The Native Tongue

The Native Tongue

(“If God calls something permissible and clean, you must not call it forbidden and dirty!” Acts 10:15)

Scratched beneath the surface of that papyrus
were more ink stains than suspected. Did they
exist before the words were recorded;
did the mean anything for us?

Smoky air imitated fog all morning,
wildfires blazed a dozen miles from here.
Breathing was not optional,
and outside the soot settled on late summer
windshields.

Cantilevered like bridge-work, the tiny sentences
were sandwiched between famously old and
nouveau linguistics. For the life of me
I could not decipher the language.

I think it was Vietnamese. The ladies in the
salon
mentioned my name with ease. I appreciated the
English.
But they natively conversed with each other;
they did not interpret their private conversation.
I saw a patron, red in the face,
whisper that they should have learned our national tongue.
I did not know we had one.

I wonder what language they spoke on this continent
two millennia ago. I wonder who patrolled the streets
listening for unconscious violations of the law.
We lack what we offer, and we offer so very little,
we wonder why they aren’t just like us. We wait
for a conversation we can understand, and, until then,
demand our words become the native tongue.

But the aboriginal conversation only shows us the
mirror, our bespoke reflection underneath the moon.
Take a moment, erase the lines, substitute the commas
with a breath to fill the space. We are not so
different, our languages merely vibrations pushing air.
We live in the fusion of traditions we have forgotten,
the motion of the waves
takes us toward the shore; the patter of
childlike chatter can elicit a smile again.

When Winter Calls

When Winter Calls

(“How fair you are, my love. How fair you are! Your eyes are doves.” Song of Solomon 1:15)

When the rain falls, when winter calls so quietly
we do not hear it at all,
then let us find the songs behind the water-logged
skies.
Let us imagine days before the river freezes,
let us allow the magic of unhindered sight
weave the threads of words
to shine as brightly as Christmas lights strung
late in the season.
And let us wait for the laughter that begins
when children
see puddles as simply

New ways to play.

But then there are days when
the seams come loose and we
are no longer waterproof.
How shall we leave the house,
how shall we present ourselves drenched
and cold?

Do you recall how we laughed while our
frozen fingers thawed?
Let us, ice or storm,
ignore the lectures that ignite our fears and
simply learn

New ways to play.

Do You Hear the Pipes Playing?

 

Do You Hear the Pipes Playing?

(“Though you were like straying sheep, you have now returned to the shepherd and guardian of your lives.” 1 Peter 2:25)

Do you hear the pipes playing,
wooden flutes on distant hills?
Do you recognize the melody,
floating across the silver river;
the acoustics that draw you home?

Do you hear the folk tunes, the roots music,
the banjo and guitar sliding under your consciousness,
the cicadas of the afternoon.
Feet tap on wooden porches, children clap
and dance between the broken boards and
tall glasses of sweet tea.

We have all seen it, the fear at the end of the gate.
We have all felt it, the shiver when we think we have
arrived too late. But then we hear it, the welcome song,
the hug your neck, we haven’t seen you for so long song.
And today you stay longer than you did last week,
today the song sounds stronger, like stones in the creek,
and it makes you want to stay until the impulses to leave
fade behind the music the master has played.

Though all have fallen fast asleep, the music continues
well into your dreams. It encompasses everything.
The fears are real but the melody infuses
the spirits and trauma that left you confused.
There is a wanderer who bids you to follow,
flute and birds lead the way. Tomorrow, like today,
will be the quilt comfort of ballads and blues,
the muse calls you to stay.