Undiluted Beauty

Undiluted Beauty

(“Do not be so certain you have won. Do not speak with your head held so high.” Psalm 75:5)

Do you know what I do not;
Is your power so great you have brought it to the battle?
Do you take counsel or do you put your head inside a
soundproof booth to keep your personal plans alive?

I used to need to be certain. I figured I was truly right.
I met every argument with a counter more wise,
I heard every disagreement as a disguise keeping
people from candor. I was the conveyer of truth,
my arguments were leakproof as they left my mouth.

But my soul hungered for more. My soul left me to
wonder why the surer arguments started to leave me empty.
I could hold my answers in a single hand but the truth
was numerous as all the grains of sand. How could I
be that foolish;
how could my doctrine be so brutish?

Are you still grasping dearly to parchment paper
copied hundreds of years ago? Do you remain sure of
the single verses you have plastered across your walls?
Has your mind ever changed? Has your fight ever ceased its
battles?

Under this sapphire sky are seashell eyes waiting for
freedom and unshackled fire within their soul. They long
to see
a day turning to night as the pastels of evening paint
the horizon.
They long to hear undiluted beauty and see the symphonies
of love from an orchestra of joy.

What shall we feed them this time? What recipes will we use?
Have we chosen saran-wrapped sandwiches from the deli counter?
Or are we willing to freestyle some bread and fixings, humble
ingredients, and water springing from underground. Shall we
admit we don’t always know what to do with so much fresh
produce. But we will feed you just the same.

On the Backside of the Day

On the Backside of the Day

(“God chose what is low and despised in the world, what is regarded as nothing, to set aside what is regarded as something,” 1 Corinthians 1:28)

We were pretty certain we would arrive before the night fell.
We were convinced everyone would meet us on the road.
We were busting out with words,
we were advertising our prophecies.
We were on our way past the obstructions that
we believed we had overcome.

We found our thrones were just we had left them,
we climbed up and surveyed our territory.
We were royal and carried our scepters with pride.
We were untested though we thought the speeches
were expected because we had so much we had
crafted in our houses of extravagance. We lacked
nothing that we knew of.

And the crowds did come, the cheers convinced us
we were fulfilling all we had dreamed. They left us
breathless as we captured their unsuppressed praises.
Would our dreams coalesce on the backbeat of a waning
afternoon? The permanent residences were
unmoved, though, by our front-functioning terms
of affection. We even sent them invitations to feed us,
to bring the feasts to us, but they did not hear,
it would appear,
and stayed home with children barely born that year.

We had not considered how at a loss we were with our
degrees and plaques and awards and directives. We
knew what everyone needed before they asked, and we
kept loading it upon them long after the day was done.
You’d think we would know by now that God
dissolved the thrones built to boost the earth up
closer to the moon. God burrowed deeply into our
muck to bring our mud-caked bodies close to his.

We were less certain at the end of the day, we
were less filled with convictions; but we learned
the breath we used for proclamation was needed
instead
for soiled reflections of silent servanthood written
down on the backside of the day.

My Knees Buckled

My Knees Buckled

 

It was not clear whether I had been
left in your care.
Others laughed as I fell
down the stairs.
Was it the way my knees buckled,
the way I struggled to grab the banister
and find my feet again?
I wish more people would think twice,
even once would do,
an ounce of consideration before
they lock the door down tight and
decide they know my fate.
Believe me, it was never my intent
to lie crumpled like the want ads
at the bottom of the landing.
Nor did I plan to do it twice.

Decades ago I could find a room
filled with paisley pillows, sandalwood incense
and corners where friends talked, scribbled
and planned the magic we dreamed for the world.
Sometimes wine, sometimes weed,
but mostly rolled up together in the need to
believe better days for the world that seemed
far too crazy
to ban warfare for good.

It was not certain whether time had been
broken in pieces.
Others massed at the borders insisting that
life was so much better “back then”. And
my
knees
buckled.

Somewhere I dropped the dream. Sometime after
the King offered me a place in the court, a place of honor,
the jester, of course. And I followed wild and cautious,
tiptoe and raucous for one brief chapter. I was told
by those in the know
that serious study would be required.
So, gaining my voice I lost my mime,
and made everything so plain there could be
no mistake.

Decades later I find a room,
and want to be a clown again.
I’ll light my incense, call a retired
carney or two,
and ask if we might dance again
in the park,
in the court,
in the rain,
in the shortest moments between
scribbles and songs.
And for once, at the end, the magic
will be new again, be eternal again,
like friends who can’t wait to hug
like we hugged back then.

I Like the Way the River Flows

 

I Like the Way the River Flows

(“He opened a rock, and water gushed out; it flowed like a stream in the desert.” Psalm 105:41)

It wasn’t really a ghost town,
it was simply that no one lived there I wanted to know.
Gravity never forgets. You may not see your halo,
but I do. You were sun and moon, but all you knew
was black sky, battleship clouds, sad eyes, and
never ending rounds of chores.

But me, I’m just here for the conversation.
I know you cannot hear the river lapping the shore,
do not feel the wind of seagull wings,
do not see the river flowing endlessly,
do not feel there is any river at all.

Still, I am just here for the conversation because,
I like the way the river flows
when you speak.

You were not certain of the river at all, but I was.
I have seen it flow through you.

It wasn’t really the badlands,
it was simply the angry way the hills burned red.
Sanity never forgets. You may not see your daylight,
but I do. You are the butterfly with yellow wings,
and all you knew was the black and brown
caterpillar, the autumns leaves red as blood and
the winter freeze ahead that broke the late buds of roses.

