Finches on Fenceposts

 Finches on Fenceposts

(“He was manifested in the flesh, vindicated in the spirit, seen by angels, proclaimed to the Gentiles, believed in throughout the world, taken up in glory.” 1 Timothy 3:16b)

When you see things that cannot be heard,
when you hear things that cannot be measured,
when the clouds are ellipses,
and the sun fades the print on the page;
when distractions no longer need explanation
and the breeze turns from inland without provocation,
then islands will rise and hills
give up their advantages.
Minds will make use of algebra and art,
songs engage the full spectrum of light.

But when faith is reduced to research and development,
and God already believes the same things as you,
nothing changes except caged imaginations
chained to iron links of cause and effect.

Today I observed a finch believing it was an eagle,
roosted upon a tiny fencepost.
Then I remembered that I imbibed of nature
far before I understood a thing.

She Earned Her Living from Art

 

She Earned Her Living from Art

(“The light is pleasant, and it is good for the eyes to see the sun.” Ecclesiastes 11:7)

 

The sky was creamsicle orange late on a December afternoon;
haze and long rays from between the hills lit the early evening dimly.
It did not seem a night for reverie,
the day had crushed even the lowest expectations
and sleep seemed a distant and uncertain relief.

I met her only briefly,
truth be told, it was a dream,
hair black as youth,
cheeks like candle-glow,
skin the color of Arizona stucco.
I knew her,
and did not.
She said she earned her living from art.
I said I did not.

I did not see her entire gallery,
but misty frames in the background hung on gray concrete.
They drew me in as certainly as her raven eyes.
She was oil and acrylic, digital graphite and
fashion design.
She stood eye to eye with me,
invited me without words to join her collective,
to share my oeuvre of writing with her.

She stood straight and I slid to my knees;
not a faint and not a bow,
but a balloon without air; I was still an
unpublished poet. And she earned her living
from art.

The morning was neapolitan; I am sure of it. Though
I woke after dawn, the colors of the sun and the
face of the girl remained until the afternoon rains
washed them
mostly away.

The Assignment

The Assignment

(“I have seen a limit to all perfection, but your commandment is exceedingly broad.” Psalm 119:96)

While waiting for the ribbons and awards,
the long speeches and large completions of appointed
projects assigned to portray (I hesitate to say) the
meaning of life;
I grew antsy, shifting my weight on the slap-down
metal chairs with half a back and unbalanced legs,
and my spine contracted as thank-yous dragged on
from noon till the heat of the day settled about us
like a sloppy hug from a field worker at the end of
a summer’s day.

The judges had spent their volunteer hours comparing
length and width, perspective and wit, color and the
best use of objects found. Poets scratched with pebbles,
novelists broke their fingers, photographers, it is true,
pinholed with cantaloupes and trashed food wrappers.
Oh, and the artists, the paint and brush, dabbed at
tree trunks with chewing gum.

That’s all a lie…I made it up as I wrote, poetic
license which I paid for and has never yet been revoked.

But I have waited longer with background noise my
only inspiration,
to find what is the next line You will offer,
the next explanation
for a world so perfect, a world so crackly,
with tenants who speak as followers of Your Son,
but will walk out after five minute’s suggestion He
meant what He said,
when He said that part about
loving enemies and blessing the worst with
the best we can offer.

So, I stay listening and will arise, I mean it in hope,
to kiss the next enemy, cloaked or Wall Street clothed,

With the Kiss of my Older Brother whose ways
are found perfect, and perfectly impossible. Yet
what are we if we refuse to attempt the steepest path
and peace.

All is Completed...

All is Completed…

(“Moses inspected the work and saw that they had done it just as the Lord had commanded. So Moses blessed them.” Exodus 39:43)

The noise surrounds every paint sprayer squeak,
nailgun blast, stiff-broom swoosh, and snap-line
pencil drawing one last straight-edge design beforeall is completed.

From the frost of the morning until the toasted afternoon,
every discussion at the cutting table, firing of aching muscles,
edging tight corners, and stripping the blue tape from dried paint,
all is amateur love of a divine masterpiece.

What blueprint attached ligament to bones; we are originals, not
tracings on onionskin. We are freehand, we are a sculpture begun
from within the stony interior; all dust and passion fashioned in
One Warm Breath and declared so good, the Son took the form
upon Himself to inspect the underfoot creation.

I played with tinker toys, and never liked the instructions. Wrestled
the erector set
and every tower fell flat. The pyramids still stand, and yet, will not
stand forever; the Sphinx is half-faceless, the guardian of the dead.

But we are not the toys of the gods, but the Master’s expression,
the Father’s poetry left with open stanzas; the pen passed on from
one to one to add the next line of completion upon the never-finished
opus of time spinning over time.

Let us write well, dance precisely, create the next impossible
salutation to the One who left us here with dreams in our pockets
and eternity in our hearts.

