Like Paving Stones

Like Paving Stones

(“The disciples then began to argue about which of them was the greatest.” Luke 9:46)

You’ve laid out arguments like paving stones spaced
so far apart that mud is inevitable. You stood up in front
of dozens
with your toupee tilted toward the side. You took
swipes at ones you deemed dangerous and inconsequential.
You thought you were talking for God and
you couldn’t hear
how your ego was louder than anything that came
out of your head.
You never questioned your certainty and
that is why
your faith was insubstantial. You thought you
were a high-wire act, but we saw the
rusty chains that held you up. We would rather
go for a walk in the sun.
You meant well, but you weren’t on the level.
You dreamed of hundreds following you to heaven.
You imagined what you should have examined,
you measured your life by how many were wowed
by your words.

I read a pageful of numbers, a long stretch of
dimes and dollars. I listened for the crisis others
ignored. I longed for larger spaces between the
stated and the questioned.  You were taller and
several covered their heads as your words shot
out like hailstones without warning.

Let’s sit on the back porch, let’s wait in the sun,
let’s allow the neighbors to speak, let’s quiet ourselves
like babies falling asleep. Let’s listen to their music
though we have never heard it before. There are cadences
we can learn
if we stop our chatter for a while.

The Storm Threatened

The Storm Threatened

(“Then He said to them all, ‘If anyone wants to come with Me, he must deny himself, take up his cross daily, and follow Me.’” Luke 9:23)

The storm threatened more than mud and slime,
it continued to mock both function and design.
It was predicted,
and we evicted the plans we had for a picnic
afternoon.

It drove us to pray for promised deliverance,
It captured our imprisoned intelligence.
It was so sudden
there was hail in the garden
and conversations were muddled well into
the evening.

We watched and wondered at the thunder that
drove so many home. We woke later than usual
with eyes red from dust and distrust as we ached
over the mockingbird’s song that repeated the
false charges, wary accusations, and verdicts
made of sand.

(Crucify)

And we breathed the air that was burning plastic,
acrid and across from the garden torn up by
the onlookers in their rush to ridicule with words
the prisoner nailed to lumber. Why won’t he
come down? No one wanted to see that, of course.
No one wanted to spend more than half a day
glaring at the sky stripped of everything that
would open their eyes.

Everything turned black, every sign was
beyond belief. Every person felt that pain in
their chest and their minds found no rest as they
wondered why he ever was called a king.

Before the storm we heard him say they might

(Crucify)

Him. But that day was sunny and we never imagined he meant anything more than some days would go slower, that some days might be over later than we imagined.

Now the storm, the thunder, the pounding drops of rain
so thick they kicked up the dust all combined to confirm
our hope was gone. We could not let this night go by

(Crucify)

We did not know the storm would pass, at least not
that we could predict. But women found the
garden in the morning sun and surprised us all with
something we hoped was a new dawn,
a fresh beginning, a new ache that makes us
want nothing more than to follow, storm or sunlit days,
the trajectory that disengages us from reliance on
various changes in the wind.

He Sent the Mourners Away

He Sent the Mourners Away

(“But he took her by the hand. ’Get up, child,’ he called.”) Luke 8:54)

They had been wailing outside, the
mourners
who came to grieve for the dying daughter.
Barely catching their breath before the next sob started,
the took their place along the mudbrick walls.

A stranger approached, escorted by her father,
the stranger spoke, “Don’t cry. She isn’t dead, she’s asleep.”

That’s when the mocking laughter began.
How did he know? Had he been here with the family
from the first moment she fell ill? How did he know?
How dare he give false hope, how dare he
talk such myopic nonsense?

The father waited expectantly; one ear tuned to the wailing,
one to the stranger’s confidence. But she was dead.
How could a father believe? How could he expect what
had never happened before?

But the girl heard only one thing, deep in the sleep of death,
“Get up, child.” Slowly the stranger raised her up, his hand around hers,
while bedside they brought her food.

Oh for the hand that reaches through the curtain of death,
for the voice that speaks even when laughter mocks with its hired breath.
Oh for the touch that extends through the doldrums,
the words that speak costly sentences for no charge.

The father was silent, his daughter in his arms.
And tears mixed with a new sort of disbelief. He
touched her face, her warm and flushed face,
laughed to himself a new sort of mirth
that looks death in the eye and renews his joy
on the day that seemed darker than all others,
for a gift that seemed so delayed.

And he sent the mourners away.