But me, I’m just here for the humanity.
I know you’ve heard the night’s gentle song,
felt the kiss of bonfires,
seen the children who laugh at the same things that
amuse you too,
and felt mortality like a night on the town we wish
would never end.

Still, I am just here for the humanity because,
I like the way the spirit flows
when you speak.

Your Count Was Off

Your Count Was Off

(“The king replied, ‘But look, I see four men. They’re untied, walking in the middle of the fire, and unharmed. The fourth one looks like a son of the gods.’” Daniel 3:25)

Have you ever stood outside when the grass was dewing,
when the darkness was wooing your feet to the meadow,
your arms by your sides, and your eyes to the sky;
Have you ever stood outside in the smudgy dark
and watched all night as the moon came down?

And were you certain, mostly because of the static electricity
from people rubbing on your head,
that it was your fault the moon was dead?

Have you ever lived in God’s house (in our out) where
every move was calculated, measured, and manipulated?
Have you ever walked in to pray, and cried instead, words and
devotion fled and only your naked knees understood anything?
Have you ever dreamt, 30 years later, that it all meant something
but you never were tall enough to bring the glory down?

And were you certain, mostly because of the chemical reaction
from short-robed preachers accusing your soul,
that it was your fault behind and ahead?

Have you ever held up new grapes to the sun,
wondering in a half-second’s eternity of winding vineyards
and wines that brighten the eyes?
Have you ever had a day when a king’s summons
met your serenity tête-à-tête squeezing you between
another’s troubles; a wound upon the head because of what
the king had said?

And were you certain, mostly because of the wind in your soul,
that there was no other option, though most thought the king a priest,
that it was you and the troubled who might not escape unscathed?

And did anyone tell you at midnight, after the madness, in the middle
of either faith or sadness,

That your count was off and one more stood unburned, not only in the furnace
but also in the years with you unarmed. And unharmed.

Where I Would Like to Live

“Therefore, we must be thankful that we have a kingdom that cannot be shaken. Because we are thankful, we must serve God with fear and awe in a way that pleases him.” Hebrews 12:28

Our daughter Sarah told me recently that she wants to live in Minneapolis. “That just seems like the city for me,” she said. She was raised in North Dakota before moving with us to the Northwest just before high school. So, the familiarity of the territory combined with the fact her only niece lives there makes Minneapolis the obvious choice.

She asked me what city I would most want to live in. I hemmed and hawed a bit, partly because I have enjoyed almost everywhere I have lived based upon the friendships we made along the way. But finally I told her, “Berkeley, California.” I have loved the free-spirited nature of “Berzerkeley” from my high-school days. Our family would often make the 30 mile trip from Concord to hang out there on Saturdays.

I attended the grand opening of the amazing Berkeley Art Museum in 1970 and heard poet Richard Brautigan read. I haunted the shops up and down Telegraph Avenue, wandering up and down the aisles of basement stores. I got lost in the bins of used records and sheet music. It was there I first discovered the riveting and muscular music of Leadbelly. I had never heard guitar work like it, nor voice and lyrics that wouldn’t let go. I also discovered Tom Rush, a pioneer of the new folk music and incredible singer-songwriter.

It was at the Bishops, a coffee shop in Oakland, not far from Berkeley, that I got my start reading original poetry. It had open mike on Friday nights and I would wait my turn with a manila folder holding a dozen or so handwritten pages. It was scary business, but it helped me hone my skills. And it makes for beautiful memories over 40 years later.

But the Bishops is no more. I worked in Oakland in the early 80s and wanted to take some friends to see the old stage where I once sat. I was greatly saddened that it no longer existed. And the stores where I set up camp for long Saturday afternoons now house some other wares, who knows. At least the beautiful Art Museum remains. Today’s city is not the one I grew up with, even if many still think of it as “The People’s Republic of Berkeley”.

Things change. Coffee shops shut down. Stores are sold and become store front churches or furniture warehouses. Some of the buildings themselves have been razed and parking lots put in their place. It is true, if we put our heart in things of this world, we will find our heart broken.

God’s kingdom, though, cannot be shaken. More than a place we go, His kingdom is the way we live out our lives no matter our geographical location. King Jesus presides over the kingdoms of this world and will forever. Berkeley has changed. Nations have come and gone. Poets keep writing, artists keep drawing outside the lines, but even the best will someday be forgotten. I am deeply thankful that God’s kingdom, which He has prepared for those who love Him, is safe from the ravages of time and cultural change.

When I realize that God established His kingdom for the good of humankind, I am overtaken with awe. God didn’t need worship; He is secure in His “ego”. He doesn’t need to conquer nations, He already rules the universe. He does not need masses of followers to affirm greatness; He is already completely great within Himself.

No, His kingdom is for our benefit! He loves us. He created this entire world for us to populate and nurture. He made a world keenly established to keep us alive and offer every sort of pleasure and joy. Had sin not crept in, the universe would have been perfection. Even then, Father God chose to annihilate the infection of sin we caused, and allow us to enjoy all His kingdom’s benefits again.

As we trust in the forgiveness Christ offers through His death on the cross, we place ourselves at the very heart of God’s kingdom. It is about far more than becoming religious folks who no longer sleep in on Sunday and who offer pamphlets full of new rules to follow. We are people set free to live like members of the holy, pleasurable, love-filled and joyful kingdom of God. And that kingdom will never, ever be shaken!

Yes indeed, I stand in fear and awe that God has done such a thing for us who are so insignificant. Time to send Father God a few thank you notes, and dash off a handful to other members of His kingdom as well!