any longer. Do you see that homeless man
begging for bread or cash or a place to lay his head. That’s where
you can discover everything you have ever wanted to know about God.
Do you see the religious man bellowing, casting lost ones into eternal fire,
scolding struggling ones who have tries so many ways, and proudly announcing
the Second Coming is coming within days or months (apparently he has
an inside track.)

So, let’s not pretend any longer.

Oh, Never Mind

 Oh, Never Mind

(“If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand?” Psalm 130:3)

Until the final word has been sung,
until the final syllable rolls of your tongue,
there will be little to write until the listening is done.

I etched every mistake like a stylus into clay;
I memorized them; I kept them in a diary high
on the shelf hoping no one would find them, no one
would redefine them, and, at the end of the day
someone would right them to banish my pretense.

Although I wrote them, they were meant only for me,
but somehow, they were released into the ether where
daylight caught them on the fly. They had been only intended
to come out at night when fewer eyes kept watch.

They were a record of my illnesses, the symptoms well defined.
They were a mirror of my inconveniences, a probe into…

Trying to describe it here after all these years may sound
like a metal spoon pounding a kettle to coax get the tea to come out.
But what I think I hoped was that someone would read it all,
and, without excusing at at all, would absolve me of everything
written or forgotten,
and treat me like the whole thing had been a farce,
like the words had never existed,
like the story was far more nuanced than the
ledger I kept them in.

the eternal eyes removed all doubt and looked away
without a single glance at my exact notions. The
party started hours ago, and I thought I was disinvited.
Until someone whispered that the party was for me.