Like a Monument

Like a Monument

(“Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ.” Philippians 3:7)

The stone jutted from the muddy ground and
stood like a monument to a nameless hero
or
saint,
or trouble,
or oration,
or a quaint way of sizing up the history
of a name nearly forgotten.

You can see the arms from here, pointing
down to shield the graveled feet from
umbrellas of rain that threatened to
drown its memory.

And yet, what is gained by chiseling
every victory in granite,
every loss in craggy rock? Would there be
a directory to tell who had visited and
how long they stayed?

The stone was uncut. That was clear. And so,
changed by perception only,
it could outlast the longest tenure you or I
could remain. The stone was massive.
This was shadow.
And obscured the view of the open meadow
unless you climbed it carefully,
kept your footing,
found your handholds,
and looked toward the west where the
golden-eye of the sky shone in the
late afternoon.

So travelers who stop merely to catch their breath
follow the trough that carries the rain between the hills.
Not looking back, the sun beckons
in pink and gray shadows behind the distant cliffs.

The River Kept Flowing

The River Kept Flowing

(“John answered, ‘Anyone who has two shirts should share with the one who has none, and anyone who has food should do the same.’” Luke 3:11)

Fascinated by the reflections of still life
in the pools around the banks of the river,
people gathered to watch who might wash themselves.
Undeterred, some were ready to wade into the deep
to their waists,
wanting the germs cleansed from their ravenous thoughts.

Are you asked to give before your feet hit the water,
are you asked to share what your last morsel of bread?
Did you consider how short the span between birth and death,
did you contemplate the thinnest slice of your life?

What prerequisite did you ask to precede your
turning point? Why would water alone be enough
to baptize your fears and intentions? Did your tears
mean anything as you heard the answer to your questions?

After you heard the answer did your courage fade?
After you left your jacket on the bank did you wish
you had an extra?
After the water flowed over your head did you find
new ways to share your daily bread?

The river kept flowing, didn’t it? Your tunic ballooned
like a parachute. The same sun shone as bright as it always
had been. The same eyes stole into your soul. You
and
everyone else
hoped the changes would last.

The Fat Part of the Day

The Fat Part of the Day

(“I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Jesus Christ.” Philippians 1:6)

Whether it happens or not, the night won’t cloak
the starry hosts that dot the sky. In my mind there is
nothing that is disposable.

The possible lives outside the boundaries of theory
and prediction. The sheets of wind can strip away
every hindrance to creativity. It all grows as tall
as it can. It never throws away another chance to
mix the paints in pastel combinations. It is the
last to leave the party and the first to jot down the
poetry
that had been buried too deep to find with simply
a rational mind.

I did not plan on what to write, though I thought about it
through the fattest part of the day.
I can’t explain where the words come from,
and if I could no one would read, though they
might act like they understood.

Prizes lie on the horizon,
blue ribbons behind the throne,
accolades of innocence just
waiting to be interpreted. The impetus
is unclear.

Today I started with my heart pacing,
my head throbbing,
my memory hoping for another word
of reassurance
before the afternoon waned toward the dusk.
I cannot do what I wish I could,
I do what I wish I could not,
and the
no man’s land
between the two
feels like the stagnant ponds that settle
between the confluence of conscious and
spiritual. I plan to explore this soon.

Peace and its Possibilities

Peace and its Possibilities

(“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and peace on earth to those with whom he is pleased!” Luke 2:14)

The fog disguised the trees as giants,
and made the ashen roof seem like snow.
The horn blew from the river below to
warn the ships and wake the captains.
We did not plan on rising this early.

But the fog lifted as the angels came down,
the stars blinked fire escapes and the moon
directed it beams below.

To be clear, I had never seen an angel.
Never felt an invisible presence so near to me,
speaking so clear to me,
singing with words that drove the fear from me.

To be honest, I have never met a king.
Never stood and bowed before him beneath his marbled throne.
There was a gulf between his pretentious palace
and my pallet beneath the stars.
Working in the fields, we all heard what the angels spoke,
a king born like a pauper, a ruler starting life in the livestock’s
feeding trough.

We told stories once the sun had set, started the fires to keep us warm,
walked among the sheep, feeding and watering them, and watched
as they dozed to sleep.

There was a second of silence. We took one breath in unison and then
the skies exploded; the air crystalized the praises that echoed
across the plain. Angels upon angels, wings stirring the sky and
we heard the words from outside of us and inside of us, we were
one with the song and the singers.

Could this peace free us from tyranny; could it release us from
bondage? Could it build something better than enslavement,
unfetter us from legions of oppression?

We had no choice, given the choreography in the skies,
to seek out this baby king and ponder everything the angels had told us.

We saw him, bundled tightly, his mother lifting him to her breast and
we thought he was unremarkable. And we thought we could be wrong.
And we sought to understand it, and we hoped to believe it for as
long as we could.
And we went back to our flocks scratching our heads but still
humming the song the angels sang about peace and its possibilities
because of this infant king.