Slowly Leaking

Slowly Leaking

(“You will be righteous, Lord, even if I bring a case against You. Yet, I wish to contend with You: Why does the way of the wicked prosper? Why do all the treacherous live at ease?” Jeremiah 12:1)

When will you let the iron hammer fall on the
plywood boxes of hypocrisy? When will you
lower the boom for the sake of the dying?
It used to bustle along the streets, the avenue
markets
were full of mothers and children.
When will you blow away the smog and smoke
that chokes the tiny lungs of these little ones?
Now the markets are dust and crumble and the
appendages of hope have disintegrated.

When will you judge, when will you answer?
When will you capture them, trapped by their own words?
Why is your timing so slow, so different than mine?
Why have you not destroyed the backroom plans
of the wicked? Why do the billionaires float above
it all like space rats escaping gravity?
Where is the moon on the nights of gloom;
hidden behind the shrapnel that exploded this
afternoon. The day is fading and we
fear the night when the sirens will bid us
to our bunkers and wait to next wave of destruction.

How long will the grass wither, how long until the
healing rains come?
How long until the unrighteous are taken
to task
who hide the truth behind spoiled facets of
sacred words?
Show them what their end will be, but do it
sooner before more are shot down in the streets by
icy masked men hunting for game.

Why do you take your time? Why do you delay?
Why does it take so long for you to drag them
with the dividing line of justice? Hear our petition;
act before we are all taken like a helium balloon
slowly leaking.
Take these words and give us a token,
hear the aches that we have spoken
and turn your face away from them who
pretend to speak for you.

This Groggy Heart

This Groggy Heart

(“If you feel you must brag, then have enough sense to brag about worshiping me, the Lord. What I like best is showing kindness, justice, and mercy to everyone on earth.” Jeremiah 9:24)

You stayed long after every thought had its day.
You were the heaviness of contemplation and the
lightness of hilarity when morning came.
My mind is still stuffed with worries,
my brain with the unease that comes from
dreams filled with inadequacy. I need
you
closer than ever and every moment
when my thoughts stray like neighborhood dogs
on the prowl. I need the kindness that meets me
in the middle of my dirge. I need the laughter that lasts
well beyond the afternoon.

The earth feels old today, long in the tooth and
bearded in gray. It was younger when I walked to
the corner bowling alley and played pinball most
of the afternoon. I thought summer was the
best playground and would never end.
The earth feels stale today, I hate to say it.
For I know it is full of verdant discoveries and
colors of autumn as the leaves depart for the winter.

While I clean out the cobweb thoughts, you remain,
just the same,
and bid me mirror your love at the speed of light.
Can I, quietly and quickly, silence the report of gunfire
and let the drops of rain coax life from this
groggy heart of mine?

Soundproof Panels

Soundproof Panels

(“To whom can I speak and give warning? Who will listen to me? Their ears are closed so they cannot hear. The word of the Lord is offensive to them; they find no pleasure in it.” Jeremiah 6:10)

I know you gave yourself over to ghosts
many years ago. Finally, most of them escaped outside,
but a few remained within. They filled your ears with
consequential thievery. They blocked them from any
scenery that might change your mind and make you ache
for better paragraphs to enter your head.

And why did you swallow those stones that stopped halfway
down your digestive tract to take the place of you heart?
When did you decide to replace your eyes with gray and black
kaleidoscopes.?

You used to sing “Be Thou My Vision” from memory:

    Riches I heed not, nor vain, empty praise.
    Thou mine inheritance, now and always;
    Thou and Thou only first in my heart.
    High King of heaven, my treasure Thou art.

But today you sing a different tune so out of key, so under
spooned. You’ve kept up the masquerade so well that
people still throng to hear your catchphrase wisdom. No one
leaves
without dropping a ten on the box at the front of your door.

What can god say that would turn you round. What could
any of us do to open the blockage of your ears? When did it
seem so right to declare God as “only first in my heart”
while you deny the very song that sets free.

