My Broken Casements

My Broken Casements

When electricity burns through you nerves like
the hum of a dozen engines,
and your head is encased in wasted dreams
you would rather not remember,
days shake you like a rug and heap more reasons
to close your eyes than stay awake watching
for something meaningful to happen.

I cannot confess enough; my confessions are meaningless.
And yet there are more sins I’ve committed than sins I’ve
admitted. The numbers do not matter. My broken casements
would still let in the cold though I was young and innocent.

I barely have to look past my window to know
that life is better than I perceive it. And yet
tears are my food,
heartache is my refreshment,
boredom is my religion, and
loneliness the name I call nearly everything.

I rarely create. My mind watches the calendar for
the next date that I’ll miss, or sit silent among people
I know, unloading my defenses privately at home.

I would board a train to yesterday if I knew when it
departed. I would post my arrival to be sure someone
would show up for me with my heart in hand.

Today I’ll blame the pain, tomorrow the people who
promised to refrain from warfare. Next week I’ll accuse
the loosened nuts and bolts for not keeping me together.
Everything is out of joint; everything is knotted tightly.
I’d tell you all my stories, but I know it would not end well.

So, I hide myself within myself. I confide only in the rain.
Inside this jar of clay I see only through the cracks
inches away. Outside I might look in. Outside I might
laugh that a silly man can find so little joy in an hour
of neighbors and celebration.

But the electricity still runs, sending my mind a thousand
times around the same stories that never did end well.

Perhaps We Still Can Fly

Perhaps We Still Can Fly

(“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but I do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.” 1 Corinthians 13:1)

I can’t afford to walk with my head in the clouds anymore,
I can’t wait on angels to touch my brain and lips like I did before.
There is a straight-line path from my home to yours,
but I must take the road around to bypass private property and dogs
roaming outdoors from
one treat to the next; I might be next.
Although, I have befriended most of them. Perhaps I’ll show up
at your door with a pack of them. Your cats would appreciate
the confusion.

I walk the half-mile to your house. I hope you are not in pain.
I pick up your mail and walk it up your driveway. Today there
are three new prescriptions to add to the
dozens half organized and a quarter unrealized.
I’ll sit with you as we have dozens of times before.
We are old hands at this, we are experts on angels,
and yet the angels we’ve known are absent for now.
We are two angels with broken wings; with two wings
between us
perhaps we still can fly.

But I had enough trouble leaving my bed today that
angels were the last thing on my mind.
You were in so much pain today all you could think to do
was to fall asleep again in your chair after we
wondered how life leaves so many of us grasping for air
when we had dared to climb the heights for those who could not
find their way.

They never knew it, well very few anyway, that our legs were
fire whenever we found the summit at last. They understood it well,
though,
when we fell, when we stumbled, when we crawled like
the first amphibians leaving water for land.
We were not well suited for either. We wanted to be
of land and sea,
they wanted us to be Sunday’s constant surprise of
spirituality.

So, we wait on angels, don’t we? One calls you while I
visit today, your advocate from the V.A. She is kind, but too
slow from our way of thinking. We both know she is juggling
time, and life, and clients, and care the same way we juggled
questions about god. And they were impatient too, with our answers,
because we dealt in questions and not in certainty.

I should have shared the bread and wine with you today,
the blood and body of the One who is hidden behind our pain.
I will visit you again, old friend. And we will talk about
the picture on the wall; you clothed in vestments and
children with drops of joy on their heads.

You Are Not Broken

 
You Are Not Broken

(“If we are faithless, he remains faithful, for he cannot disown himself.” 2 Timothy 2:13)

Who told you that
you were broken?
Do you burn the trees for the
leaves they drop on the forest floor?

Fantasy can be dark, the soil can be rich,
shouting confirms nothing, the campfires dance
like miniature
Auroras Borealis.

Why do you think
you are broken?
Did someone tell you to stop counting
when you missed the third beat in a waltz?

Rules can be granite, the instructions can be concise,
apples can be crispy, the pet dogs prance
like miniature
angels-in-waiting.

When do you think
you were broken?
Did someone know more than you
when all you needed were wildflowers and summer fields?

You are poetry, you are unmetered,
you are porous, you are transfigured
like miniature
hypergiants

In blue before
anyone viewed them.

Only Broken Rules

 

Only Broken Rules

(“Peace I leave with you. My peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Do not let your heart be troubled, and do not let it be afraid.” John 14:27)

It is time for us to go now,
we can talk along the way. The
walls are ready to implode now,
and firelight has nothing left to say.

