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.

Our Unsavory Stories

Our Unsavory Stories

I suppose the starting point is to map out all of my stumbles.
That would be extraordinary, though, because so few who I know
have written about theirs. I am not suggesting that we all project
our failures like an image on the screen. It would take only a moment
after seeing it the first time, to never want to see it again.
Are our connections tangible? Is this why I rarely talk to
anyone throughout the day.
I’m not entirely embarrassed about my sins,
It's just that those who would bear the load with me have
moved on or, even worse;
died.
It's true, I can share half the conversation with my departed
ones
and not fear their responses. But my dearest touches of heart
are those I desire to authenticate my life with me.
I’d invite you to dinner, and I would be fine while we ate,
but what do we do with spidery conversations after the dessert
is pulled from the table?

I’d meet you for a drink, but that is ever more frightening.
How would we fill the hour while we waited for the barkeep
to pour our next beer? And besides, I don’t even know if
you like beer or not. I’d order for you but I’m sure I would
choose the wrong concoction, setting our meeting up for
failure from the start.

There are a few, though, along the way, for whom I’ve secretly
cracked open the door hoping to see a face who wants me
truly, no matter how disorderly my story might be.

I am not despondent about it today, I simply wonder how
many days it takes in our economy to repair the sandy foundations
of a life that meant well. We could go to the park and
chase frisbees I guess; sit in the sun disguised as friends.
That would give little time for the discomfort we feel in trying
to occupy the air with words we haven’t thought about in ages.

That’s not true; the words preoccupy my mind. I worry who
would accept them carte blanche from the first time we spoke?
After all,

And maybe I’m wrong.

But don’t we all have unsavory stories we’d prefer stay
hidden like an old photograph fading in the sun?

I’ll Stop by Tomorrow

I’ll Stop by Tomorrow

(“I do not deserve to have you come into my house. Just give the order, and my servant will get well.” Matthew 8:8b)

There were no shadows in the house,
the shutters were closed and the drapes pulled against the sun.
I tried to divide my attempts to be seen from
my instincts to hide.
Slowly the scene shifted as the sun found the
cracks in my defenses.

I meant to mention, I’d like to sit alone on the porch,
wave at the children on their bikes and sit with men
of my age
thinking out loud about our past and painting the future
something brighter than gray. We all admitted it was easy
to embrace our halcyon days when we thought life could be
lived in layers we never completed. We lived from
playhouses and swings to pens and musical things we
hoped would help name us forever.
We pretended there would be reunions where we
remembered every spiral adventure and made plans
to get together only for time to steal our best ideas.

But now in the epicenter of my life I’m too shy to invite
new faces to my porch. And that leaves me friendless in space.
Locked away, my heart waits for the night lights to take over,
and wonder what I would say if I ever came out under the stars.

Exactly how long I’ve been this way, probably just long enough
to notice the damage. But I’ve been invited to the
grand opening of a friendly space but slept through it.
I’ll stop by tomorrow.

Pretending to Know

 Pretending to Know

“For with whatever standard you judge, you will be judged, and with whatever measure you measure, it will be measured to you.” Matthew 7:2)

1.

Everyone thought they knew him,
everyone pretended to know his motivations.
What they could not imagine was the way
he sat on the edges of darkness because no one
listened to the way he waved his hand, hoping for a ride.

He could have walked, but more eyes would see him.
He could have avoided it all by staying at home.
He didn’t like walking though, it reminded him too much
of all the falls he had taken. Cross-examined based
on supposition and opaque opinions
he kept his head low and voice quiet.
He missed a number of friends he felt he
no longer reserved. He didn’t make new ones
not knowing what they knew or what they assumed.
True, his sins were worse than he admitted. But based
on past experience he didn’t trust the precarious stares
of those who did not know him.

So he kept his distance and tried to write away the fears.
He used to laugh at dinner with friends; he used to hear
the fascinating songs they played. He used to be content
for half the day, but now he either naps or seeks stimuli
to ease the pain.

It’s not that he is innocent, but the sentence imposed
kept him bound and on the edges where no one could find him.
He hoped he could slip the knots that dug into his wrists,
and the endless thoughts that would never die. He did not
want to become
one of them. He wanted transformation and less preoccupation
with the way the road bent miles ago, with the way
the miles ended ages ago.

    2.

You may have discerned that the He is Me, and I’ve
wandered around trauma without processing it well.
You may conclude that my writing plays a major part in
rearranging the damage done along the road. I never
withheld forgiveness, never denied my wrongs, but the
stings still stung and the silence still stabbed my aching soul.