I remember your eyes, ages ago, bright with pleasure at the
thought that god was at work in the world. Now he recruits
you and all is stone and soundproof panels shut up against the
chambers of your heart.

The Visitor

The Visitor

(“Be devoted to each other with mutual affection. Excel at showing respect for each other.” Romans 12:20)

I like the way you glided in under the radar.
You came in peace.
I came outside.
I was grumpy.
You were friendly.

You looked for answers and accepted my
question marks.
All they wanted were receipts to prove my
intentions.
My lethargy was the power of inertia
that held me in pieces on the floor.

My wings were weary; I had flown well
into the night.
I put that candle in the window hoping
that you would see
the fainting flame that called for something
deeper than miserly friendship.

You asked no questions,
you waited for me to talk.
I had run on sentences and nothing really to say.

Did you bring anyone with you or did you
travel alone?
I have been a solitary one ever since
I shared my opinion
once over the limit.

Did you come because the wick was fading;
did you bring a notebook to take notes like a
beat cop might do?
But I see your hands are empty and there is
soup on the stove. Can I serve us a little bowl even
though conversation is limited to weather and sweaters
I haven’t worn in a year?

But you made the effort so perhaps I should offer
something more than broth in a spoon. If you want the
truth,
you’ll need to stay awhile. I’ve uncovered
passages below myself I never knew existed.
I am not the same man you knew
55 years ago.

Caution’s Tale

Caution’s Tale

(“I remember the loyalty of your youth, your love as a bride—how you followed me in the wilderness, in a land not sown.” Jeremiah 2:2b)

I’ve become more cautious, no longer the giddy bride
that was always up for a day in the sun. Today all I can say
is that I’ve hidden myself behind the clouds. But even overcast
I think
you can find my shadows on the ground.
Or did you trace my calls to discover
my secret abode?

I followed through barren and bountiful times.
I assumed I was still lovely, still attracting the
best vows like the ones at first. My confusion came
when other loves of yours started searching for
every member of the family who had ever dropped
off, slowing their stride and veering into unknown pastures.

I could list my reasons for making a cave out of this haze.
I could tell you everything you already know and I still would
not be certain you had heard. Love was all around me to start,
until I slipped twice and more and the only ones knocking on
my door were the ones who picked up the stones I had
dropped along the way.

So, take a picture of me up here behind the clouds;
focus your camera on so much social anxiety that I would
prefer to be hidden this close to the sun.
There was a day I would have taken a chance and called out
the name of someone walking on asphalt below me. Today I
put on my shades and look the other way.

Do you still think of me the same way even though I’ve
hidden myself so far away? Do you want me to empty
myself of every discolored quotation that was served at
my table? I know you allow my doubts, but will you allow
me without the risks I leaped over to prove my worth?

I can’t promise anything and I may still take cover behind
the cumulus and under the sun. I’ll keep my eyes open, though,
and my mind still speaking caution’s tale.

Leaning Off Kilter

Leaning Off Kilter

(“The Lord God has put his Spirit in me, because the Lord has appointed me to tell the good news to the poor.” Isaiah 61:1a)

I was leaning slightly off kilter. The day
started this way.
Cautious and crackling, my morning
dragged on. I heard the words.
I woke to them circling consciously
salting my soul. They floated from the
ancient prophet. They landed in the lap
of peasants and kings. They were the onramp
to the freedom highway. They were at the end
of the map I seldom saw.

I was feeling like some foul weather. The day
continued that way.
But the words propelled me. Sitting still I
nearly flew. I imagined the power that good
stories can bring. Maybe the words would
chase away the fright of midafternoon.
And maybe the evening would arrive richer.
Maybe the pennies I saved could mark the spot
where I heard words first. Maybe the story
would woo me to sleep. Maybe I will dream
of the next adventure along freedom highway.

The Dot My Pencil Made

The Dot My Pencil Made

(“I live in a high and holy place. But I also live with people who are sad and humble. I give new life to those who are humble. I give new life to those whose hearts are broken.” Isaiah 57:15b)

Do you see the dot my pencil made;
Can you see the spot my tears undried?
I jotted down the training notes that taught
me to curtsy like a little girl in the face of
the divine.

