For Your Aching Wounds

For Your Aching Wounds

(“Surely there is some medicine in Gilead. Surely there is a doctor in Gilead. So why are the wounds of my people not healed?” Jeremiah 8:22)

I awoke to the same pain that plagued me day after day,
a heart pain, a soul pain, longing for awakening.
There it was, after all this time, an offer for healing in
the middle of tears flowing like rain. Oh, how little faith
must I have to
imagine
Jesus asleep in the boat while the storm rages.
Jesus laughing with friends while I feel unhealed.
I have plenty to eat but feel I am starving. (Can the
reader relate?) Are your hands splintered from pulling
too hard at the oars? Are you bruised from the hilts
and hints of swords? Are you weary from the way
the pebbles soar from the sling?

There is a balm for your aching wounds. There is
a salve for the open hurts that linger too long.
There is a day when healing arrives on the wings
of a love too transparent to ignore. Once there was a time
when we ignored the kindness divine that flooded
heaven and earth,
but now we have nearly drowned in the mercy flowing
from hills to dells and taste the offering of hope.

We shift and turn our aching tunes toward the one
who has changed our name to fit the family we nearly
walked away from. All the broken ones stand in
amazement and find the healing promised to
every son of daughter of the white sands of an
endless sea.

Loan Me Some Seed

Loan Me Some Seed

(“And when sown, it comes up and grows taller than all the garden plants, and produces large branches, so that the birds of the sky can nest in its shade.” Mark 4:32)

I began by wanting to ask you for a loan,
but I do not need money, I do not need bills,
I wanted you to loan me some seed that would grow
within my sorrowing soul. That would grow like it was
in nurturing soil. I’ve spent afternoons napping
and reading until my head ached too badly to continue.
I wish you could loan me something living that
could clear my head. The fog is bursting from within
the places between my brain and the rest of me.
I’ve settled in trying to compensate for this disabled
exposition with words written like togas wrapped around
my heart. I was a taller tree once, some time ago.
But then the drought hit and I could not survive;
the dangers were all around, waiting to seduce me
into another faithless action of cowardice. I turned around.
I don’t ask for much anymore, just a few trinkets,
sharing a beer at the bar, driving in the hills,
a cadre of cadets who carry no agendas but only ask
for light to guide the way.

Come in for a drink, come in for a story, tell me about your day,
tell me about the joy you remember from the days I have forgotten.
Sit down across from me, let me see your eyes;
let me hear the syllables like seeds dying into the ground.
Sow in me the mercy you have experienced;
take me as mere as mud and make me a planting place
for branches large enough for the birds of the air to
to roost upon, finding shade from the heat.

If you will do this tiny thing for me, I would be
eternally grateful. I don’t deserve great offers of dollars,
just simple seeds in the dirt that lays here in the dark.

You Can Choose

You Can Choose

(“’In that day, declares the Lord, ‘the king and the officials will lose heart, the priests will be horrified, and the prophets will be appalled.’” Jeremiah 4:9)

You were playing games and changing the rules;
you were throwing the dice disguising the results with
light flashing like saber tooth tigers competing for survival.
You thought your prayers were the answer when you
filled the altar with dead words and loud admonishments.

You who proclaimed the end of days, will you be ready
for your justice to come calling? You were ready to deport
every dark-skinned neighbor over their birthplace a half
century before. When God meets you at the end of the road,
what will you say to justify the cruelty your declarations
incited?

You kings, you should never have imagined you were monarchs
giving matches to strangers to burn down the meager cottages
of the poor. From the throne to the backyard chickens, you
thought you reigned with impunity. Instead, it will be you
who will lose heart when you see the hand of God reducing
your words to sawdust to trample underfoot.

Take a breath you purveyors of underhanded mischief.
There is still a chance for your redemption. Walk away
from the conflagration you have created with
heat of your hatred. You thought you would never be
found out, that no one would see the loathing you
learned despite it all. You had your chances;
your stances were arrows aimed from your thrones,
and you thought they only advanced your cause.

You can choose today how you will learn the dirges of
the disheartened. You can change your tune; you can
unfold your cartoon character and feel the pangs of
hunger your policies have caused.

You can choose today. Look into the eyes of the One
who sees everything.
You can choose today.

