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.

Barely Touching Beauty

Barely Touching Beauty

(“We are ruled by Christ's love for us.” 2 Corinthians 5:14a)

The neighborhood dogs come out to play
on days this bright in February light. The ones in pens
bark their intention of joining in.
Sweatshirts give way to t-shirts stored since September,
the clouds are thin, the sky is reachable,
the breeze has taken the day off, holding its breath
until the next storm finds its way upriver, the front
moving the water ahead,
the back pushing the sea lions along.

A mom and her daughter stop midday
to make lunch for the elderly man who once
was sharp and clever. His wit and good nature
have withered with his health.
Why do we hang this skin on bones,
why do we age so fatly and fade so thin?
Machines push air through tubes into our nostrils,
the noise they make sounds like lungs hung outside the body.
Where are the people who pledged their money to
keep the church afloat when he was their shepherd.
Where are the pledges, where are the alleged gospel
followers
who cannot wait to see the world converted? Did he
assert mercy too deeply? Did he sink the shaft of
grace divine
into the muck of everyday lives? And EMTs
now tend to the one who tended souls in love.

A friend sits by the bed,
his head full of all the stories they have shared.
Both knew the wonder of barely touching beauty
as they lifted children in their arms,
seeing the blue eyes of one, green and brown of others,
who broke the water from death to life.
Both knew the spears that struck their hearts might
take a lifetime to heal.

While the bald eagles fly, we on the ground are
left to rely on each other.
Even canned chili in the hands of a friend
can end the grieving for a season.

I Barely Know the Questions

I Barely Know the Questions

(“None of the Pharisees could answer Jesus’ question, and after that day no one was brave enough to ask him any more questions.” Matthew 22:46)

I don’t know the answers either,
I barely know the questions. I see a self,
a ghost in the distance,
that is so much better than my existence. My
neighbor’s
husky looks out the window at me
and I wished I looked at myself with the same
all-inclusive eyes.
But I feel I feed on lies, on shells and masks,
on past efforts that now have worn me thin.
There is no beginning from where I sit and the ending
is longer and darker than I want to admit. So I sit in the flurry
of eddies formed where never, not yet, and what was meant to be
meet. Watch me spin. You will see a new face every revolution.

There are kisses I remember, smiles that fade in and out,
the conversations that frightened me then and frighten me again.
The question marks end and begin every sentence,
the conversations straddle bus seats I’ve forgotten.
And the earth keeps moving like iron wheels on rusting tracks;
they’ve changed the destinations, time erodes like that,
and I keep looking for ways to go back to

Find the part of me I left behind like lost luggage
strewn across the scenery.
I did not know what it meant then, I know too well now and
wish for the serenity of staying up all night with friends
whose names I barely remember. The ache, I think,

I was born with it. What were you born with Jesus,
and how did you travel between cavity and crowd?

The Stirring of Spun Clouds

 The Stirring of Spun Clouds

(“Let’s learn about the Lord. Let’s get to know the Lord. He will come to us as sure as the morning comes. He will come to us like the autumn rains and the spring rains that water the ground.” Hosea 6:3)

And just today, barely an inch ago,
the Japanese camelias carpet the gravel
leading to my home.
Like teacup shards, like cotton candy fog,
like rain that loosened the blooms from their
mid-spring branches,
the pink is silky between the pebbly gray.

And just now, barely a jete ago,
a glimmer blanketed the retinas of the
unspoken glow. What was dark cold was
now
a warm you could hear all the way
across the river-shaped room. What was cold haze
gave way to warm blue waterfalls and
lagoons where ballerinas came to play.

Whether we mind or not,
whether shoes chewed by asphalt or
toes singing sand,
the day lives within us,
the dance sculpts us,
the stirring of spun clouds
(classical rain)
lifts us outside and
into ourselves.

Barely Awake

 

Barely Awake

(“Then Jesus said to him, ‘Put your sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword.’” Matthew 26:52)

 

In our dreams we move faster than light,
and barely awake we sludge so slowly we dare not move
from right to maybe so. What miracles of fear
and cold sweat escort you 500 miles and 30 years ago
waking cements our ego within its four walls?

And so we draw swords because evil men are demonic,
though we’ve never seen a devil bleed before.
And so we label them Jezebel and Satanic, cast our unholy spells
we call prayers
while love looks on, divesting us of its name.

Did you see the sweat like blood,
did you hear the cry of perfect love,
did you consider the cup he drank,
did you consider staying awake?

Those with heavy eyes wield the swords,
those with light in their soul heal the slain.

The most profound product of this world

Is

Tears.

Do Not Distract Me

 

Do Not Distract Me

(“Do not turn to idols or make gods of cast metal for yourselves; I am the Lord your God. Leviticus 19:4)

Somewhere in the distant past a nearby star
exploded to give the universe cosmic relief,
and left these rocks strewn along the river
sunning on the banks beneath my feet.

The flat ones are good for skipping,
I’ve practiced since I was a kid
and made them jump twelve times or more
before I dove in for a swim.

Others built cairns, starting with the larger ones,
balancing one course and then the next. A minaret in
miniature, a monument, an altar.
I do not know who laid these so precisely,
hunting each stone to complete the work.

I confess I have not built one; but found, they
silence me. Patience and quiet along the river,
beside the trail,
they do not speak, but help me hear
the thankful coolness of the air.

There are barely enough to make a difference,
yet we still keep pouring our emotions into
molten crucibles manufactured in a culture of hate.
Bronze or stonewall, our gilded images
prove nothing other than contempt for those
who have not squared themselves within our foursquare
temples.

I hope I can say, or will say someday, “I am addicted to
no one.” I hope you can tell, or will see someday, I have
put no one inside a cage. Do not distract me with your
false displays
of deity and spirituality.

No, I will stack my stones on the river, for,
I did not stumble this time; I had not fallen.
I was worn and I was weeping, I was sore, and
sleeping escaped my mind torn between
off-the-shelf-gods I thought I knew
and the silent one who was more elusive.

I may visit the river today, or next week.
I pray there are stones enough to pray my love in layers
to the God who speaks louder than
printed lines and stars torn asunder.
You, distant and so near to me, have
become to me the God of mercy,
the God of infinite wonder.