Can I tell you a secret; will you hear the words
I display?
I never shouted as loud as the rest of you; I didn’t
think
god was hard of hearing.

But in private I ached, I bent, I tormented myself
into believing I was as alone as the graphite period
at the end of a meandering sentence. In public I made sure
I stayed on my knees at least as long as the
last one to leave.

My diaphragm jackknifed and my lungs hunted air
that was so spare in my unforgiving sadness. I was
suspect the whole time. Depression recruited me stronger
than the hands laid upon my head. The last time
I asked for prayer to take away my blackness

They decided to cast out demons and left their hands
hanging at their sides.

Do you see the laser on the wall;
Can you see the light so tiny it nearly faded?
I called in my reinforced bunker for the help
I craved. And though my tears continued

Like something that, if it had been you,
we might share a beer over consolation that
god had placed you there.

Until I Reached Home

Until I Reached Home

(“Also the Spirit helps us because we are weak. We do not know how we should talk to God. But the Spirit himself talks to God for us, while we cry and cannot say any words.” Romans 8:26)

I keep my lips ready to voice the mysteries I
cannot
understand.
And so it looks like I am merely whistling as the
world turns
around.
Tears peek out underneath my eyes,
my diaphragm contracts like a cat on the roof.
Words are swallowed up before they ever
meet
the air.
With my mouth wide open I find I have
nothing
to say.
I cannot define the places or the pieces that
I always thought would be easy when the
tragedy
hit.
But words escaped me and God must have been
exasperated with my limited vocabulary. I had
very little left to
express
these
canned prayers I had heard from others so often.

There was a moan that started within me,
from my gut to my throat. It pushed all the
meager
words
out of the way as it escaped through my mouth.
There were tears that carried the entire alphabet
down
to
the bottom of my shirt. There were no more
poses,
no
bowing or standing with arms upraised. In fact,
I was walking when the spirit took
my feeble attempts and presented them to
God,
a bouquet of longing and song of redemption.
I uttered no words but was satisfied until I
reached
home.

Irrigation

Irrigation

(“So I have learned this rule: When I want to do good, evil is there with me.” Romans 7:21)

Something has clogged the pipes;
the clear water pours out cloudy.
Every moment we desire purity another
argument is made to wrap ourselves up
into the longer way home.
I am the rope in this infernal
tug-of-war.
I could send more money if I drank
less whiskey.
Who can cut the ties to the shell of myself
that disturbs my best intentions like a shovel
of greasy dirt.

I could play all day if these shadows
would allow. I could have that conversation
we have been hinting at for years.
But something sways everything I try to say it.
I could repeat the melodies I once memorized
and sing them like hope on the horizon.
But my memory is faulty and something
tells me I’d start a fire if I pointed out the
muscled desires that wrestle me so far from home.

To tell you the truth I am afraid of people
and the time it takes to discern what harm
they might impose if we got closer than now.
Do I look fine and does my face disguise the
battle inside? Have I fooled you as well as I
have fooled myself? Or can we both admit
the gravitational pull that sucks us below the
waves of grace?

But the current that threatens to tear me away
from myself
is weaker than fresh-water eddies that
carry me deeper into the heart of it all.
I’ve been cut off by parentheses, first and
beyond. But, opened by two swipes of a pen,
I can read again the paragraphs highlighted in
blue and green. I’ll read them again to
remind myself that mercy is almost always found
just around the corner and just inside our foolish
assumptions of death. The waters bring life
and irrigate my waiting mind.

Expand the Joy

Expand the Joy

(“Such people are too stupid to know what they are doing. They close their eyes and their minds to the truth.” Isaiah 44:18)

Tell it to me truthfully; let your eyes tell the story
from end to end. Do not avert them, do not close them.
Keep them open so the light can fill you with truth. I
know you haven’t slept well in days. What is it that
keeps you up, that spins your mind so violently, that
makes slumber an impossible dream?