I cannot wait to see you again,
sometime before my next life crisis.
The troubles might try to drag you down;
the demons fancy a tour of my garden
planted yesterday so yellow and carefully.

There are enough people to blame,
enough weekends to discover the schemes
of failures on the outside of the rooms we constructed
to protect our thin-shelled eggs of ideas.
What seems an onslaught was
just a summer rain last year.

It is time for us to go now,
we can walk up and down the streets. The
walls have tumbled, muddy sheetrock,
and the moonless night swirls like sludge from
a prairie oil derrick. Can we stand still while it,
glacial and black, fills every hole and crack?

I may never see you again,
it might be because of my last life crisis.
The troubles dragged us down as we estimated
the cost of a friendship like ours.
The demons took their seats to see whether
wildflowers and tulips could thrive in the same
garden plot.

I know who you blame, and I know who I suspect,
though none more guilty than myself. What if peace
is what we expect, clean air that thins the grimy night
and lets us dance again, walk the hills again, smoke cigars
and get uneven tans again?

It is time now; the walls are shambles. If you hear me
call your name,
meet me in the rubble. You remember the table and
golden chairs where we once ate sandwiches together?
The demons have all gone home, the troubles have expired,
only our memories keep us apart,
only broken rules can mend us again.

Worry for Weeks

 

Worry for Weeks

(“But I do have something against you! And it is this: You don’t have as much love as you used to.” Revelation 2:4)

An entire life can be squeezed into a moment,
a solitary word from a frozen sky can
crush the light that rained like spectral colors
across the soul.
An entire life can be freed in a moment,
a singular look from a faithful friend can
spark the dark that shamed like cavernous shade
and heal the soul.

But the fog descended overnight with trumpets of thunder,
the skies creased as supper was set on a thousand tables,
and the river sang the same ballad it had learned long ago.

I worry for weeks over broken things,
I worry week after week over things
I have broken.

Whatever is broken, sit at my table,
Whatever you have shattered, leave it for another time.

I cannot sleep for days over cancelled lives,
I cannot sleep night after night over lives
I have cancelled.

            Whatever you deleted, break this bread with me,
            Whoever you abandoned, there is a new subscription.

I cannot sing for months over hidden sins,
I cannot sing month after month over sins
I have not revealed.

            Whatever you transgressed, drink new wine with me,
            Whatever you withheld, there is no evidence.

And the fog soon lifted as the day closed with orange and pink couture,
the skies danced and dessert was served on a single table for a thousand,
and the river whistled the same ditty it had saved up for this very day.

When We Were Homeless

When We Were Homeless

(“We struggled along the coast with great difficulty and finally arrived at Fair Havens.” Acts 27:8)

The ocean sounded like a broken banjo,
and the beach struck every chord.
The wind was turning in ¾ time
around the rocks, opening and closing the
grey theater curtain clouds.

And the entire time memory burned;
not yesterday,
nor the hours before the millennium,
but of days when buskers played flute
on Huntington Beach.

I would love to sing with you again my friend,
or dance like we knew what we were doing.
I would love to stop and stay the afternoon,
and into the evening to listen to
the seals barking in the distance.

But I’m indigent (did I mention that?) I’m upended,
sometimes laid flat. We used to bury each other in the beach,
and make
mermaid tails or
weightlifter forearms,
our heads barely above the sand.

But I am homeless (did you notice that?) not for long,
but not short enough. Did it occur to anyone roaming with us,
to ask
how to keep us
nearer the beaches?
Were their heads below the trembling

Sand?

Today the ocean is like an empty orchestra hall,
chairs askew, black curtains framed by sleepy fog.
Today the beach is cross-continent, and the piano sits silent
with a lock upon the keyboard cover.
I am the audience and not a player. There are too few to
perform for anymore.

But the ocean may call me back from the how close I’ve come
to composing destitution; to the tide pools, the schools of children
scatting the sweetest jazz at the closing bell.

There are still others whose only memory of occupied beaches
is a brittle sand dollar and a piece of grey driftwood that looks like
a broken trombone.

I Am Sending You

I Am Sending You

“Then Jesus said to them again, ‘May you have peace. As the Father has sent Me, I also am sending you.’” John 20:21

Can you imagine the fear, the despondency and lack of hope that Jesus’ followers felt following his crucifixion? They had been “all in”. Many had left their livelihood three years before to follow this wandering teacher. Over their internship they slowly understood that Jesus was the promised Messiah, the one who would deliver Israel and set up the kingdom of God.

