At The End of The Road

 At The End of The Road

(“Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost!” Luke 15:6b)

Why do we build the wall,
can you tell me the story again?
Why do we keep our gold inside
and everyone out
and at what cost?
Why do we lock our gates,
can you recite the code again?
Why do we twist our iron into
so many shapes
and chain them with locks?

Look down, look down the road,
the dust is stirred by the feet of returning.
The light is blurred by the whisps of
bleating songs. Live sounds. Flying sounds.
From grey to white, from infra to ultra sounds.

Wait down, wait at the end of the road,
the sun will soothe your churning eyes.
The tiny strays, (the best of days) have found
their way home. Long travels. Footprint travels.
From lost to found, sound to song travels.

Why not tear down the wall,
that is the story older than time?
Why not share our wealth
with the dizzy children
without cost?
Why not open the gates,
so princes on donkeys can enter?
Why don’t we straighten our steel eyes
toward the horizon
and wait

At the end of the road?

We Build Again

We Build Again

 (“The breaker goes up before them…” Micah 2:13a)

Justice will wing its way through every shout,
every aggression, and take to the sky with
the hopes of the forgotten trailing behind. 

Justice is no blind counterweight; it is the perfect
vision of love when the children of trauma are forgotten.
It sees the invisible, the erased, the stolen, the refugee,
the frozen and the effigies of cousins roped to the trees.

 And we keep marching, we keep coming,
we will not be moved, we will not be undone.
And we keep shouting, we will overcome,
for one by one we’ll cross any bridge to see
the work of mercy done.

 But some backs are bent, some feet are bleeding,
some eyes are dim, some arms are reaching
for the goal set before them that is receding
with every determined step and limp. 

So we keep marching, we keep moving,
we are not yet done, we will not be erased.
And we keep singing, hard rain’s gonna fall,
for arm in arm we’ll cross any sea to find
the promised kingdom come. 

Justice is our banner, never forgotten,
the rains will not wash away the message written with blood.
Mercy is our weapon, our hands up and empty,
our faces soiled with tears for the wounded and wounding,
the rain will not wash our grubby cheeks and noses
until the floods have come to drain the streets
and leave behind
only empty lots where 

Arm in arm, we build again.

Over the Distant Hill

Over the Distant Hill

(“Don’t let any evil talk come out of your mouths. Say only what will help to build others up and meet their needs. Then what you say will help those who listen.” Ephesians 4:29)

Just over the distant hill and away
from the dusty syllables
of everyone who knows better than
everyone else…

Just beyond the dewy field and away
from the chiseled orphanage
where children walk in their sleep
and repeat the refrain of their adoptive’s martial songs…

Just beyond the last eucalyptus and away
from the fits and starts that
memory holds tighter than a baby blanket…

Just above the final crest and away
from the fatal consonants
of every lecture delivered like icy proverbs
from enthroned tongues of the allies of
insinuation…

Just there the final step, the last footprint in the
warm mud waiting,
the vagabond, with his heart packed high upon his back,
sees the fire of affection and

Sets his heart upon the brow of the hill that loves
truth more than judgment. And he sits awhile in
the embrace of warm; he drinks awhile in the
pastures out of harm
of the words propelled like daggers from behind.

He still wonders, though, an immigrant in a new land,
why so many “amens” at the words used to
shrink others down to size. Why so many
“hallelujahs” when dangerous barbs quote
scripture, and reduce it all to rules

Only the initiated have never broken. Having spoken
their piece,
they slap each other on the back, have a potluck and
evict the homeless boy sleeping in the shed.

He will never leave this new country, for, in truth and love,
he knows it is his native home.