When did it start, this disassociation from the light?
How soon can you return, can you come back,
can you discern the poems written to bypass the
guards on duty in front of you brain?

You sectioned it all off like voting districts the
shape of dragons. The confusion threw you off your game.
When did you get the idea to fashion an idol out of
a narcissist that stole all the gold? How did it finally
happen, these new accolades you gave, this
brunt of the joke?

Long before when we knew our pathway so straight,
we could take in the full light of day and make a party
of it. But now the darkness has bought you for a song
and a dime and will not refund a millisecond this time.
Will you feed your idol with promised votes for every
scheme it deceives you with? Will you dip your toe in
the water on the shore that was created to wash your
eyes clean again? Your idol did not even conceive stars or
the planets and could not deliver the healing it promised.

Come where the sunshine bleaches the dark pattern baldness
that tied your worship up in with rubber-band hands.
Let the light burst your bubble, the echo chamber that
changed your faith into futility. Turn panoramic,
and get the bigger picture that idols can never fill.
It’s easy to wrap our worship around something that
hands out promises like Christmas candy. But look
in your hands. Are they sticky with sugar, or are they
calloused from trying to get back over the fence?

You’re welcome here, the invitation still stands.
We can walk the meadow in the sun and then
walk the urban sidewalk where the homeless
gather hoping for someone to see them, to see
them clearly, to sit with them nearly an hour.
That’s what changed my eyes, and that’s how
I expanded the joy I had sought so long.

Raising My Hand

Raising My Hand

(“God’s grace is multiplied even more for many people with the gift—of the one person Jesus Christ—that comes through grace.” Romans 5:15b)

I used to be the first to raise my hand
and ask leading questions in search of agreement.
I used to jump through the opening sliver of windows
to explore the meanings I had already defined.
I could take them like mountains on the skyline,
I could refine them like new words unsigned.

I never contemplated long, it all was a bore;
but I filled my head with information and could tell you
what all the thinking was for.
I could take the voices, I could sing the songs
much longer than the epochs would allow.
I could see the heart of the matter inside the
walls that held every cautious belief safely inside.

I kept it up for far too long. I was certain I would
coax the applause of the redeemed by my well-reasoned
monologues and time. But the sand moved
quickly
beneath my feet and the heat of a thousand suns
pushed me down until the launch party I had
dreamed about burned on the sinking ground.

I heard silence and it was frightening.
I had no more questions to ask.
I had no defense. Everything felt recent,
every turn of the road another foolish move
meant to find the meaning of my vanishing words.
There was one breath I could not escape,
one song, one tune, one lyric of grace.
So I walked softly again and tried to apprehend
the way the sand felt between my toes and the
sun toasted my shoulders.  

Parroted

Parroted

(“These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me.” Matthew 15:8)

Were your so worried about repercussions that you
turned down the plea of the ragged sojourner?
Did you insist on teaching her the holy lyrics that
you parroted on weekends to thin air?
Did you ask them how they voted to be certain
you had vetted their appropriate costumery?
You might stay with them while the daylight lingered,
but where are you when the shuddering night begins?

Did you inquire about their language, the chief way
you measured their worth? What were the weights you
manufactured to put around their necks again?
How many demands have you made of their antiquities,
how many reprimands for their wrinkled skin?
Do you expect everyone to hear the way your
doorbell announces the days, the hours, the power
that ignores the passion at your door that is stronger
than a ghost?

You wear a gun on your hip when you walk into worship.
The meek shall inherit the earth.
You hold meetings to discuss the upkeep of a building used
only a few hours a week.
The poor shall be filled.
You still smolder over stakes you have claimed that
left others in the lurch.
The peacemakers will be called the children of God.

You want a nation more than you love the church.
You want pats on the back for handing out tracts to those
who can barely walk.
You’ve drawn the line so wide that
it’s become a moat. And the drawbridge is never
lowered
for the occupants left on the outskirts of your hegemony.
You use your authority and excuses to reduce your own liability.

You’ll be shocked at the ones you held at arm’s length who
find God’s embrace before you finish public piety and amens.