If we can stop for a moment; consider this. We human beings only understand the world around us through one faculty; our malleable and fallible brains. And our brains receive information through our senses, filtered through culture, teaching and experience. In other words, just because we think something is true, we ought to be open to the possibility we may be mistaken.

The disciples were not mistaken about Jesus’ identity, but they did get the nature of his kingdom wrong. That is quite natural. The only kingdoms they knew were what they had experienced, what their brains had observed and heard about. So, certainly the kingdom of God would be similar to what they knew. Yes, a good God would rule, but, the only way they understood “rule” is by authority and force. They were soon to be surprised.

Jesus’ death did not square with what they “knew”. We can understand their reasoning. “If Jesus is ushering in the rule of God, then he will defeat our enemies, show his power, and ascend a throne that none can overthrow.” Seeing him suffer at the hands of both religious and political rulers, they must have fallen deeply in despair. In some ways, Peter’s exclamation, “I never knew him”, may have held some truth.

But Sunday morning Mary Magdalene ran to Simon Peter and John with mind-boggling news. The stone to Jesus’ tomb was rolled away and she worried, “They have taken the Lord out of the grave. We do not know where they have put Him.”

Peter and John run to the grave and see it just as Mary said. They saw the linen cloths Jesus had been wrapped in, but the white cloth that had wrapped his head was rolled up and lying by itself. Even then, they did not understand that Jesus had risen from the dead. (Remember, all they have are their limited brains to make sense of it all.)

The two disciples went back to their homes. That’s an amazing thought. Jesus is alive, but they are still slowly taking it all in. They simply go back home. But Mary stayed by the grave, weeping. And it is there that Jesus appears to her. He instructs her to tell his brothers: “I will go up to My Father and your Father, and to My God and your God!” She hurries away to tell the disciples what she has seen and heard.

(A quick aside. Recently a well-known evangelical leader had unkind things to say about a female Bible teacher. Those in the audience applauded his snide remark. He is among some who think women have no right to the pulpit or teaching ministries. I wonder if he would have listened to Mary.)

Later that evening, as the disciples are gathered behind locked doors because they are afraid, Jesus appears to them. His first words are, “Peace to you.” The disciples immediately react with joy as Jesus shows them his wounded hands and side.

And once more he offers them peace, saying, “As the Father has sent me, so I am sending you.”

That phrase should make us stop, be quiet, and consider: How did the Father send Jesus?

Remember, the disciples had the kingdom of God all wrong. Jesus’ resurrection shows he has indeed won the victory. But sin and death were defeated, not by force, not by armies, not by hard-fisted legal enforcement, but by suffering and death. The kingdom of God has not changed. We are sent to be men and women who are willing to give ourselves on behalf of others, not tell others how to behave.

The Father sent Jesus to the less fortunate. He went to the poor, the sick, the blind and the “sinners”. He did not condescend, as if they needed to prove themselves before He brought healing and forgiveness. Let us go in the same way, we are all on a level playing field.

The Father sent Jesus to those who could not give back. Who could offer Jesus anything that he did not already possess? He gave hope to the hopeless. He healed, even when some did not return to say, “Thank you.” Let us go in the same way, not looking for people to behave just because we have given. Let us simply give.

The Father sent Jesus to go out of his way for others. Remember the woman at the well? She was a Samaritan. Jesus had to take a less traveled route to meet with a single woman in need. Why do we expect people to come to a church building once a week, where they feel out of place? Let us go out of our way to share the Good News of God’s kingdom of mercy and love right where people are.

God is not afraid of humanity. Are we fully aware of that? The most degraded heart does not scare God or keep him away. God loves humanity so much He became one of us! So, why in the world would we ever avoid someone who seems different than us? Why would we not embrace the homeless, the hungry, the addict, the rebel. God embraced them already when Jesus took on the same human flesh and blood.

When Roman Catholics celebrate the Mass in Latin today, the last words the priest or deacon speak are “Ite missa est.” Translated, it means: “Go, the [congregation] is sent.” The people are told, in so many words, “You’ve worshiped, celebrated Christ in Communion and heard the Word, now go forth as His ambassadors in all the earth; be that bread that is broken for a hungry world.”

For Once

(“I was eyes for the blind person. I was feet for the lame person.” Job 29:15)

You took the lives that were broken eggshells,
the eyes that had not slept in weeks,
and rocked them like a lullaby, and sang them
like a hymn.

You took the ears assaulted by spears and arrows,
and listened to the sparrows for them,
heard the promises of lovers and
danced for them to the tune of children’s laughter.