Daffodils

Daffodils

(“Those on the rocky soil are the ones who, when they hear, receive the word with joy; and yet these do not have a firm root; they believe for a while, and in a time of temptation they fall away.” Luke 8:13)

It smelled like mud where the excavator was working
building a new road into the new subdivision. Five
houses in all have been built, or are nearly ready.
The trusses pointed to the morning star until they
closed it all in.

The smell of mud is bracing, the smell of mud
invites the promise of spring. The road being built
will hopefully last as long and as well as every measurement
and lined with daffodil quilts, their bulbs warm below the
the winter sod. They wait there, under the surface,
for months at a time until there is more light than dark,
more day than night,
And slowly poke their way through the grass with
buds closed and delicately protected.

I like the ones that stay, that grace my walks with bright yellow
imitating the sun. I like the fences where they flaunt their full display
along a 12-foot section. They are butter and their stalks are made
of mud enriched by the neighbor who owns the fence. Facing west,
his daffodils get the sun for the warmest part of the day. There
are no stones in his flower bed. That is apparent from the joy that the
colors bring and how long they keep their mouths wide open
to the rain.

Would You Walk with Me?

Would You Walk with Me?

(“The Son of Man came, and he ate and drank, and you said, ‘Look at this man! He is a glutton and wine drinker, a friend of tax collectors and other outcasts!’” Luke 7:34)

Would you walk with me along the field where the
yellow daffodils form the border between tree lines
and grass? Did you see this day coming, did you wonder
if the rain would last?

Would you come if I invited you to
a table with common food? Would you let me
fill your glass with wine,
would you be happy with spaghetti and a
slice of bread?

I remember how the bougainvillea climbed the
patio sticks holding up the roof and
made it feel like Hawaii when we danced to the
listing moon.

We were too young for alcohol, too old for
musical chairs;
we were testing the boundaries, we were
choosing up couples and pairs on an
early adolescent summer’s eve.
We waited until the night was over to
dance with the one we had danced with
in our heads. We could not believe it when
she said,
“yes.”

I have to admit these days are split between
wishing to have someone who tells me all their wishes,
and sitting alone watching the news on tv.
I’d rather play in the band than practice
a few moves alone before the black and blueness of
the night wrapped it up for us.

The field will still be here in the morning,
the path winding past the cattle and geese,
and I would extend my invitation and wait
on the corner for a chance to speak with you
about the questions along these streets.

Anyone who will tell me their story has
already won my heart,
crossed the path from unknown to spatial
and relieved my discontent.

I’d love your company, but I fear the conversation
that leaves me speechless when you ask me
what I want.

Sanctuary

Sanctuary

(“Seek good and not evil, that you may live; and so the Lord, the God of heavenly forces, will be with you just as you have said.” Amos 5:14)

You keep moving the target, you keep changing the rules,
you declare some things illegal and others gifts of gold.
When you based your opinion on third-hand
professional gossip you got lost in the crystalline darkness.
While you laugh I cry that you
have held the truth at arm’s length. And you mock
the prophets who speak showers of rain,
not your disdain for what you cannot understand.

These moments are over like the fading rainbow,
and we do well to remember the colors once the
spectrum has gone from our perception. (Does it
get brighter
the longer we stare?)

So they hijacked 700 without due process,
they commandeered them across the skies
without a clue how many were wrong or right.
And then I hear your voice pronouncing judgment
on them all,
making them guilty, making them criminals,
making them subject to your cartoon caricatures
and two-dimensional portraits. You paint them
all the same.

Sanctuary. We hear the mission bells.
Sanctuary. We hear the widow’s tears.
Sanctuary. We wait the summer sun.
Sanctuary. We wait the promised sage.

Sanctuary, we hear their calls to hear their case,
a place safe enough for their stories to be
safely shared over soup and a bed protected from
the managers of messages who lengthen the shadows.
And we hear the babies gently cooing themselves to sleep.

The Same Sun

The Same Sun

(“Therefore love your enemies, do good, and lend, looking for nothing in return; and your reward will be great, and you will be the children of the Highest. For he is kind to the unkind and to the evil.” Luke 6:35)

Stand a little closer so you can see
the eyes that open like a morning rose.
Every sunrise blossoms,
every petal has its day,
every flower offers its nectar
for the visitors who come to stay.

The neighbor boy is outside dribbling his
basketball in the street shooting hoops like
he’s the last one on the court. The neighbor
girl rides by on her bike with the family’s
Labrador mix leading the way.

Listen a little deeper and you might hear
the paintbrush on the canvas
writing a rhapsody from margin to margin.
You might hear the colors, you might smell the warm,
you might realize the hues and shades
are laid down in layers. You might hear
the same song from down the street as you
did on your first day home from war.