Did You Pick Him Out

Did You Pick Him Out

(“When he disembarked and saw the vast crowd, his heart was moved with pity for them, and he cured their sick.” Matthew 14:14)

Did you pick him out of the crowd,
the lonely one barely drudging through his grief?
Did you stay just a moment longer to
share his tears as your own?
He turned away,
embarrassed at his shame.
But like daylight you came
and sought him out anyway.

His years were longer than he could count,
his afternoons yawning into early dusk.
He was invisible to those who knew him longest,
silent to those who had heard him cry.
They had memorized his ache,
had touched every blemish on his face and felt
they knew all there was to know and so
left him alone.

He blended into the throng, didn’t he?
He had walked the curving shoreline so long
that his feet throbbed the same as his face and
he imagined you might see him anyway.

Did the crowd call you? Did they dig into
your recent loss? Did your heart capture their signal
like a radio after dark?
Did their eyes call you from your solitary heartache
into their own? You saw them all but you also
saw
him
who wondered if things would always remain the same.

Healing the sick,
feeding the hungry
has always been your way, hasn’t it?
Seeing the one,
touching the single
among the throng you healed them all.

Overgrowth of Grace

Overgrowth of Grace

(“The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and hid again. In his joy, he goes away and sells all that he has and buys that field.” Matthew 13:44)

There is more underfoot than simply the understanding of
sand and soil. Someone sowed the gems into the ground and
another one found them. Hidden became probable and
discard became possible on a sluggish walk back home.

He did not own much and owed more than he gained.
His accounts were in arrears even though he had watched
them like a hawk after a field mouse. He never imagined
the daylight would lead him to see what someone else had forgotten.

It had not occurred to him that luck had a hand to play.
It always had been a day to day of just scraping by.
It was not a lack of effort that caused him to walk that day.
It was just another moment when the thoughts were imprisoned
in his head.

He was never cloud-high, his feet always reached the ground.
His mind was one day dark and one day fire, and mostly full
of memories he wished would return. He endured the hoary
downturn that made up epithets that never rhymed.

But this day he stubbed his toe. This day the overflow
made him stop short and look. The sun was refracted
through the late mist and just as he stopped walking he
bent over to see the treasure below. Who had hidden this
there?

He rooted through his pockets; he examined all his
balance sheets and decided to buy the land that had
bruised his toe. The well-enclosed walls of his soul
opened like the first morning of the week.

No one had predicted this and no plans were made,
but happenstance surrounded his sodden walk and, like
a jackrabbit from a coyote, shot him from the old
illusions to his present overgrowth of grace.

The Waning Day

The Waning Day

 ^(“He will take away death for all time. The Lord God will dry tears from all faces.” Isaiah 25:8a)

What will we become after we have waited for
the setting of the sun? How shall we meet the long
shadows of the waning day? Time sped up while
we were busy carrying the hours on our backs.
We would rather not walk in the rain.

We took the time in parcels, portions meant to
be divided at a moment’s notice. We wrote the
return address in red and green to be satisfied
it would be seen. We were hedging our bets and
circling zip codes and licking envelopes stamped
with names we thought we remembered.

You must forgive me but I’m trying to capture
as much radiance as I can
before the lights go out and the air turns brief.
We wanted to share the relief that the coming day
was certain to bring.

Grief can make you feel invisible. Grief can
continue long past the due date other have
scribbled for you. Grief is silence in a world
that seems to have nothing to say and says it
from the start of every day.

But there is a love that is stronger than death,
a light brighter than a cloudless noon,
a hand wipes the tears and wounds away.
Greif and hope can exist in a single heart,
learning to cope with loss and future at once.

The door is open, the latch is unlocked,
The moments will come; days will last
from circle to circle and round and down,
the tears will be dried and the songs will

Remind us that every sunset had its day.

Another Color, Another Hue

Another Color, Another Hue

It seems it is time to wander
through the afternoon, looking for love
or something to call mine.
I had settled in for the evening when
the phone buzzed like an area code for
somewhere I had forgotten. I could have taken
things slower if only there were more people
to gather around a central theme.
Morning turned a cold shoulder to me
so I am depending on the afternoon to light
me up like a few friends sipping beers.