                                        3.

Would you believe him if he told you he was once sought after,
and that he was frightened of climbing hanging roofs? Would you
blame him for going so silent when once he was sought after to
speak to a crowd or two? Would you understand that there are still
days when contentment feels like a distant cousin? Would you look
out for him if you knew he was coming to town? Would you buy
him a drink just because you spotted him at the bar?

                                        4.

It’s getting better over time, but it seems some of my talents have
slipped by without taking time to rhyme.

I thought I saw you yesterday, having lunch in a Mexican restaurant.
We hadn’t talked in ages and I was sure it was you. I don’t thing you
saw me, or maybe didn’t recognize me. But feeling the need for protection
I stay in my seat, nursed my beer, and read my book on Universalism.

If it happens again, I promise I’ll come to your table and give us both
a laugh. Until then, thanks for listening. Until then, I’ll find the river
road warm, and talk to the ducks eating their lunch.

A Serenade to Soothe

A Serenade to Soothe

(“When you pray, do not say the same thing over and over again making long prayers like the people who do not know God. They think they are heard because their prayers are long.” Matthew 6:7)

Do you think your fancy words,
all dressed up and shining, make God hear you better,
make God’s ears perk up?
Did you think your elevated language,
complete with words of foreign tongues,
made God take notice,
make God get up and redecorate the dawn?
Etch your words deeply, not long.
Keep your focus narrow, not wrong.
When morning rises, greet Creator with a
silent song with hope of relief before long.
Let the shallow stream that never ceases to flow
teach you communion different that you have known.

I’ve been on the earning end of teary conversations,
I’ve dug my fingers into the carpet to be heard.
But you saw me before my first sight,
You acted before I even finished and came to my rescue
before I exhaled the Amen.

I only heard the invitation, I only saw the embers warm,
the table was set before I showed up, the meal was provided
before I began. The words were silent name tags
reserving my place from the beginning until now.

I’ve stopped my public praying; I’ve quieted my soul like
a child newly weaned. I’ve left out the titles I once used
and waited to meet you where you have always waited for me.

I mention my friends to you, even some who are gone;
I carry them in my heart and hope crosses their path today.
And if not, I continue to pray, knowing they do the same.
Our refrains are the same:
In your earth as it is in God’s heaven, and,
enough to eat for today if you please,
and a serenade to soothe the blues of
these difficult days.

Bright Like a Needle

Bright Like a Needle

(“Your light must shine before people in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.” Matthew 5:16)

The light was apparent from a distance,
small but bright like a needle in the night.
It guided the lost to hard won hope;
It sent the vagabonds on the way with solid instructions
and food for the day.
It was high on the cliffs, sending its beam in all
directions and once.
Some ignored it and struggled to find their way.
Others saw it obscured by mental fog.
But for me it was salvation, an escape from
the agnostic samples of my soul.
I’d be happy to see the light again,
to look at the work illumination begins.
I don’t disbelieve, I’m just out of living examples
of lights that shine for any person, reason, or rhyme;
of lights that open the way for queries about the
nature of things.

The applause of people can disguise the focus
shot in the dark. Alone is overrated. Alone is
understated.

Let the light set this soul aglow. Let it disclose
all that is hidden or too quiet to be heard. Believe me,
the longer I believe the more the light wains like the
sliver of a moon.

I Wander Less Lonely

I Wander Less Lonely

(“May he be pleased with my song, for my gladness comes from him.” Psalm 104:34)

With open arms I master the song that pools through my mind.
Every breath is full of the divine,
every step so much closer to his abode within.
I throw off the apprehension that keeps me a child of fear.
I create unedited psalms for the king who occupies my ways.
The words from my mouth, the lyrics I write are
meant to be
full of gladness and running over with praise.

It is the little things, after all, isn’t it? A grandson
who wants to play tag with his Papa, who wants to sit in
his lap to read the same story three times in a row.
All this, and more, directs my heart toward the Creator
of my song. Children occupy the altars of my mind,
the spaces left open for celestial celebrations of joy.
Every playful invitation to play is seen as God’s invitation.
Every giggle another reason to breathe fully the depth of creation.
Wouldn’t it be right to take the funny language of toddlers
as the holy voice of God? Wouldn’t it be healing to believe
every unequaled squeal as the instigation of faith?
And when he insists I share his popsicle,
how can I seen it as anything other than the generosity of God?

And so I search the atmosphere for more clues of
the ways of God in the universe. So I take each birdsong as
an invitation to sing like I belong to the continuing creation
and nature’s own symphony.