The Dancing of the Restored

The Dancing of the Restored

(“Healthy people don’t need a doctor. It is the sick who need a doctor. I did not come to invite good people. I came to invite sinners.” Mark 2:17b) 

You have diminished the rooms of the righteous,
and there is no more space for perfection. Then
we will learn the loneliness of the soul that keeps us
from looking others in the eye. We look up,
make a tiny connection, then gaze at the ground from
of fear of being found out. What would they see behind
our imperfect eyes. 

  Remember when our wounds were our trophies,
when the only way to the light was through the hole in our soul?
Remember the meals we have shared where people watch
through the teeny cracks in the doors? Remember how our
hearts were full as our eyes beheld the rays of light that
passed through the windows in the gray wall interior?
Remember the food abundant,
the wine pouring like springs from the stone? 

We never recovered until we knew the diagnosis
included our inattention to detail and our desire to
stand front and center
with applause coming from all around the room. 

We were not shamed into this. It was only as long
as we felt we deserved the top of the mountain
and we never admitted our disease. Once we knew
how the valley held the answers we thought only
belonged to the heights we started our hike to
the lower places where the granite meets the
meadows. 

We discovered the dancing of the restored,
the joy of sinners whose hearts, redeemed and whole,
have learned to celebrate even when the sun has disappeared
behind the mountain peaks.

It Should Be Second Nature

It Should Be Second Nature

(“The Spirit of the Almighty Lord is on me, because he has chosen me to serve him. He has sent me to tell good news to poor people. He has sent me to comfort people who are very upset. He has sent me to tell prisoners that they are now free. They can go out of their prisons!” Isaiah 61:1) 

It should be second nature, this message for the poor;
it should be our constant theme, this raising their banner.
Now in spiritual affluence, gone is the poverty that others
placed around your necks making you lie face down in the dust. 

It should be our first response, this comfort for the distraught;
it should be our song most joyous, this melody of delight.
Now with their wounds assuaged, gone are the deepest cuts,
the hardest to heal. Now only trust that scars are simple reminders
of healing. 

It should be our primary work, this demolishing of prisons;
it should be our loud refrain, setting the prisoners free.
Now with bars broken, gone is the isolation that kept
you bound in perpetual darkness. Walk free, walk out,
sing your ballads of abandon above the mountains. 

There is contentment ordered from heaven,
there is room to roam for once proclaimed from above.
While you thought every word that kept you captive
was a divine decree, the words came that set you free
and what you never dreamed became true on the day
the prophet spoke the way of love that meets us closer
than from the future they feared. Their deliverance is
their legacy. 

It should be celebrated, this image of joy skipping
underneath the sky.

Stuck on the Floor

Stuck on the Floor

(“I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also who is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite.” Isaiah 57:15b) \

i would do anything to ease your pain,
to sit with you while you struggle to breathe.
I would not utter a word, because each syllable would be
an
intrusion into your grief.
I know there is nothing than can ease your pain. 

How do we lose someone precious,
where do we take our sorrow?
Where can we find the end of our heartache
when the end of a beloved comes too soon? 

What if we could have prevented it, what if
we asked him to stay longer so the intersection
where he met the t-boning truck was free and clear?
What if, what if, what if, we had prayed harder? 

We never pray hard enough, do we?
We beg heaven after the events, but sound like
silk on the days before. Is God that angry;
did God take away the apple of my eye
because I found faith to flee too often? 

Did he look both ways, did he have a lapse in judgment?
Did I rush him out the door, did I call him home too soon?
I cannot breathe, the air is lead. I cannot bear
to see another face when mine is crushed and
wrinkled. Everything that is wrong in the world has
landed on me and I fear I may never breathe the same again. 

Don’t tell me God is with me now. Don’t tell me God
works
in mysterious ways. I am subtracted, I am absent,
I am divided from myself, I am stuck on the floor and
wanting to be alone for days and days.
It is all too new for your Scriptures and your prayers. 

  It is all too new.

Like Picnics in the Shade

Like Picnics in the Shade

(“How beautiful is the person who comes over the mountains to bring good news, who announces peace and brings good news, who announces salvation and says to Jerusalem, ‘Your God is King.’” Isaiah 52:7)

The bridge spanned the ford
beneath greening skies.

The feet were beautiful along
the bluing banks.

The sky was descending along the
redding horizon.

The announcement of freedom was a prism full
of promise. Was a leap across the river.
Was a well-timed emancipation. Was a
well of water upon our parched tongues.