The days pass too quietly for me,
the moments full of melancholy that
masquerades as perpetual motion.

It’s true the days get in the way of
lightly wondering where the next smile
will grow. I did not invite this pain;
it shows up voluntarily. Truth is,
I probably could not find an interesting
sentence even surrounded by a handful of
friends.
But I still must fill the afternoon with something.

I turn slowly back to myself when the
loneliness comes like fog hugging the coastal hills.
I could sing you a lifeboat full of courage if
only my voice would not crack like ice, like rain.
Today is dressed up with nowhere to go. It merely
twirls and winds its way until the sun begins to set.
It brings the meandering morning to a close. I will
look for something new, another color,
for coming from so far away.

The Next Person

The Next Person

I pulled it down from off the shelf and
almost had sticker shock.
But I had nothing in my pockets and
had nothing left to lose.
You should have heard the double
dose
I incurred by waiting so long to be
heard. I could have waited till the
stores had all closed to inspect
the empty way they made me feel.
I had enough money to start the day
but unforeseen fortune had scraped it
away.

I knew the pattern that started a half
a century ago. I could feel the peaks
and valleys
laughing at my need for mediocrity.
Could we just agree that the facts
did not add up to our expectations?

I once believed and now I’m agnostic;
I once performed casual exorcisms
in my living room. I first heard someone
calling for Grandfather and corrected their
theology.

Now I shopped for sparklets and hunted the
the aisles for new hues to paint the day.
I might purchase them with credit if I cannot
find a way to earn my keep. I’ll walk the
steep sidewalks like a penitent. I’ll stay
close to the ground.

I put it back on the shelf and left it for
the next person behind me.

Like a Morning Glory

Like a Morning Glory

(for Theo)

You took me on adventures when you were 10.
I carried the backpack; you carried our bed. We plotted our
path to hidden countries in the basement. We got McDonald’s
ice cream and pizza because you did so well on your science exam.

Now you are 18, an adult, a fully formed fascination with life.
You carry the world like an explorer investigating the causes
of sky-birds who flew just above your head.

The earth is yours and all its fullness. The questions wait for
your examination. You carry them like postcards in your pocket.
You have rarely feared their answers; you waited for a solo voice.

I’ve seen you dance so certain that the floorboards captured your feet.
I’ve watched you sketch a friend or a new plant.
I’ve listened to you sing and tuned it like saltwater taffy.

Let the tailwinds send you higher, let the warm sun playfully
extract your laughter. May your curiosity carry you abundantly
into dog-eared chapters you will remember and remember again.

I can’t name them all, but you will, I’m sure. What do you
call that tree with heart-shaped leaves? How many colors are there
for daffodils or tulips? Can I transplant these peonies?

Let the wonder guide you; let it outsize the questions you pose,
the oceans you cross, and the friends who break bread with you.
I know the music will always lie just under the place where

Your heart beats for the friends you’ve made and the new ones
to come. You can change the world; you can spark it with hope.
You can share the taste of the river of life for every parched soul.

Your song continues, the new chorus is being written.
Sing it surely, sing it long. Leaving home you’ll find
the home will always return to you. Take your time.

May God’s hand guide you, may the rains fall warmly on your path.
May the blessings of constant sunlight capture your eyes.
And may this day, so full of promise, open like a morning glory budding.

February to August (a scrap)

February to August (a scrap)

 

The silence opened up an abundance of
opportunities. To spend the afternoon with a book
seemed like the closest thing to a best friend. To spend
the day with a best friend seemed intentionally out of reach.

The seas are unchanging, but the seasons turn steadily away
from hands reaching out for another golden sip of sunshine.
Not every day is a success story. Some are simply times of
waiting for the moon to rise.

He opened a playlist of bands from the 1960s and it moved his
writing forward in lurches and screeches. Lyrics crept in
and he pasted them slyly into his unfinished poem. No one
could blame him for his mini stolen phrases.