Do not panic, but the same sun that seeks the horizon
shines for your antagonist;
the same rain falls for your adversary;
the same rose smells of dew and love the as
it does for you.

I can tell that doesn’t sit well with you.
I struggle with it too. I swear, though, the eyes
of my enemy
are the same color as at least a dozen friends.
And the children haven’t learned yet to
withhold love based on merit.

I think I’d like to learn to live again and find
every thread the has stitched my heart to yours,
every ray of light that brightens our eyes.

After the Hail Crashes

After the Hail Crashes

(“Then Jesus said to them, ‘I ask you, is it lawful to do good on the sabbath rather than to do evil, to save life rather than to destroy it?’” Luke 6:9)

Against all odds the desert birthed life into
the cacti that stored life when the sun dried out the
cracked soil with promises of nothing.
How hard should we work
when life is at risk? How far
should we walk
to find water for the tongues that
feel like sand?

We could never afford the time it took
to repopulate the unfortunate whittlings
that hung from the broken sky. We had
taken the day off, if anyone would believe that story.
We were faithful to set our feet in concrete
and refused to move when the clock marked its
clanging announcement that the day was off by
at least a hundred degrees.

Bring back the daylight;
banish the orders that keep everyone in the dark.
Watch the desert rose;
touch the barbs that keep you awake.

Sometimes the sun grazes the entire horizon
immediately after the hail crashes and bounces off
the sod still awakened. Sometimes the sun
hastens to melt the stones left behind.

It’s all measured on the average,
the mean between the two extremes.
Someone said that balance was the word,
but I think I’d rather be all in than
try to find the middle between up
and
down,
or silly and serious. Work if you want,
heal if you must,
hug without caution and love like
tomorrow is not promised.

Sanity demanding, I’ll be sitting outside your door
waiting for you to return home on a Saturday afternoon.

I Don’t Wander Far

I Don’t Wander Far

(“Let us strive to know the Lord. His appearance is as sure as the dawn. He will come to us like the rain, like the spring showers that water the land.” Hosea 6:3)

I don’t wander very far from home these days;
I follow the path my feet have made looping the same
walkway today and tomorrow, Mondays and Yesterdays
and hold conversations in the late afternoon.
Sometimes I wonder if you hide from me,
or if it is me who masks my existence.
There are hints of perfume past the cherry trees
that have not yet blossomed. It is early March
and they are shaded by apple trees on the sunward side.

I have all day to rehearse the accompaniment
for a dozen voices this week. But I don’t like
the arrangement and my talents are rusty from
like of use.

I’d tell you more about what hovers within
but it would be the same story as a year ago,
the same yearnings, and mostly unmet,
that have grappled with my mind from the beginning
of my certainty that you would speak to me in ways
that would change my disappearing face into something
more beatific. I’ve searched for ecstatic visions just within
my latched doors. I should play my music more.

The trail I take every day is taller on one end than the other,
I arrive home, though, at the same altitude I began.
I should spend more time with my fingers
strumming my guitar.
Or hear words I could pour out in rhymes and
rhythms you could understand.

I pray the day will close with at least a line
of divine poetry as I wait like the trees for
Spring.

I Knew the Wound Had Closed

I Knew the Wound Had Closed

(“After the sun had set, people with all kinds of diseases were brought to Jesus. He put his hands on each one of them and healed them.” Luke 4:40)

How great is your power, your love, and your healing,
to touch mortal flesh like mine and leave me reeling
that I could survive so long without the warmth of you hands on my brow.
You cool the overheated wounds that still burst freely
like the first time they ruptured.

But in your touch, between your fingers, inside the hug
that lasted longer than any other hug,
there I found safety from the ways I only rewound my
wounds in moods of despair; I feared I would never
see the scars that reminded me they had once been healed.

It was under the stars, just as the sun was disappearing behind
the hills,
it was far away from a dark moon, it was dusky and chilled.
It was the time of evening when faces change. It was the time
that it takes longer to recognize friend or foe. That was when
I thought I saw you,
That was when I waited in line.

I never sang the blues, I know they would only cheer me up.
But dirges were on my tongue morning till evening, longer than
I spoke in the day.

I was marginally happy; I sat on the sidelines. I was invited to
parties I could not attend. I was unlawfully blind. But I knew
the touch the moment his fingers found my face and nearly
erased
every malignant nerve and thought. There, where the bats
flit above in the yawning light, I knew the wound was closed,
I was whole, and pain, though not entirely eliminated, might lead
me closer to the dawning sun.

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.