Fragrant Air

Fragrant Air

(“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places in Christ.” Ephesians 1:3)

Fragrant air:
like the tiny pink cherry blossoms new;
like the golden flowers on the broom bush;
like the rows of sweet mown grass yesterday old.

Cotton sky:
like forgotten dreams unmemorized;
like nameless candles mid-center of the room;
like flows of honey on a sticky afternoon.

Satin dance:
like triple robins home for a rest;
like hummingbird snapshots of a Wednesday afternoon;
like elementary children flush-faced after school.

Ageless One:
like mountains and moons light-years from now;
like anthills and anthems, geysers of simple songs;
like laughter and weeping, signs of questions on the

Fragrant air.

Carry Me

Carry Me

(“Blessed be the Lord—day after day he carries us along.” Psalm 68:19 [The Message]) 

Spared the paper illusions, I moved on with the day.
The sky fell upon us like a dust devil bringing the
clouds’ perfume to inches from our reach. Though it
had never happened this way
since time began,
we were not frightened. We knew the universe is chunkier
than thin papyrus or tomato soup.
On the average every day opens like an unwrapped gift
left inside the living room window.
But the box is heavier than I’m willing to admit.
The corners are taped so carefully it takes until
well in the afternoon to
open it. By that time, I’ve used up my portion and
retire to wonder why some promises have a half-life
of hello and goodbye. Lately I simply wander
the same path up the hill toward the woods and
back home to the empty doorway. This is not a
complaint.
Just the words of uninvited pain and wordless days.

So

Carry me.

By the way,
I don’t blame anyone. I’ve been paper-thin in
my day too. I’ve lost my favorite hat to the desert wind.
I’ve sighed too many names. I’ve left too many guessing
what my words would be. And so I hear you say

Carry me.

I’ve always taken friendships too seriously. And
duties have frightened me away from extended afternoons
in simple laziness. We should have shared more beers.
Watched more baseball. Laughed at how silly all our
doctrine became
once people decided they were experts
about God.

We all just need a day or two to be
carried away.

I Have a Few Leftovers

I Have a Few Leftovers

(“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” Luke 6:20)

Come let us sit together, it is nearly lunchtime.
I have a few leftovers; your choice, ham or tacos.
I’ll pour the wine if you will simply grace me with
your time.

It’s the stretch of the year when the sun awakens the sleeping earth,
when the clouds part for an hour at a time
pulling back the curtains of playful daylight.

My deck is in the sunshine now,
50 degrees feels like 70.
My conversations are softer now,
words come and go like the stellar jays
that light on the fence inspecting our faces
and the moss on the walnut tree.

I am too rich, I know I am.
And I have too much to carry.
I do not believe in poverty,
but I believe in you and the hidden
gems underneath your voice.

You should be hosting me, for you
possess
more than my easy confessions.
But today, let me pretend to be poor.
(Though tomorrow I will turn up the heat again.)

Sometimes I see as through the darkest mirror,
sometimes I see nearly well.
Today I want to hear how
sounds of weighty compassion,
the pipe organs of pain,
lifted you like hymns on a high
Holy Day.

I’ll grab the refried beans, or the horseradish
for the ham. Come sit with me and
remind me who I am.

There is a Hush That is Sacred

 

There is a Hush That is Sacred

(“So God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it God rested from all his work that he had done in creation.” Genesis 2:3)

We sat on benches only inches apart,
the work was finished, the words inscribed.
The ducks roamed the pond idlily,

and the dogs napped in the sun.
The rains had filled the stream on the hill and
the water fell, softening the air.

We found a silence that
bound us only closer,
a triune conversation, a dialogue of zero,
a soliloquy floating on the breeze.

Butterflies like linen tugged our gaze along their
crepe paper flight. They were not giants nor
marked like monarchs;
simple, small, singular. They owned our hearts
stilled by the moment at rest.

There is a hush that is sacred,
trees have always known it.
There is a language of angels,
we work too long to hear it.
There are doves who have learned to
call the world to themselves,
in pairs in the branches of the new elms
beyond the field.

I remember there were sailboats on the river,
do you?
In the momentary stillness they moved past
our consciousness too fast.
There was just the rest we shared,
a memory lasting longer than forging words
in the fire. There was no misinterpreting the
questions our quiet had asked.

See-Through Walls

See-Through Walls

(“Whoever despises his neighbor sins, but whoever is gracious to the needy is blessed.” Proverbs 14:21)

When your only solution is see-through walls

to keep out the undesirables,
they’ll see you with your big black boots
kicking the water jugs away from their reach.

When the beaches are scattered with tanners who have
plans for the evening but not for the night,
the rafts arrive silently on the slow red tide.

The imperfect walk among us,
the last are heading the list,
the assault upon our senses needs
new thoughts and amendments,
the first are refusing to list.

Slant away from your stakes in the ground,
lean toward the limps and the moths,
leave your foundation, forsake the partition
that divides the planet in pieces. How is peace
conditional upon common dialects when your
own words are swallowed beneath the crosses
you’ve burned.

The wind has shifted again, the immigrants sing.
The wind is blowing again, the refugees flee
for open shores, a hope and reports of grace beyond
purple mountains sea-to-sea. The song
is sung again
and only those who listen will

Find the powerful embrace of losing it all
for goodness’ sake.

Simply Put

Simply Put

(“Blessed are those who endure when they are tested. When they pass the test, they will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.” James 1:12)

What is my love compared to the trails You have left with
my heart?
Are my faltering steps enough for the race when I know
I once flew faster? There were friends I once would ask,
but now they do not answer my letters.

Pain is the dungeon, depression the iron door, and where is the
something more,
the crown,
the life,
the speed,
the gown of white,
the reed unbroken and the smoking wick
relit?

Which foot should I put forward now? Which direction, and
how do I know when to lay my head upon the grass because
the world is far too fast for the ache that started in my heart and
now has lasted too long in my head?

Can I tell you the truth, Father-I-hope? I am tired of the test and want
to lay my pencil down. Grade me now and let me finish. I’ll take an
incomplete if I have to.

Suffering and glory, crowns and crosses; that was Your story, but

I need the alphabet to be flesh. I need the paragraphs to be persona;
the stories to be more than mystery; but my contemporary now.

Visit me in more than my dreams, beyond the page, within the schemes
of my undulating hobby of ache. I wander the fields of my youth,
the days of laughter and acoustic songs, flutes and singalongs,
and I was so much smarter than anyone knew.

Now I know how narrow is the science which pulled the blinds so tightly,
that Your light is the sliver of morning where the dust hangs.
And, simply put, I haven’t seen a sunrise since before North Dakota
on the Missouri.

Divine Protection

But God said to Balaam, “Do not go with them. You must not put a curse on those people, because they are blessed.” Numbers 22:12

In our post-modern society, we are not in the habit of placing curses on people. Although, come to think of it, with the wide-open view of life that characterizes post-modernism, perhaps some are tinkering with the idea. One never knows. But in our usual 21^st century life, we give little concern whether someone has been busy casting curses on our life.