Like Cannons of Rain

Like Cannons of Rain

(“We are the temple of the living God, you see, just as God said: ‘I will live among them and walk about with them; I will be their God, and they will be my people.’” 2 Corinthians 6:16b)

If I told you tomorrow I’d be gone
would you save the day, would you hide it away
with your keepsakes?
But You may as well try
to store the sun ‘round midnight.
If I heard my ears would soon be closed,
would I memorize the way the songs make me feel?
Would I heal
outside
where the lightning scores the skies,
where the electricity conducts itself like cannons
of rain?
If I told you I’d never set foot in this place again,
would you remember my name? Would you etch
it on the front door? Would you sound it out like
phonics?
But you may as well try to name the gods,
pin down the angels,
catch the waterfalls midstream.

If I felt the warm no more, caught the smoke
of campfires on the ridges beyond the river
and then turned to go home,
would you come look for me? Would you
insist our way of life could exist on the
warmest beach
or coldest church bench?
If my fingers played notes hidden between
the black and white keys,
would it be another reason to cry heresy?
But you may as well try to keep the
hummingbirds away from
the climbing jasmine.

You might as well try to keep me from
exploring sanctuaries of light with gray
pronouncements today.

Today I will lay me down in peace. Today
I will cram my mind with unimagined things,
and laugh that we could be so certain about
which compass points are holier,
at which destinations the gods dwell.

Once you mark it on a map the mystery
dissipates and hardens like grime. Once
you build your monument
the sighs become yawns and we turn our
mattresses over so satisfied that we simply
cannot be wrong.

If I told you I don’t know how I feel about
precise measurements, would you still claim me
as a worshiper waiting alone?

More Like Trumpets than Cannons

 More Like Trumpets than Cannons

(“The wolf will romp with the lamb, the leopard sleep with the kid. Calf and lion will eat from the same trough, and a little child will tend them.” Isaiah 11:6 [The Message])

Do you see where you are swimming,
can you feel the rising tide,
do you hear the play-sounds coming
from just outside your preconceptions?

The world is brimming with shalom,
the hallelujahs are from babies, from bouncing children
on trampolines with
pet dogs frolicking in the dewy grass.

Do you watch for the river to rise,
do you see through the disguise of the
hardened pharaohs and pharisees who only
sing when they are well paid? Do you
listen to the free-song of the river and rocks,
the whistle of the sand and the bird-flutes above
the marina? Do you wait for the dawn, do you
walk there at dust,
do you see the resolution, the turning of the day
that presages
the revolution of the ages
to teach us all, near and far,
to study war no more.

Kneel at the banks, and bring one more,
to kneel beside you. The scores have been settled,
the conflict that bent us like predatory bludgeons
is dying downriver. Diving downriver into
the baptism that overflows with shalom.

Let us listen; the peaceful sounds are shouted,
more like trumpets than cannons,
and the children will lead the victory parade
from downtown to battlegrounds now refurbished
for picnics and play. All the sun does is
tickle the river below. A lightshow,
a spectacle of wine-cheered rejoicing that
earth is bubbling with the laughter of children who
will
never ever study
war again.