Its Second Encore

Its Second Encore

(“From the time of John the Baptist until now, violent people have been trying to take over the kingdom of heaven by force.” Matthew 11:12)

From the begun at the report of the starter’s gun,
to the oval offers around the next lap pounding,
the perfect machine, the human exchange of
lubrication for dreams; knees, ankles, soles and hips;
the multi-levered propellant marches round the
feet at the bottom of progressive hills.

From the first-story explosion until the taking of the kingdom,
notions have risen, clouds have gathered, rain has splattered
the fields with emotions secretly untethered from the ancient
posts of propriety.

Suitable for classrooms, to be sure;
required for the next sales brochure,
but never intended, and far too much baggage
for a global central nervous system cure.

Dad set up the 2x4 on its side, as a test, as a Scout,
for balance, for badges, for 4 yards, and I fell. I walk
the thin white line inborn like a slalom. I stay on my feet

That way.

Color within the lines and hang the purple hippo on the fridge.
I preferred blank and white; glue not crayons, twigs not colors,
and a plastic letter or two from my brother’s alphabet game.

We run, or climb the rungs, or break down walls, or
divine the combination. Hungry for air, the heart
drives the legs beyond dog-park walks and demands
a hike halfway to the treeline where,
crayons and balance beams forgotten,
we kick up gravel (thunder and rebound)
while the sky swallows our hoots down whole.

No one knew how we arrived while the heavens
played its second encore of the day.

Slow Precision

Slow Precision

(“And he said to the human race, ‘The fear of the Lord—that is wisdom, and to shun evil is understanding.’” Job 28:28)

One day soon the soles of my shoes will
match up sure with the beats of my heart;
every path I’ve taken will imprint unshaken the
truth
discovered unhindered by fear of remonstration.

There was a graphic of a leaf, modern and one-dimensionally green;
single strokes made up each vein and the contours open and unconnected.

They were oblong like the blueberry leaf, toothless and smooth. No
shadow or relief, simple passes of the brush across the glass door they
adorned.

With a dozen or more slow curves the leaf took shape, breaking the space
between the glass invisibility.

What had taught my brain to perceive a leaf from an artist’s deft brush?
What had taught her brain besides, that I would recognize her green lines
and fill in the spaces?

And so a leaf grows from the branch of the blueberry, creation’s
perfection, the verdure open to the sky and spotted with indigo;
and so a leaf grows from nature’s design, flows through the human
curious mind, and lives upon glass that I pass from time to time.

The precision in Spring; buds, the leaves and blooms, and final;
the offering of her fruit in blue, the succulent sac where life
is wrapped, a hundred seeds to die in the dark ground again
to begin the precise pace of the next life which one artist
may rewrite again.

Shall I call truth the bush and folly the art? Does Creation own
the patent for awe, or may my fascination be also called
wonder at the works wrought by mere human fingerlings?

Wisdom is the slow precision, and waits like Spring
for the evidence to begin.

Sometimes we Dream ...to Live in a Space Which, Though Committed to Truth, Accepts all Variations in the Attempts to Understand it

Sometimes we Dream
…to Live in a Space Which, Though Committed to Truth, Accepts all Variations in the Attempts to Understand it

(“O Lord, you are my God; I will exalt you and praise your name, for in perfect faithfulness you have done marvelous things, things planned long ago.” Isaiah 25:1)

Without hiding a single intention, I would like to share
indented inventions and the hopes I wrote down on the back page
of a red covered Bible so many years ago.

So far behind me now, I live in my future, I sit outside the circle I envisioned;
Adobes and an artistic community, Georgia O’ Keeffe and New Mexico,
Toas and Santa Fe and Albuquerque snow.

Or somewhere like it all; Santa Cruz or Sausalito would do,
to spin my gadgets like unwinding yoyos flying in the sky,
dancing over the bay, and, for every observation, there would be
twice as many weblog reports of unusual phenomena sighted
and dated
and photographed

While I shared pie at the coffee shop on the way
to Santa Fe
or up the bay
to Strawberry.

If I had the time I would write my rhymes like
Ansel Adams loved his wilderness; mimes
silently speaking the red filtered shutter God
had prepared for just that day.

I hate museums, unless I live near one,
and rarely visit zoos (there is no on there
to talk to).

I am charmed by beauty, the green and the grandeur,
I am grateful for vision, the shadows and the yellow.

My dream, my scheme for my pinnacle pronouncement,
was a local consort where minds were applauded and
thinking was as welcome as the next cup of coffee poured
by a waitress with a wink who knew we did not, did never,
know it all.

When will we (You know who) ever learn, faithful as You are,
You leave us freer than liberals to examine the facets of diamonds
just discovered,
to bounce the ball of interpretation higher than the boys in grade school.

It is not heresy to say
“I do not yet know it all; symbols or prosaic arcanity.”