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.