The Cassock-Robed Crow

The Cassock-Robed Crow

(“God is a safe place to hide, ready to help when we need him.” Psalm 46:1 [The Message])

The cassock-robed crow presided from the fencepost
surveying the field as I drew near. I inched closer and
it barely noticed my feet on the asphalt periphery.
Could I get the shot? Would it stay still for a photo,
a close up, one I would not have to digitally zoom?
10 feet, then 8, then 6 and 5,
I stopped and aimed my camera. Before I could
blink, he was away. The sky was a better refuge
than an exposed piece of wood.

Do you remember days of comfort? Do you imagine
sanity in the sun with
no one
to interrupt your mediations after an overrun of hours?
You never heard the footsteps, did you, never sensed
the sightseer who would try to steal your soul.
You thought there was safety out in the open. You
dreamed this place was better than
all previous somewheres. You were caught unaware.
And your heart wanted to fly like the crow to a
flock
unreachable in the sky.

We would rather stand in the open with the sun on our face.
We would rather smile at the sound of whistling behind us.
We would rather slow the pace, erase the distress that makes
our pulse race when the song we forgot keeps circling our head.

Hide for a second, peek your head inside my window. I’ll
put away my
camera.
I’ll turn off the music. I’ll ask you your favorite wine.
I’ll ask you to tell me the time when you wanted to run
(like I’ve wanted to run).
I’ll empty the moment of everything except
the aroma of old books that makes you think of home.

Something Caught My Eye

Something Caught My Eye

(“You gave me room when I was in distress.” Psalm 4:1b)

I nearly caught up with the day
that I
followed the fall line across the
East Bay hills
below Mount Diablo. I nearly saw the
place again
where play was more likely than
definitions constructed behind fenced-
in
yards.

But I locked the gate myself, I
guess;
I thought better of sitting in the sun while
a friend smiled
and admired my silly guitar chords on a late
afternoon.

I still can smell that sweet mown hay,
I still can see the way clouds looked like angels
and there was no one enforcing the time or place
where we could get lost
and walk the same circles as if they were the first.

These days I swear I may burst,
I may have rehearsed my answers far to well.
These moments my reach is diminished,
my sight locked and myopic. My opinions have changed
(I have fewer), but everything still looks the way it has
for decades now.

I would give anything to play on the hills again,
to sing the songs that teenagers sing. I would find
the open space and
never
let it lock me in again.

Something caught my eye. I am trying to remember it.
I am trying to say that someone gave me open space once,
and I no longer own it. And I catch my breath like I
catch the flu
and stay inside alone until the summer is ended.

To sum it up, I could dance if you played the tune we
both know
long enough.

Caught in a Maze

Caught in a Maze

(“I said, ‘My foot is slipping.’ But Lord, your faithful love kept me from falling.” Psalm 94:18)

They say labyrinths are spiritual,
but I’ve been caught in a maze without sky or earth
to guide to the center or to the exit.
They say cathedrals are inspiring,
but I’ve heard enough chatter to shake my bottled pain.
They say nature is a sanctuary,
but recently I can only take it a moment at a time.

This ledge cuts my feet, the stones are sharper than politicians,
the moss coats me like unwelcome twine, and the ravens circle
wasting my time.

What was the point of befriending so many
when they will not come find me in the maze?
What was the purpose of days spent together
when they now have so little to say?

Today that includes yUo, gOd. And I know
I’ve made and idol of You, a perfect answer to the questions
I’ve hurled over the cliff for decades without answer.

And I always blamed myself.

What if it is yUo to blame? What if it is true yUo never answered,
because yUo never existed?

They say music is healing,
but I’ve lost my audience and I’m my worst critic.
They say pets are soothing,
but they die.
They say relationships are god-sent,
and I believe that,
but I am never filled.

Because I am on the ledge, do not assume I’m jumping,
Because I am caught in the maze, do not assume I am lost.
Because I cry every day, do not assume anything about me.
Because I ache, I ache, please, oh please, do not stay away.

And the questions tossed over the cliff? Do I think myself divine
that I should know the answer to everything?

So hidden, I cannot know You. So close, I cannot see you.
So transparent, I cannot miss You. So strong, I can only love You.

Caught by the Breeze

Caught by the Breeze

(“But Ittai said to the king, ‘As the Lord lives, and as my lord the king lives, your servant will be where my lord the king may be, in death or in life.’” 2 Samuel 15:21) 

I.

It was a muggy morning; trash day in the suburbs.
The dogs had been out scrounging hamburger wrappers and
pizza boxes. And the wind blew.

A plastic lid from a large soda was caught by the breeze. Separated,
and turned on its side, the wind pushed it like a wheel down the asphalt
for a block and another. Twice and more it nearly fumbled in the moments
when the breeze was catching its breath. But just as it looked like the lid
would takes its rest within the gutter alone,
a gentle puff started it rolling again.

I watched this airy motion, the lid, the breeze and silent neighborhood trees
as witnesses to the same. Animated by atmosphere alone, the circle of plastic
crossed the street and barely crawled up a concrete driveway a quarter mile
from where it began.

Then, as if the universe had planned it, the solitary lid lay down on the
grass in front of the driveway’s home. And the fan of air blew elsewhere.

I’d rather been moved by the Spirit than coerced by a strong man.

II.

Come walk with me again, friend, life is shorter now than when we began.
Let the Spirit bring you to me again. We have less days to talk about the
ways of compassion, healing, love and revealing the light we both share
in common with all.

In these days of pain the light barely affects the chain of events that memory
brings like a waiter with the same burger I’ve eaten every Friday for years.

But sounds, the sounds jangle. The sounds are worse than toll bells, shakier
than cannon balls, fiercer than jet decibels on the ground. They shake my
nerves until the synapse explode in flame.

But your silence is like a hammer on the anvil of my mind. Your absence has
inverted solitude so I do not know which I should choose: the shock of a
shout across the room, or the weight of silence across the years.

There is more compassion left than holes in our clothes. More forgiveness and
amends,
than sand in our pockets.

So, return my call, answer my letter, let me know that you are better and
we will observe together what
the power of compassion can do.