He looked out the window where neighbors watched ICE
kidnap the family across the street. That was mid-February
and nothing was colder than the way they dragged their
unwarranted catch into the cold and out of the blue.
It stopped him for a moment, this August afternoon in
Minneapolis. He wondered what he would do, and what
he would have done. He pointed his castaway moments toward
another stage of life and wondered
if the silence was
large enough to take captive every aging
beat of his heart.

A Sturdy Life

A Sturdy Life

(“So ask the Lord of the harvest to send workers out into his harvest field.” Matthew 9:38)

Wonder meets wonder in the eyes of
the downtown walkers habituating themselves to the sun.
It was the same as it had been the day before,
warm on the sidewalks of lazy ambition. The storefronts
had been blinking themselves open for the mid-morning rush.
Eyes to eyes the morning warmed on to the apex of the day.
Many believed the dream was just around the corner,
other had not given in a moment’s thought.

Meanwhile in the neighborhood nearby a man returned
the dogs he had been watching for his friend who returned
from another state on a week-long vacation. She walked out
the door to meet him in black slippers down the steps
and onto the concrete walkway with grass planking through
the cracks. He drove away and u-turned at the end of the block.
She waited for him to pass by again so he would
remember her waving goodbye.

What is the greatest number we can enliven; where are the
rulebooks that instruct us in the gardens of our incubation?
How many friends do we carry from childhood; how many
still fascinate our minds? Do we still remember their
phone numbers, or at least the area code? Can we still feel
the slatted stoops where we listened to Peter, Paul, and Mary
and comedy records in the afternoon?

I wander daily through current applications and past
evaluations of joy we left half exhausted. We found
ourselves filled, though, the next time we renovated our
restlessness again. Hope against hope, we believed that
behind someone’s eyes, we might see the promises
we daydreamed about.

All in all, it’s been a sturdy life built on words we fashioned,
images we sculpted, and the cities we founded in our brains.
Here’s hoping the sacred music that spun our days opened the
light for each other across our spatial habitations.

Our Perfecter in Pain

 Our Perfecter in Pain

(“Seeing the crowds, He felt compassion for them, because they were distressed and downcast, like sheep without a shepherd.” Matthew 9:36)

Scattered like rain-soaked ashes they
dotted the landscape with their bodies aching.
They had tried to do it all on their own, they had
run so hard that they were almost wasted away. Now
they were etched in silence where their wounds were newly
opened for everyone to see.
They held up cardboard signs; they were their hearts they
silently advertised.
Some were broken, torn in two. Some were perforated and
almost split apart. The day had been strenuous
on the
anniversary of their discontent. They blamed no one
and were the same during the day as they were through
their straining nights. They refused to change their tune
even if no one listened. They did not change to a
happier key
but kept insisting that something had caused them harm.

They had not come to play, though the notion had crossed
their minds. It was all too magnetic, this melancholy that
settled uninvited upon their buried hopes. They were just
as alive as ever, but every movement was an ache that
threatened to split their humanity down the middle.
It wasn’t subtle, but it had been easily ignored.

Oh shepherd, our sheep-gatherer, stitch our dreams with
your story of healing. Can our heartbreak belong to you,
can you unfasten our sorrow for just a day? We live
but are weary; we are not fashioned for this daily
slicing of our minds. We are victims of the seasons
and love out of time. Candidly we would like to name
the captors of our dissatisfaction.

Oh healer, our perfecter in pain, see us again
and remove the blame we carry too high upon our
shoulders. Join us as the center of our multitude;
remind us with crossbeam love that all suffering
belongs to you, belongs to you.

Belongs to you.

Sharing Our Pillow

Sharing Our Pillow

(“Your two breasts are like two fawns, twins of the gazelle grazing among the lilies.” Song of Solomon 4:5)

If I knew it wouldn’t wake you I would
lay my head between your breasts to hear your
even breath circling our bed. I would listen
to your heartbeat, so much steadier than mine.

