The Soul Goes Slowly

The Soul Goes Slowly

(“Don’t be afraid, little flock, because your Father delights to give you the kingdom.” Luke 12:32)

The ego races to every spotlight to show off
its jeweled watches it won in the last skirmish.
The soul goes slowly, walking through the rain,
feeling the widow’s pain, taking it all in and standing
in the quiet of a Dream imagined before the world began.

The ego is a laser, burning off every resistance until
they are hollow, deaf and dumb.
The soul opens fully, hearing the stories of days
when nothing happened and knowing there was
substance in even those silent hours.

The empire land grabs sovereign entities, claiming
them and spilling blood. It will pay any cost for its victory.
The dream invites the newly arrived to enjoy a
slow summer day,
and puts burgers on the grill. The dream cannot imagine
a world without warm bonfires and warmer conversations.

The empire occupies the highest hill, overseeing its
next conquest. It is ready to alienate anyone who thinks
the world is not centered on their pronouncements.
The dream looks for the next person sleeping on the street
and gives them food, gives them hope, gives them room
to become. And so the dream is unseen. The dream is
not boisterous. It is subversive.

The dream is a gift,
empire is a theft.

Does it Show?

Does it Show?

(“Don’t worry—I am with you. Don’t be afraid—I am your God. I will make you strong and help you. I will support you with my right hand that brings victory.” Isaiah 41:10)

Does it show? Can you see the change on my face,
the brokenness of my gait? Do my steps seem slower today,
and can I point out all I’ve endured.
And have I paid for everything; am I completely cured?
Fear is the silence of a lion sneaking up without a roar.
Anxiety is the silence of songs that refuse to be sung.
I’ve sat through days I don’t want to describe,
I don’t want to hide. I stepped out yesterday and tried
out a little conversation. I never carried my half well,
letting the parentheses spill between questions and answers.
Do you believe? Can you see the rearrangements around my eyes;
can you hear the key change I no longer can sing?

I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I’m tired, no naps in my easy chair.
I read the side effects and lived out a few. I listened to the list
and hoped to sleep away the fatigue.

I’m pretty sure I am in no immediate danger, but my mind and
body
buzzes like a convict on his last walk around the grounds.
I’m pretty sure I am ok. I’m pretty sure the kingdoms are
not conspiring against me. I’m pretty sure I’ll lay me down
to sleep at the proper time.

I’m not sure how to celebrate; I’m unclear on the victory.
I’ve left some writing on the wall, but I may repaint soon.
I’ve read some ancient texts that decoded my younger aspirations.
I could tell you more, if only I had something weighty to say.
But I just play the radio and wish I would
play my guitar instead. I dedicated the room to music,
but there is nothing in my head. No notes, no lyrics,
no meaningful letter to trace between the lines of
manuscript pages.

Does it show? I’m slowly unwinding and willing to
play my songs if only I can find them. Can you loan me
an hour or two? I’ll play one song, but I don’t like how
I sing these days.
Does it show? Can you see what so much solo has done?

Sweetly Chastened

Sweetly Chastened

(“Do not be afraid, people of Zion; look, your king is coming, seated on a donkey’s colt!” John 12:15)

The breeze snuck up on me like the girl in
third grade who kissed my cheek and then
ran away.
I don’t remember her name. But I remember the
spot on my face where I blushed. I remember the
coolness on my forehead where the breeze stopped
me for just a moment.

I used to dream of kings. I used to dream of answers
that would solve household dilemmas. I used to dream
of days sitting on Crow Flies High Butte where you could see
upriver all the way to Montana and
hope I would see God.

And now I live on another river. I am Washington on one side,
you are Oregon on the other.

I used to speak like spirit was algebra, I used to write
like God was like the boulder the river erupted around as
it bent its way to the sea. I used to sing like the
answer could be found in
a secret chord and a name that, mentioned just once,
would bring all the horrors of nightmares to their knees.
I could cast the demons out of everyone else but
me.

I lusted for authority.

In Sacramento they trim the palms two weeks before Easter.
Five years in a row I gathered them so children and grandparents
could shout “Hosanna”. And then go vote for Republicans a few
months later.

In Minneapolis the pulpit thundered and a thousand people
were berated for
not being more like the donkey that Jesus rode upon, not being
willing to be his beast of burden.

Today I sit sweetly chastened. I am ready to meet the king
who drives a vw van. I am ready to meet the prince who walks
on the sand. I am ready to meet the lamb who subdues the lions
that undo the work of the Spirit. I am ready to be, more or less,
unknown so that

The king may be known in me.

