We Took the Backstreets

We Took the Backstreets

We took the backstreets too often
trying not to be seen, hoping not to be heard.
We were convinced that everyone was happier than
we deserved and so we made the shadows our friends.
We deserved nothing brighter than the alleys,
or so we thought. The spotlight blinded us and sent
us scattered across the way. What would they say when
they saw us dressed so differently from them, handsewn
rags from mediocre wardrobes. We never thought the songs
were for us and so we never memorized the lyrics.

We took the long way home nearly every time we
returned. What would we say to those who thought
they knew us and paused to chat or ask us questions,
or insist we swallow some offered food with them.
We should have trusted them. But we had trusted others
and their food nearly poisoned us right in front of everyone.

We had no way to measure the honesty of the light we met
along the way. He had no means to assess what harm there
might be in giving them space within our shivering minds.
We had been treated as paupers before, morsels received from
clenched hands. So we found ourselves suspecting every
motion from shoulder to elbow to hands.

We would give anything to walk through the neighborhood,
stop at the cul-de-sac and chat with the children and puppies
with eyes happy to see ours. We would throw our hearts wide
open to let the better words lodge as their parents saw us and
laughed along with our improvised conversations. Maybe the
light can shine again, maybe we can come out of the shadows,
take the front road and not the alley. Maybe the pain we
experienced
was inflicted by people with as much pain as ours. Maybe
there was a place to play like sunny afternoons in meadows
that musically laugh the healing songs of human bonds. The
clash we once felt might be the beginning of lively moments of
daily discovery like a child finger-painting the sky.

A Cantata of Peace

A Cantata of Peace

(“A child will be born for us. A son will be given to us. The government will rest on his shoulders. He will be named: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” Isaiah 9:6)

After further review and looking everywhere,
high and low,
center and none,
in ballads and marches,
in wooden crosses and iron wills,
I honestly
find more question marks than before.

Today I sat without wind or dizzying propositions,
definitions of cause and effect,
and hoped (an explosive hope)
for better ears. A friend hides underground
while missiles whistle overhead.

And what is this song that moves the ground beneath our feet,
that pierces the stars until angels cannot restrain the chorale
that wraps the waiting world
face-to-face,
with an overture too resplendent to miss?

But we do miss it. We do continue staking our claim.
We do see the fault lines drawn between this
and
that,
and are blind where that and this
contain the first atoms of breath, contain the
alpha and omega. We do miss the
restoration of things.

With a mighty hand extended through
infant arms,
I cannot ignore the cantata of peace.

I Saw a Child Lead Them

 

I Saw a Child Lead Them

(“No one receives God’s approval by obeying the laws in Moses’ Teachings since, ‘The person who has God’s approval will live by faith.’” Galatians 3:11)

I saw a sister coming down the path towards me,
her pack shouldered mightily but her knees were faint.
She had authored stories,
and curated before many of us began.
She was mainly midstream
and now she was tinder dry
but still walked steadily toward the
life risen like the sun for everyone
to see.

She wept privately.

I saw a brother lying on the side of the road,
his life savings splintered and gravel piercing his knees.
He had locked away the stories
of the helpless who deposited them with trust
into his heart.
He was partly periphery
and now was flung further away.
But still he hoped mightily for the
Samaritan, the outcast to kneel beside him
and weep.

He bled internally.

I saw the myriads, the unchosen, the torn coats
and the ice floes of winter diminishing. Some
were gathered to drink the rain, others repeated
the same uniform codes again and again.
Some jumped at the chance to be embraced by
the elite clubs of separation.
Others kept traveling without navigation
but knew the destination would one day
come into view.
I saw some discarded, others ignored;
I heard that some were disbarred and others
abhorred. Some turned to greet the company
of friends they had loved all along
to see many with their backs turned
and silence alone filling the space between them.

I saw a child lead them all.

The Throne Among Us

 

The Throne Among Us

(“For a child has been born to us, a son has been given to us. He shoulders responsibility and is called Wonderful Adviser, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” Isaiah 9:6)

“Pass on by and don’t say a word,”
they reply when they repeat the lies of violence
and then turn with a smiley face on their sticker heart
they have pasted on their foreheads.

Why do you leave us waiting without wings?
Why do you see darkness when the light fills everything?
Why do you leave us to wonder
how you came to your conclusions?
Facts are facts, not your affection for sledgehammer delusions.

Oh, speak my Prince,
and move upon these streets of stone.

Oh, seek my friend,
the truth that will not bend to the seismic intentions
of words you attribute to angels
but smell of demonic design.

Oh, rain my Prince,
upon these barren lands where we paint our
rock gardens green because nothing ever grows.

Oh, listen friend,
to the streams that wake us,
the rain that soaks us,
the sun as it coaxes us to
open like roses in the face of love.

Let go your arrows, empty your quiver,
spend your words with liberal fascination
that the throne above is now the
throne among us
and it calls us
to speak more like
the Prince of Peace.

Turning into Puppets

Turning into Puppets

(Jesus said to his disciples, “Whoever welcomes this child in my name welcomes me. Whoever welcomes me, welcomes the one who sent me. Whoever is least among you all is the greatest.” Luke 9:48)

I’ve seen my brothers turning into puppets,
my sisters into marionettes. I never imagined this spectacle
of recited lines and managed movements.
They are not alive; they are stranded in their own
imaginations. They have made no room for their own thinking,
having crammed others’ brains into their craniums.

A prince was born today, but too few would know it.
In urban Detroit, or a dusty reservation,
in an Alaskan fishing village, or the streets of L.A.
A prince was born today, he eats from WIC and SNAP,
he’s bound to his mother’s back while she vacuums the world.

A princess was born today, but too few would see her.
Her neck is smeared with yesterday’s mud, she does not wash behind her ears,
she gets lost too easily and sits apart in the geometric classroom.
A princess was born today, she plays with ashtrays and envelopes,
she’s bound to her father’s side while he taxis the world.

I’ve seen the puppet shows where you applaud the pompous lectures,
where you adopted conspiracy as your main dish
and missed out on the best. You’ve let an
alien wind, more bluster,
blow away the innocence you learned before you made
cemented churches your master.

Listen to the littles, hear them for once or twice again,
come down off your stage, burn down the curtain,
there is no us and them, there is no actor and audience,
only children and servants who play in a kingdom
where Jesus rides the carousel with them. Undress the
hand that molds you like the rest,
cut the strings and hang limp like the day you were born.
The royalty of the kingdom is found gazing at butterflies
and running outside without their shoes on.