Tide Pools

Tide Pools

(“I will send an angel before you…” Exodus 33:32a)

The blue wall formed the front of the visage
from the cliffs above the sea. The marine layer
hugged the coast like a mother dolphin, like a day
when the sun yawned until noon.
We had driven overnight to arrive there, hoping
the tidepools were full of orange anemones and
sandy starfish. We wore our best shoes to keep from
cutting the heels of our feet.

When we looked behind us our shadows disappeared
into the frothing waves. When we looked above us
the blue was gray, and the breeze was unsteady.
When we looked before us we saw more than we
saw below us. We expanded the day beyond yesterday’s
noontime vigils. We had planned this for longer than we
admitted.
We could not see it, but we had been led there by
by the uncreated spirit of divine presence.

We heard the bells behind us pealing like iron
from a forgotten California mission. Had the worshippers
come from the edges of the city; had the celebrants
begun their homage to the sea?

We discovered more music surrounding us in
the whistling of the wind, the cawing of the gulls, the
whispers of the waves receding from the rocks. We
listened and the lyrics came to remind us that these
tight spaces on the earth can be fuller than a cup
overflowing
with late summer wine. We are spots, we are dots,
we are only the tiniest drops of water on the
sphere we inhabit. And sometimes, if we notice,
there is more to see than we came to see.

The Melody Fell Like Rain

The Melody Fell Like Rain

(“But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. For behold, I bring you good news of great joy, which will be for all people.’” Luke 2:10)

You sitting in limbo between dusk and dawn,
you’ve drawn your boundaries in the dark,
built your fortresses by dimming firelight.
You couldn’t see, which forced you to emit
certainties to keep away the cold and fright.
Even when the wind turned
you insisted the world was ending.
(I should say, for clarity,
all would be destroyed except your indoctrinated
minority.)

But on the edge of your eyeliners, arrowheads and
atomic defenses, there is a riff floating down from
unheeded clouds. The stars were obscured, so you
observed nothing but pre-quake jitters. You thought
the end was near.

Acid jazz sounds so ominous in the middle of the night.

But the melody fell like rain on the other side of the hill,
the riff that began like Voodoo Chile woke a cohort whose
campfire was all the light they needed. They had told stories
all night,
they had watched the lambs asleep
and played harps and pipes, sung highland and
baritone, mostly out of tune.

Even as the wind turned they remained undisturbed,
caught up in ancient tales, sagas passed down for centuries.
As the drops of heaven floated above their heads, one,
then another,
then each, then all,
laid down their voices and muted their lyres to hear
the song that had no beginning, the song that would never end.

It was sung backwards, as far as they could tell, but the
meaning was clear,
the words and tempo, 120 bbm, matched their own pulse
as they stood in wonder.
This was new and not a traditional fable; it was familiar,
but felt ageless, lyrics sifting through the layers of dust
that had settled like wrinkles on human faces.

Joy was a comma. Now it was exclaimed. Joy was a
rest stop. Now it was uncontained. Joy was a possession.
Now it was unrestrained.

This is How

This is How

(“This is how the birth of Jesus the Messiah came about: His mother Mary was pledged to be married to Joseph, but before they came together, she was found to be pregnant through the Holy Spirit.” Matthew 1:18)

I don’t know how the angel felt, or if angels can feel at all;
to announce it, to unroll the scroll of the new and holy meeting
God would have with the waiting world. Though nearly every mother
dreamed
her baby boy, her firstborn, would be the one, the foretold Son

The Lord promised would bruise the serpent’s heel.

Though *YHWH promised, the prophets had announced in clearness
and shade, the coming and anointed One, the expectations ebbed and swayed
as days delivered less vital force and more simple hand-to-mouth tedium,
when God is acknowledge but seldom sought or begged.

Though *YHWH spoke, and the Word so rhythmic and poetic, was
passed down in every sacrifice sent to desolation, and every feast meant
for celebration. Perhaps the rythmns of life had rocked the holy longings
to sleep. Perhaps the beloved napped away the moment when *YHWH
sent the explosive message to two who loved, and pledged, and softly waited
their joyous wedding day and consummation.

Oh *YHWH, how uncommon are your plans. We stumble in circles at the
turns you manufacture and the dead ends where angels wrestle us,
rupture our hips and call it a blessing.

But we do not plan the journey, the journey plans us. And you sent,
perhaps a cold April,
your brightest announcement through an angel’s whisper
to a teenage miss who only knew to say “yes” when angels come
calling.

  

*Not to be enunciated when read aloud. Leave a pause.