The Next Page of the Book

The Next Page of the Book

(“Depend on the Lord in whatever you do, and your plans will succeed.” Proverbs 16:3)

So much depends on how we carry our load and how
heavy it sits upon your back. There are some who would
steal your soul
to upend the work you’ve done to wake up where you are.
The mistakes you’ve made only take you closer to
learning what is no longer needed. The image of God you have
needs to be erased so only the naked reality remains.
Half of it was prayer, half of it was doubt,
the day remained misunderstood whether cloudy or bright.
He was sure there were few who knew or understood the
ransacking his brain had endured or how late the scars remained
after the pain.
He wasn’t sure about healing, or what it meant. Too many
wounds
were self-inflicted, others were done by those practicing their
religious vows. He wasn’t sure what was worse, or whether faith
was still part of the picture at all.

He understood little the longer he contemplated what remained
and the change of scenery hadn’t paid off anyway.
He was distressed it came to this; he was silent about
all the rest.
He had been depending on divine intervention for so long
it felt like his breath in winter, vapor vanishing in the air.
He had been hoping for renewed inventions but his hopes
were too high
and they seemed to fly past his field of vision.

And yet anyone looking at his surroundings would conclude
the plans had come together full. He knew that. It was
all in his head. And he knew that now as well.

He decided to turn the next page of the book he was reading.

Into the Afternoon

Into the Afternoon

(“Ezra opened the book in the sight of all the people.” Nehemiah 8:5a)

If you listen between the words,
if you prophesy with sunset orations,
if you sing like you used to when we were young,
if you decorate the air with perfume sprung from honey and clover,

I will sit through the afternoon to watch
peace descend upon the watching and waiting.
I will share the light with you, the sun of 1000
days in June.
The smoke from the campgrounds below us
is almost floral, opening our senses to songs we
once knew by heart.
I gave away one of my guitars I used
to sing at campfires and living rooms. I hope it
is still played with joy.

The gentle sunlight has radicalized me,
the voices of justice are part of my vocabulary.
I’d be more brazen, less cautious,
emblazoned with fire in my heart;
and, less flawless than ever, I might sing
out of tune and

That is why

I invite you to sing with me into the afternoon.

Some Roads Need to be Straightened

Some Roads Need to be Straightened

(“He told me, “Son of man, eat what you see. Eat this book. Then go and speak…” Ezekiel 3:1 [The Message])

I can’t blame you for the gray blanket that
quilted the hills. Like worn fringes of its border,
like unsuspecting fingers, the clouds reached down
from their peaks to meet the recent and average snow
just above the lumber roads.

I’ve had shadows cover my visions on the sunniest of days.
I’ve seen question marks with unrelenting fervor.
I’ve heard too much. I’ve read until my eyes bled.
I’ve spoken up at every chance and rarely come to
a satisfactory conclusion.

I can’t argue with your observations. I’ve seen the same
darkness myself. I won’t suggest we take another route,
some days need to be shaken. Some roads need to be
straightened. And some moments last longer than the
drive we take home.

With shadows cast over us we search for the light
that covers us from the other side of the walls we lean against.
One day the friends I’ve know forever will
stay
until the end of the day
and, with pizza and cheap wine,
rewind every memory late into the night.

Have I told you how much I miss your laugh?
Do you remember the week we painted a neighbor’s house
for beer and a few dollars to spend?
Do you see that night we looked for water, listened to birds,
went to Denny’s, tried to wake the director of the Y?
Near midnight we saw his bike; he was asleep on his couch.
We tapped the window and could not rouse him.
So we found water where you always find water,
and we baptized each other in a duck pond green with slime.

Our heads popped above surface tension as the
sun rose.
And we went home to put our underwear in the dryer.

I can’t even blame myself, longing half a century later
for hikes in the hills or tunneling through snow.

Making Up for Lost Time

Making Up for Lost Time

(“They make strict rules and try to force people to obey them. But they themselves will not try to follow any of those rules.” Matthew 23:4)

You make so many assertions that
they pile up like
sand dunes
leaving us to shovel our way out to
the light of day.
You stand atop the mounds like
triumphant kings
guarding against insurrections while
you coerce new converts to
“stand over there”
while you drown them in sand
all over again.

You leave them tied up in knots
while you string them along.
You patter on like geniuses about
angels and pins, sacrifices and sins,
while you dine behind passwords and
gated walls.

You hide it from them until the
weight benumbs them, and they think
god must enjoy a creation that is too
heavy to bear.

Between the poverty of your insinuations
and the wealth of encyclopedic rules you insist
they memorize, not flip through,
there is a completely unreasonable world
where

Weights are lifted,
sight-lines are shifted,
sand is sifted to build better beaches
where play is allowed
day in, day out
by the unruly spirit

That God has breathed into the world.

Take my hand, we will dance until the
we fall down laughing and crying,
making up for lost time spent
learning the steps from an instruction book.