Words to Melody

Words to Melody

(“The Lord your God is in your midst—a warrior bringing victory. He will create calm with his love; he will rejoice over you with singing.” Zephaniah 3:17)

Sing me the lyrics I cannot remember. Sing me the song in the trees.
I need a lullaby, wind and violins to open the heavy coal mine that
occupies my soul.

The weight of the atmosphere keeps the leaves from whistling,
my heart from joining words to melody,
The weight of the atmosphere only reminds me of
what I cannot recall, what refuses to be resolved.

Sing me to life with wordless breath. The soundtrack of pain
is set so high the butterflies rise upon its updraft and escape across
the backyard fence. All I want is calm and rest,

And yet the silence infests me with neurons that buzz like
high voltage lines. My mind is crushed, the cranium shrunk by
abbreviated muscles and nerves. On the verge of leaving every
question behind, the pressure surges; a sound dull and slower than
my heartbeat; louder than the noonday sun.

Sing me to hope with your hands and face. Sing me to hope,
sit beside me in grace. Sing me to hope, cry with me. Sing me
to hope and remember our childhood joy and wonder.

All I remember are images, pixels scattered like jigsaw puzzles.
Sing me the words that patch the cracks, that take me into
magical forests, blue jay fun, dolphin joy and a sun that
revives-not-scorches.

Sing me the words on covered front porches where friends from
forever, renewed and amended, will remind me of the lyrics
that abandoned me here.

A Quieted Soul

“But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a child quieted at its mother’s breast; like a child that is quieted is my soul.” Psalm 131:2

What happens within you when the turmoil begins? Things are going along swimmingly. (What an interesting turn of phrase, by the way. I have no idea its origin, but, when all is well, isn’t like the peaceful backstroke on a lazy river?) Anyway, all is well; few ripples disturb your life. Then, from out of nowhere, Bam! The turmoil takes the roof off and dumps everything on you that its angry whirlwind has picked up along the way.

Blonde-Wood Hi Fi

Blonde-Wood Hi Fi

(“The Lord God, the Holy One of Israel, says, ‘If you come back to me you will be saved. Only by remaining calm and trusting in me can you be strong.’” …but you don’t want to do that.” Isaiah 30:15)

It is rarely the loud that drowns the good,
nor the quiet that overcomes the whispers.
Arpeggios can fence us in as quickly as power chords
cranked to eleven.
The silence of solitary can stir the uncertain

in mirrors of our own expectations.

It is the quiet lights of home we long for,
the way Papa’s music played on the blonde-wood hi-fi.
It is the front porch speaker with Peter, Paul and Mary
and The Kinston Trio. It is the comedy lp of the
Smothers Brothers and Bill Cosby. They always
sounded the same at home.

It was the 45s I borrowed from my best friend’s sister,
“Hello Goodbye” with “I am The Walrus” on the other side.

It became the Celtic flutes and bluegrass I loved,
and then Count Basie with Dave Brubeck expanding
the cuisine first birthed orbiting a spindle with the
magical needle reproducing the air’s vibration to
a circle of spinning vinyl.

It is my Father’s house where music took my hand,
falling asleep with the earplug from the handmade crystal radio
and I first heard,
“Stop in the Name of Love.” The hooks hooked me, the
mystery fascinated me and the music found nicks and crannies
within I never knew existed.

It is my Father’s love that keeps me coming home,
though the record collection is gone forever. When I stop

And let the music in, like a afternoon swim in the river,
within me, without me, the love of melody and rhythm
settle my anxious questions, and sometimes I still laugh
at which brother mother loved best.

More Placid

More Placid

(“The smoke from the incense went up from the angel’s hand to God with the prayers of God’s people.” Revelation 8:4)

The air was stirred from placid to startling darts, turning direction
upon the compass; fully cold from the northern slopes, to the dry east
and dust, pivoting around to come up the south, a full-torque push from
industry’s center with smoke, to the final quarter, spitting sand and sea water
from the west. Assuming to know its pattern, the wind would reverse, traversing
the paths it had just forged.

It had been silent to begin the day. The river glass, the breeze as frail as
the elder’s dying gasp. Though midwinter, the sun pretended itself fully ablaze,
and many left their coats for single sweatshirts; to begin the day.

The coffee walked up and down the short main street, the bitter brew
sweetened my mild and foam, left it’s fragrance like a specter; with happy
conversation about children home from college and a year, now over,
breath is held for what the new will bring.

But late afternoon, like the loose foam of skim milk, fingerling clouds pointed
toward the dying sun, and, having begun, thought to take it in their grasp, to
tackle the fiery orb before it settle past the ground. Downstream forty miles
you would have seen the reinforcements, the low, dark gray the meets the
blue-white ocean’s horizon.

The storm would break in before the coffeeshops closed. It swirled around
old stand apple orchards, ripping winter’s branches and tossing them toward
the lean-to barn a hundred yards away. Twisting or straight, the winds invoked
the short circuit electricity from cloud to ground, the goliath spark with the
timpani shudder shortly after.

There was more fear than actual damage, though the damage done was
damage done well. A sniper storm which took out its mark and left others alone.

Holed up with candles after the transformer went down, people played Monopoly,
huddled in assurance, and found few ways to quit the shivering pets. Some prayed.

I have never seen the smoke, but I know the aroma. It is like the young lover’s
envelope,

sealed with a kiss and spotted with perfume. How Heaven must rejoice at
the petitions of love His people send; troubled or serene, on angels’ wings
the request arrive before spoken. And like the moment the letter is sent,
the anxious heart, once darted with apprehension, finds hope’s best dream
has slowed the nervous pulse and replaced it with an atmosphere
more placid.

The Quiet Unspeak

The Quiet Unspeak

(“Do not let the love of money control your life. Be satisfied with what you have. God himself has said, ‘I will never be away from you. I will never leave you alone.'” Hebrews 13:5)

Content upon the rocky banks that overlook
the same river that ran here yesterday; my eyes
still see the island obstructing the view of
Oregon and the cargo ships slowly up-channel
beyond it. It has misted since early morning,
even during the short peeks the sun makes
tricking my expectations of an uncommon dry day.

Within the next hour, though, same place, same
slippery rocks, green island and river view;
I fetch undue anxiety from the same air I breathed
so serenely before. Quiet now is not the same
as quiet then.

I am a kettle just before the boil; a miniature
weather warning, the siren ready to blow.
The quiet unspeak is the sleepy gravity
that is on the verge of blowing the roof off
the 50 year shingles 49-years-old.

If not for the promise, if not for provision,
if not for my Father’s love and precision
that bids me quiet like the morning and
take the pot off the boil. He will, I know,
do what all good Father’s do and calm me
long, teach me longer the relaxation I should know:

The river, the slit sky, the treed island and rocky banks
are never caught off guard by my visits; hustling to
adjust the river’s flow back east to west. And so,
Father of it all, my hope below is quiet in respite
before dawn or under a covered sun.