Who Unplugged the Words?

 Who Unplugged the Words?

(“Look at the birds that fly in the air. They do not plant or cut or keep any food. Yet your Father in heaven feeds them. Are you not worth more than birds?” Matthew 6:26)

If you had asked me last night, I would have told you,
the sanity seems to be oozing out my pores. Pain inspires
visions of well-locked cages. Rationality fades at the
threat of rain.

But there are the robins again. A dozen in my tree again.
Plucking fruit and ants again. And not worrying
about the rain.

But these walls are not strong enough to keep my sentences
from breaking down between commas and misunderstanding.
You would think my head was porous, my brain-waves bid
me
adieu
as they make me search like a blind man for the thought
they have disconnected. Who unplugged

The words again?

But there are crows again. Commanding the cathedral trees again.
Cawing to protect their babies again. And not worrying
when they will land.

But these days are not long enough for me to send a search party
to find my sentence fragments. I’ve left a trail of them from
sanctuary to theater, from wife, to child, to grandchild. I run
into them
occasionally on walks toward the hills. But they are distorted,
the wind and rain have turned them inside out so much
I doubt they ever belonged to me.

But there are the hummingbirds again. Sipping at the nectar again.
Buzzing near my head like locusts. And not worrying
over unplanted grain.

Moods stay like glue while my words saddle up their horses
and ride into oblivion. But

The birds keep singing, and sometimes,

Some very rare times,

I understand their song.

Tiny Birds

 

Tiny Birds

(“I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them garbage, that I may gain Christ.” Philippians 3:8)

Passions can become extinct, dying embers of past certainties.
The warmth was only a memory, the friction of feet on asphalt
created the heat. As long as we kept moving the sparks flew
unreviewed, but sure to impress at least the occasional traveler.
Rarely leaving the main road we followed the stripes set before us
as sure as directions drawn on a map. We never looked for moss
on the north side of trees or rocks. Warned that detours were destructive
we stayed on summer highways where mirage snakes kept us company.

But a few of us felt the heat was oppressive. It was old and coal,
it was scorch or chill. We soon lost the color in our cheeks,
the wonder of the breeze, and the other creatures we had left
behind
because they refused to be our kind. We put them in their
own boxes outside and let the sirocco sort it out.

One day someone looked.
She took their eye off the road.
She emptied her pockets of charcoal and dust.
She saw two swallows dance like adolescents
100 feet above in the vibrant blue. Spiraling upwards,
they pierced the sky in precision, swinging within inches
of each other’s bodies, green wings pushing the air behind them.

The same day we all looked up
and saw the two lovers soar to the far corners of the horizon
in a clear sky, vacant except for their celestial display. Circling
our peripheral vision, they were barely spots as they
swung around the invisible center. The radius between them
decreased as they glided, the air guiding their elegant ballet.
We lost track that day of everything, except two tiny
swallows that captured all

We had ever wanted.

We had walked face-first, fallen full speed
into the dark. We lost our way in our birdwatching,

And wondered if it was better to be
tiny birds
with a joyous song.

The Same Way

The Same Way

 ^(“Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?” Matthew 6:26)

I judged so hard I cannot see what the judging meant to me.

I dug so deep the stones slept below the shoveled repeats.
I ran so fast the artificial track burned my barefoot heels and
artificial grass. Run again, to hide from the looks that guided
the criticism back at me. Running still, to discover the hopeful dollar
because I knocked one hour longer than all the rest.

I’m feeling the same way all over again.

I have not been fed like a pet left alone with a bowl and water,
like a parrot talking to the air or a
cat reigning from the sunlit chair.
All the desires, nearly most, and some of the best,
were coffee houses on open mike Fridays,
were student-published staple-bound copies that
made the rounds from temporary buildings on the edge of campus
to dots on a page of the Milton press.

I’ve never liked sandwiches; bologna or tuna; but when a sunny friend
asked would I stay for lunch,
I ate like a seaside café had plated the catch of the day.

I’m tasting the same way all over again.

I thought he sang better, (no, I knew it true) but we sang together
the light and the blue, the crystal and the few lyrics we pieced
from our own short minds and limited time. A single night recording,
four track Teac tape, sitting on my brother’s bed; we said this
was our best, an acoustic set. Two guitars, a recorder, a trumpet
and a flute. We sang of the Lamb of God, the one slain before
earth’s foundation was laid.

I’m searching the same sound all over again.

Yet pain is still the song the brings shadows unbidden;
sleepless, my thoughts are hidden behind grammatical corrections
and dramatic protests to my Autumn. Well-fed, sleep is
the only option what leaves my mind simply rested.