Nothing To Say

Nothing To Say

(“He will not break a bruised reed, and He will not put out a smoldering wick, until He has led justice to victory.” Matthew 12:20

The words escape me today like bats lodging together midday.
The page is blank, my mind is slow, the ocean is miles away.
Imagine a smokey jazz club but the piano is out of tune,
or a summer afternoon when the squirrels don’t need to
climb the trees; the walnuts have begun to fall to the ground.

There is a quietness that feels intrusive; there is an emptiness
that feels oppressive. There is a heat wave on the way.
My branches are dry and my mind is unreasonable,
my memories are weak and my eyes are blurred from
thinking things should have been different. Thinking
I should have changed it all.

I blame myself for the lonesome trench, for this
yearning that extends past my reach. Light as a
hummingbird’s feather, the smoke from my candle
is flickering low.

But sometimes the next day is better than the last,
sometimes the routine is disrupted, and you find the
tiniest
glow of impartation. It is impractical to dig in
yesterday’s sludge.  

Sometimes it is someone’s smile that strengthens my mind,
sometimes it is jazz playing in the background.
Sometimes the light hits the window so subtly that
I can discern all the colors of the spectrum one by one.

I need to train my voice again to sing the songs that
capture the moments that ignite the love that only sets
us free
from having nothing to say.

Depression is Insatiable

 Depression is Insatiable

 

(“[The Lord] is patient toward you, not wanting anyone to perish but all to change their hearts and lives.” 2 Peter 3:9b)

 

Depression is an insatiable beast.
Remove a single joy among thousands and I am
weeping on the couch,
praying on the toilet,
gnashing at my sleep,
and looking for just one more piece to
make my puzzle complete.

 

I have done it nearly all my life.

 

Where is the person who lets me get away with the worst?
Where is the room where I can simply boil over?
I should bottle my emotions and send them into the sea
for someone anonymous to find. I should send it unsigned.

 

But then who will speak back to my spit and tears?
Who will find my rebel heart and not give up after 1000 nights?
Who will enter with their own, bruised and guilty as mine?

 

In one day I can wipe away the joy of hours,
a single text can send a whole friendship creeping away.
They were my words, always mine.
They were my expectations; palaces, dreams, unicorns
and rainbows--a child’s watercolor illustration of belief
that should have brought every star near and complete
In every night sky.
In one major flaw the crack breaks open the useless stone
where I hide. And I never find the whole to fill the hollow.

 

I would have acted if I could, rearranged time like a sideways alphabet.
I would have stilled waters, but my own swelled on the calmest days.
I would have spoken better, but my days sometimes spin like haunted pinwheels.
I would have loved like I should. I have no answer, no defense, no lies
to help you or me or ancestors or silence understand.

 

They tell me God is patient, that he will not let me be destroyed,
but I have wrecked my own heart where it lies like a skeleton of driftwood
abandoned on the shore.

 

They tell me God is patient, that he wants me whole and redesigned,
but I’ve reformed more often than snowfall one winter to the next. I’ve
reformed, and still, more than less, my heart feels cold.

The Used-Up Troubadour

The Used-Up Troubadour

(“They sing to the music of tambourines and harps, and the sound of the flute makes them happy. Evil people enjoy successful lives and then go peacefully to the grave.” Job 21:12, 13)

Music never disturbs me, never blurs my travel from
opening sentence to thesis to end. I never turn it off
(except when I’m writing) the soundtrack of my life;
Donovan and the Mamas and the Papas; Iron Butterfly and
the Carpenters; Dave Brubeck, Count Basie. Led Zeppelin and
Keaggy; all played the ages of my unstaged history.

But, tenting alone with cold autumn sod as my bed,
barely a single hope drops from the night dew into my head
afraid to nod off and dream. Most times, in my fright,
they woke me screaming at a time when forsaken was not
the word; a man must have friend to find himself forsaken by them.

Other times, in my singular hope, sunlight in a sliver brightens
the slowed connections between the ever-tiring synapses. Nearly
waking
my heart believes the reverie to be my reality, and
waking
my eyes are shattered like the last note sharpened far out of tune.

Those times the merry songs are taunt and mock; their
perfection bears little introspection, and their joy only as deep
as the next round of beers. Those times the rhythm, like gypsies
round wagons in the night, despite the tambourine scheme of things,
I’ll crawl behind the third or fourth layer of trees in the grove.
The crackling of fish on the camp stove is a better tempo for
my addled brain.

Too many have watched me jump the hurdles mid-chorus;
song and fun and joy and spun, I’ll still dance (less often)
without a reason. But, the days when I was left bleeding on the sidewalk, I mean bleeding,
not bruised; I mean leaking, not misused; but that time people danced and sang while I
hoped I would still breathe tomorrow and my children would know their daddy was
going to be ok
because

For a time, he never sang the songs he once danced anew.