You took their feet, shrunken with time,
and walked the forest among the pines for them,
marched in the parade and plunged your toes in the mud
for them. You massaged the scales and the brittle nails
that displayed their age too soon.

You took their soul, fragile as a soap bubble in the wind,
and flew it like a kite for them,
despite the unpolite words of those
who do not understand how love can take
the saddest of them. You took their soul,
crumbling like desert clods,
and rained for them in tears that,
(let no one know) for once
were not their own.

Backed into a Corner

(For all my good friends, I am fully aware how raw this bit of writing is. But, that is my poetry; my cleansing, my therapy. It is my soul on a plate.)

Backed into a Corner

(“Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.” Romans 8:26)

I’m certain it would have happened before now if I
didn’t still have children in the home,
if I didn’t have a wife who would die inside,
when I finally let all the pieces gingerly glued and taped
finally fall apart on the floor. Jagged and dust,
blood and the musty smell of old spells uttered by
everyone who knew better,
who behaved better,
who danced and sang and worked and slung
their words so much higher than mine, that they
reached the people in power before mine,
and were believed by rainbow chasers before mine,
and were repeated more often than mine,
louder than mine, until finally, in quiet desperation

I dug a hole where I intended to spend my remaining time.

Some see a miracle, with the truest tears I must tell,
I am no longer sure miracles exist. Whatever the dust-up,
the fog lifted and I landed by the river, near the ocean,
where gray meets blue water, green meets yellow sun,
and where the nutrient-rich mud is pudding for every
evergreen seen from one crest to the next and in the valleys
between.

But what no one has seen
is how
two weeks ago I looked at the wreckage and decided

“i am broken”

Not

“I’m sick” or “I’m hurting” or “I’ll get over it”

Because I’ve taken the cure, I’ve talked the therapy
and I’ve tossed every rock with the offenders names
into the water to be forgotten, along with my anger and shame.

And yet

i am broken

Almighty (who I always loved to call Father), this is addressed to You now,
my friends may be frightened by these words and how
I want them to know I am empty, not complete, dry-boned, depleted.

I favored “Papa” for my God, but, following for 40 year I’ve chosen everything
I thought You wanted. And in one flash of insight realized, for 40 years,
I never chosen what would make me happy. I took the smallest churches,
I stayed with the angriest supervisors, and when I did show pain,
I was a target again. Blasted as if I should have lasted longer
standing blindfolded before the firing squad (smoke ‘em if you’ve
got ‘em, and my mouth was empty).

You can’t draw lines in the sand with God, that’s what makes
Him so frightening and unfair. But my line is finally drawn, my
bits of flesh and bone wait for the final answer in my

S
C
R
E
A
M

for

Redemption!

The Corner of the Desk

The Corner of the Desk

(“And the prayer of faith will save the one who is sick, and the Lord will raise him up. And if he has committed sins, he will be forgiven.” James 5:15)

The cardboard box full of neatly folded tissues
is squarely arranged on top of the desk..though…

At its feet, tossed like carnations, the wadded few have
absorbed the tears of honesty, the stories of pain
we hear with uneasy skill.

Do you want to know the valleys, do you care
to listen with love; will you embrace the uncommon tale
baked on the days of withheld rain?

Will they offer you more than a mirror’s image,
will they speak in unknown tongues and await your
uncertain interpretation, will you return their entrusted heart
unharmed? Remember how they entered, completely unarmed;
sat in the corner chair, never broke eye contact with

The corner of the desk.

Will their dreams reset to innocence, or will the scars
we touched set off alarms when incidents of trust sounded
like the screech of eagles scanning prey.

When they hand us, on cold and sweaty palms, the heart traced
with anxieties unspoken countless alones, how will we return the trust
of confessed cracks they’ve kept turned from the sun? Dying is easier
that new incisions over aged scars.

When they hand us, on bent and broken wings, tiny faith
still alive with shallow breath and captured eyes, will we show
our own wounds now

A second Masterpiece;

Filled cracks the brush’s tracks where the Father’s hands
retraced creation’s plans. Day, light, night, sleep are sweet
where the wounds once ruled.

Hope for the Broken

“Moses told this to the Israelites; but they would not listen to Moses, because of their broken spirit and their cruel slavery.” Exodus 6:9

There are few greater joys in my life than my three children. Though they all are now grown and out of the house, the memories of their childhood and the relationship we have as adults combine to give me great delight. I loved watching their first steps as babies, and their first steps into college, family and careers. I am grateful to have three loving, yet very different children.