We had been disconnected. We were dejected
most days, sunny or haze. We knew the way
home
but the roads were well-guarded.

We started the inward journey as soon as we
understood that
no one could harm us on this way of open meadows.
No one could boast of conquering us like dust.
We were learning that trust looked a lot like
siestas in the sun.

We rejoiced like cranberry sky, strawberry wine,
and honeydew. We held our voices higher than
we had in epochs of time. We heard the message
and sang the words like an anthem of deliverance.
We spoke like we had know for years that we
were no longer captives, though we felt, sooner than
later
that we were imprisoned outside the fault lines
of mediocrity. We heard the news announced like liberty
unrestricted. And we shared it like picnics in the shade.

To Know the Deep

To Know the Deep

I want to know the deep and long of you,
The all and song of you.
I want to give you the true and same of me,
the peace and frame of me.
I want to know the days you cannot sing,
the nights that keep reminding you of everything
you wish you could not remember.
I want to sit with you for hours
just watching the river run.
I want to walk with you, hand in hand,
slowly like love that rises from the roots of
trees in the forest, like the warm earth below
our feet.
I want to hold you the way the sun holds the sky,
the way the clouds hug the hills with questions.
I want to be one with you, our hearts answering the
call of soft birdsongs resting among the cedars on the way.

I want to know the wide and fear of you,
the why and tears of you.
I want to give you the love and end of me,
the sighs and bends of me.
I want to know you like a slow turning
ocean below the azure blue. I want you to
know I’m there before you say a word.
I want to spend days and days with you
unfolding everything we’ve forgotten about
dancing when no one is watching.

I want to show you the corners of my heart
that I’ve kept in the dark. I want to soothe the
hurts you never speak of and hope you will speak
of them more to me.

I want you to feel my hands upon your face
when the tears silently trace your cheeks.
I want you to know you are beautiful when
the tears pool like pearls in you eyes.
I want to know the hurts and pain of you,
to give the soothing grains of sand on a
warm stretch of ocean sand.

I want to be silent while you tell me everything.
I want to hold you while you tell me each
chapter of your story and I will memorize it
and protect it within my heart for you.

Spilling Over the Hills

Spilling Over the Hills

(“They will not hunger or thirst, the scorching heat or sun will not strike them; for their compassionate One will guide them, and lead them to springs of water.” Isaiah 49:10)

Waving from the back of the parade
the children filled in the line at the end of the queue
following the music like spinning tops on a slow and
green Spring day.

Light never deceives; darkness beckons hopeless
moments canceling the stream of thoughts that walked
through the forest in the middle of the day.
Wait until the light shines again, look for the invitation
to traverse the amber swaying of afternoon sky.

We were told over and often that provision would
follow no matter the turns we took. But we were frightened
enough to staple our feet to the floor and waste our energy
trying to catch the rain in our hands.

But once we tasted the effervescent spring waters
on our tongue how could we sit still again, how could we
plaster ourselves to the inertia that kept us motionless? We
were hungry as children begging for another orange slice
as they were heading to bed. It seems we waited forever
to savor the moments that made us feel alive.

So, this time we joined the parade from the beginning,
singing songs of resistance, walking steps of resurrection,
and inviting every lonely observer to join us on the lookout
for new ways to celebrate the carnival days of joy when
we followed the promises like faith spilling over the hills.

Self-Inflicted Blindness

Self-Inflicted Blindness

(“I will lead the blind by a road they do not know…” Isaiah 42:16a)

Captured like store-bought thunder, the show of force
was completely unexpected. While people prayed, the
children were apprehended and kept for hours while their
parents were integrated. In the middle of the night they
invaded like
masked marauders, dropped by a helicopter to rappel
down the apartment walls.

You better believe we have eyes in the skies;
You better notice our collective eyes watching everything you do.
Can you read my sign? It’s more than a slogan. It’s a promise
I’ll always see the deadly design behind you’re your
icy gunsights and your night vision goggles.

Do you just follow orders, is that your excuse?
Is that why you manufacture every ruse to lasso
and detain everyone whose words you do not understand?
Did you check their skin tone first, have you set the
standards so low you take parents standing outside schools
just waiting for the children to come home?

You’ve masked your faces, disguised your disgust
behind facades of pretense. Are you ready for the consequences
that always land when the tide turns around?
Are you prepared for your judgment day,
for your time in court to admit your blindness
was self-inflicted and your malice was ordered from
below?

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.