Your skin would be soft like satin beneath my
ragged mane. Your body moving to the rhythm of
late night slumber as the room filled with our
body lotion and sweat.

I am safe here, with your body next to mine;
I have always found the way you desire me makes
me desire you more. Our kisses are memories
of sweet music and daily sweat.

When we were young, we explored each other
and fascinated each other and fulfilled each other
like wheat stalks in the wind. We were sated with
love and played in the night breeze where no one could find us.

That was 50 years ago, and you still fascinate me.
Your child-like sensuality makes me long to laugh
myself out of the doldrums I feel. You turn your lips
to me every time “Kiss Me” is played.

I have always found healing in the warmth between your breasts,
found uncommon release when sleep so often evaded me.
Your caresses reassured me when confidence fled my mind.
We blazed sometimes, like fire, and burned the bonds
that knotted our captive hearts. We made love like
we were brand new and I learned to listen for the
whispered moans that told me I would sleep well sharing
our pillow and intertwined until morning.

The Company of Middling Folk

The Company of Middling Folk

(“Be not overly righteous, and do not make yourself too wise. Why should you destroy yourself?” Ecclesiastes 7:16)

Did they remember your name those days after
you told of all your conquests and had knocked out those
demons and unclean spirits with merely a word?
Did they pay attention to you when you outlined the
hours of prayer you spent over the weekend and all the
food you refused to eat while everyone else was dining?
Did you think you were dying to exhibit that your best pal was god,
and that everyone knew you to be one righteous brother?
Did you run a popup prayer room where your power petitions
buried everyone’s nose in your pious practices? Did you think
that would raise your esteem among the ladies and gentlemen who
never encountered someone of your holy fame?

And those sayings of yours, those pithy sentences that sounded
convoluted but you said were so simple a child could understand them.
You told parables, but they wound around themselves like condiments
hid in the back of the refrigerator. You pronounced stories you insisted
were heavenly blue, heavenly true. Only a few wondered about their
origin, and among them one or two who considered they were lifted from
someone else’s anthology of folk wisdom.

I’d prefer the company of middling folk who know a joke and tell it
knowing we have heard it before. I prefer the camaraderie of men and women
who carry food so quietly that no one in the neighborhood hears them
ring the bell at the old widow’s door. And they don’t stay for long,
just enough to make sure she doesn’t need anything more. I prefer
the company of people who never outline their acts for the big wigs
to hear. They may go to coffee after their excursions but never brag
about their respectability.

When we boasted to each other of our exploits, we found our appetite
for goodness had taken a dive. When we pontificated about words of
wisdom
loudly in the ruckus room, they turned their backs to us and left us
standing alone. We learned the lesson quickly. We learned the ways of
kindness without announcing it to the world. And we were far more
satisfied, our righteousness and wisdom, quietly showing up the next
time someone needed them. And quietly we would respond, do what
we could do, and apologize there was not more.

I Let My Hands Hang

 

I Let My Hands Hang

(“But I say to you, do not resist the evildoer. But whoever strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other to him as well.” Matthew 5:39)

The long dark night gave way to the
floating sun and the light of day.
And I remembered why my sleep was so restless,
why my breakfast was so careless
and the memories of a singular slap to the face
replaced the peaceful dreams I could not recall.

I woke restless but the perpetrators were long gone
and all I had was a bruise below my eye.
I was proud (is that the word) that my hands
stayed at my side, that I did not answer back nor
threaten with stinging reprimands. I was not a
wholesaler who bought my offenses at bargain
prices to sell and release my hold on them.

The bruises quickly fade; the memory reaches
so far back it is ingrained like a limestone cave.
I should have counted to ten more slowly and then
back to one again. But the picture is finally floating
down the shallow rivulet toward the deeper water where
it falls below the waves whipped by the wind.

I cannot control my dreams. I have sometimes allowed them
to control me. Some I have dismissed with hasty fear,
others I wish had come true throughout the soundless breeze
of the day.

I would learn a better silence in the face of mistrusted words
that flew toward my mind. I let my hands hang.