Taken together, the songs and the words, the play and the giggles,
the unending repetition of his favorite things, I wander less lonely,
I carry my burdens more lightly. And I send words toward heaven
like the flight of the swallows over the fields.

Before my Memory

Before my Memory

(“Let my whole being bless the Lord and never forget all his good deeds:” Psalm 103:2)

Renew my remembrance, let your righteous deeds shine
through the clouds. Tap me on the shoulder and I’ll
turn around to see the face that has called me child from
before my memory, from before your kindness entered my dreams
and flooded my mornings with sunny reminders of love.
I must confess,
I remember less your benefits than I feel yellow jackets
bumping across my brain renaming every panic I ever
felt from yes and no. There was a day when everything felt
like dancing. And the next day I fell exhausted onto the floor.

If I could put my finger on it, if I could wrap my brain around it,
if I could memorize the words that set me free and included
every possibility of wholeness, If I could refrain from the
ennui that settles like fog before the sun burns it away.

My soul has felt weightless only to fall to earth again
smashed against the gorges by gravity. Time set me up
like an unconscious answer to questions that were never asked.

Why can’t I say I’m just not feeling it without
guilt flooding the spaces around me? Where are the words
I pledged to you just moments ago?
Something strums my heartstrings and threatens to send
vibrations deeper inside the thoughts that belong to you.

But you have melted my anxiety before, turned my cavern days
into fields of grain. It still seems out of balance, it still feels untrue,
to spout words of expectancy when my heart is colored so blue.
I’ll live through these days with my imperfections on display;
I’ll look for you behind every shadow and skip the cliches.
I’ll listen long enough for clouds to scatter and to help me remember
the moments you’ve met me unexpectedly.

A New Version

A New Version

(“These words I have spoken to you so that in me you may have peace. For in the world you will have tribulation. But be of good cheer: I have overcome the world.” John 16:33)

I have drafted a new version of our agreement and
may send it over to have you read it through. It is dense,
and for that I apologize, but I needed for us both to
banish doubts about simply following the day from the night. Emerging
from my thoughts I reunite with the self I left behind,
worried it would wound me deeper than just keeping the rules.

That is why I am sending this short word and might bury it
in the back yard for fear someone will read and consider me mad,
think of me as too far gone. Reality is,
I am closer today than I have ever been.

Once upon a moment I could generate the laughter that would
ravel my day. I could smile at nothing and feel it warm me
inside out. But the years have been cruel, the years have been
wasted, the years pasted without relief. So, I steal another’s smile
and wonder how long it will take for that smile to fade.
Shine sometimes, and I’ll look around the corner to see
the shadows that testify I have made a difference on the
red siding on the barn.

And yet, in the middle of a brightening day I feel my
sadness heightened without reason. So, I’m writing this tome
and casting it to the wind. A world decorated with
seasons of joy, and fear, and sadness, and hubris
has left me wondering if the multiplied days really
matter at all. Put the pieces together, if you will,
and recite who I am to me
carefully.

Nothing Remains the Same

Nothing Remains the Same

(“The Lord reigns, He is clothed with majesty; the Lord has clothed and encircled Himself with strength. Indeed, the world is firmly established; it will not be moved.” Psalm 93:1)

I’ve walked the pavement, I’ve breathed the morning summer air,
I’ve watched the ravens circle the field, I’ve felt the mist of fogs.
I remember the words that used to bring solace to my soul,
I meander on this earth like a vibrating guitar string.
I’ve on the edge of the highway just to see if anyone knows my name.
I’ve tossed my certainty into the silver water,
I’ve abandoned the language that once bound me to speak
in faith without wondering.
I stayed inside today, though the sun was bright.
I napped inside today, and wondered why.

My thoughts had become pinwheels, blown by the wind in
concentric spasms. My heart was smitten by the way
light played with shadows in the air.
My soul had always been saved. My bridges unraveled
above the abyss as I walked across them. I did not fear
the falling, only the words that made the echo like the
cry of a rabbit in distress.

I would tell you what I think now, I would recite my beliefs,
but I need a new language, I need reupholstered words. I will
not simply replace them,
without defining where they have been. They are all linked,
they are all combined. They fit together with infinite space
between them, they dance like electrons crossing the sea.
God does not care that I have circled back,
God does not require my faith or confession.
God clothes me when I’m unexpecting and encircles
me beyond the sight lines of my horizon.
I do not believe in prayer though I practice it.
I do not believe in healing, though I have been mended.
I do not believe in sunrise, I know the earth revolves in space..
I do not believe in new moons, I know how long it has circled us.

I awake to changes and nothing remains the same.