And the Train Careened Off the Tracks

 

And the Train Careened Off the Tracks

(“You will not be afraid of the terror by night, or of the arrow that flies by day.” Psalm 91:5)

And the train careened off the tracks.

Maybe we are ugly for a reason,
maybe our crazy has hardened our faces.
I don’t know how to live normally,
there is too much that is contagious and
I live uncontained.

I visited the stage on the closing night
when several friends were players.
The music of drama, the greasepaint of comedy
have always enchanted me
and I wished I could join them in their
costumes and paces. Below the trodden boards
and after the curtain call
I walked past the limelight and loved
the champagne popping, the fogging machine
locked away for a season.
And I spent extra time with the one who,
though transferred from show to show,
removed from touch to memory,
had been my heart from Shakespeare to
silliness on high school afternoons. She
cried like we might never see each other again.

Sadness is not the same as fear,
tears are not equal to despair,
but the night remains restless while my
heart is tucked away beneath invisible arms.
Dreams come easy when the mind spills
from daylight frightening to night-time lighting
(just a covered bulb in the corner socket will suffice.)

And I ushered my thespian friends into the
next train hoping it would keep us all together
until the morning shone on our worn-out faces.
Settled in and lounging, drinks in hand and
kisses while the rails rocked us like a cradle
all the way

Until the end of the line when,
uninstructed about braking such a machine,
I sent the train careening off the tracks.

I awoke and you were gone; you had not died. But
still I miss you, whether in the long-waves of
memory
or the shortwave of dreams.

The Words Are My Breath

The Words Are My Breath

(“’Do not be afraid of those to whom I send you, for I will be with you to protect you,’ says the Lord.” Jeremiah 1:8)

One wrinkled brow could send me scowling away,
sunk in the debris of approval’s dregs.
The earth received my tears as often as
someone disagreed and split the infinite distance between
us into degrees of the absurd.
First to fear my failure (and my successes, I think)
I could plead for my life with the best of them
and then recalculate the trajectory of my words.

At the time I most needed a hand under my drooping head
the abyss echoed back every word that had curled back onto itself
and poked me in my dreams unsolicited. I saw myself.

I am troubled about the words that melt in the rain,
the promises spoken to air,
and bare ground with no promise of clumps of grass
or daffodils.

And yet I know the sun will have its way.
I know words are the spirit’s DNA.
I fear shallowness in my attempts to keep the
loneliness at bay.
Yet I cannot stay silent, the words are my breath
exhaled
and my spirit
unveiled.

The bruises of preselected subtraction
remain. I avoid certain domiciles and domains,
but have ceased to try to explain
the way spirit moves from Beginning Word
to beating heart
to breathing lungs
to tears and then droplets of words
that are silenced by some
and by others are heard.

Both Fire and Water

Both Fire and Water

(“So the angel said to her, ‘Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God!’” Luke 1:30)

Tell me what I do not know about you,
let me hear it from your lips and eyes;
wipe my assumptions, delete my unruly religion
and bring both fire and water
to burn and begin the
renewal within.

The future is frightening; and yet you are there.
The questions are lightning; but thunder is rare.
The answers are puzzling; but the favored air
imbues today’s suffering; and grace still dwells here.

I Reach For

I Reach For

(“I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand and say to you, ‘Don’t be afraid; I will help you.’” Isaiah 41:13)

Before melodies reach the boundaries where snow and
summer meet
I reach beyond the arid breath for someone’s forgotten smile.

The heat of uncertainty and the chill of maxims

leave me shoeless to cross the expanse of cracked earth
riverbeds. The petrified trees no longer wave in the breeze,
while gray lizards examine the painted desert as if they had
imagined every stroke of the brush.

I have loved more and seen less,
have ached deeper and floated so shallow my legs
dragged the bottom of flooded ponds. It all depends
on the weather this year, or next. Or the invitations
to dine on a wraparound porch (which I would likely accept)

Except

By the time we arrive my pain beckons me back home inside.

But the melodies will not cease, though they are harder to hear.
The monotony increases the white noise, the silence creases my
affections in perforated sections torn by the distant vistas unvisited.

Shall I stay quiet and go along for the ride? And yet the Mojave and
its wildness
invites me to find the others who wander out of time. I might have
been inclined to join them, or climb the butte, or descend the canyon

before the criminal pain that squeezes me dry became my calendar
and clockwork.

How shall I appease the voracious cry for more than sitting inside?
How shall I embrace a dearest friend when I have only a few minutes to lend?
How shall I explore, discover, seek and find what I started as a mission
and now is stuck dry?

How shall I know that the hand I reach for has already reached for
and taken mine?