You Heard Me

You Heard Me

(“In my distress I called to the Lord; I called to my God. From his heavenly temple he heard my voice; he listened to my cry for help.” 2 Samuel 22:7)

Somewhere between the margin of the
sky and earth my cry was heard. The sky was
as thin as a skin stretched over a drum.
The earth was thick and slowly rolling toward
the river that occupied my dreams.
I cannot quote a specific line,
I cannot identify the rays that broke from
sun to sky. I only know the vibration of my own
voice
lifted it over the trees and carried it further than
I could see.

This life has been a laboratory where
experiment and experience meet in unexpected
embrace. I theorize and record the results in
a journal written across my face. I still await a voice
that tells me my words are not insane. I still
await a hand
that helps me climb between earth and sky
where I walk foolishly and faint. Creation
changes with the tide; nature offers so little
insulation against the dark shades that haunt
the edges of my mind.

But you heard me. You let my distress arise;
you let the best of my poetry erase my first
draft of a life. I never belonged, or so I thought.
I dug my fingernails deep into the mud, squeezing
every pious word out of my undressed mind.
But you heard me, though no one patted me
on the back
to tell me I had finally gotten it right.
Prayer is not a magic formula learned in
lectures from experts.
But you heard me. And I walked assured on
the deep grass until I heard you as well as

You heard me.

He Called it Presence

He Called it Presence

(“When they suffered, he suffered with them.” Isaiah 63:9a)

He danced the dirge like a ghost,
and felt like a silent shade. There was
nothing substantial he could remember.
There was nothing future he could predict.
He pulled the sod up over his shoulders like
a blanket to keep out the cold.
There was no one there for him,
at least that is what he was told.

It was like the beginning of creation,
It was less than the sun could shine.
It was like the last day of celebration.
It was more than the moon had to show.

He never thought anyone knew,
He never saw the eyes that saw him.
But there was another dancing, another echoing
his sad spinning. He did not think he was suffering.
The truth is, he did not think much at all.
But he could not help but see there was another
day someone might call apostasy.
He just called it presence and kept up his
sojourning ways while his heart gave way
to the questions he had been asking for
a lifetime.

Would the one who began it all
finally move his direction? Would the last
of days, ancient in its ways,
feel the tears as hot as his own?
He hoped it was so. Neither questions nor
answers
soothed him in these rotating seasons.
He just hoped the unknown visitor would
stop by before the end of the day.

Just for Kicks

Just for Kicks

(“For many are called, but few are chosen.” Matthew 22:14)

I was never a rebel just for kicks,
I was hardly an enlisted maverick.
But, by the time I had been stranded inside the bricks
and mortar of lines to cross and
coughing borders
I was forced to become larger than my story.

(Just between us, the butterflies that ravish the wildflowers
speak more eloquently to me.)

I was living like a ghost and no one saw me.
They saw the pottery I lived in and the tendency to crack.
I answered back but my arguments sounded like fallacy to
those who thought the cocoon was the condominium
we all should live and die in.

I heard you telling me to be fearless;
the judge and jury could not care less.
You have washed the gutters with your tears,
and yes, your heart has melted the listlessness away.

So I sported my fedora,
walked cautiously outdoors
and told the trees and the sky that
this was the last time I would lie
about who I am
and where I belong.

And my heart no longer kicked against the goads
that moved me to ride on donkeys or foals.
I rebuilt the house with the sun piercing every crack,
I re-spoke the words the Son of Man also spoke
and never turned back.