Circles of Pain

Circles of Pain

(And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit.” Ephesians 2:22)

The pain has grabbed me around the neck today,
pressing its way into every thought,
cauterizing open wounds
and blinding every well-meant phrase.
It’s been that way for two days now
and I could not sing and could hardly finish
a walk in the cold February air.

I planned on writing something full of spirit,
full of life and daffodils rising before a hint of
spring.
Instead I record these words and know they have
little meaning to those who can walk through a day
with doubts cast aside like rubbish and last year’s
party ribbons.

There must be some sense to this all,
I used to say.
There must be some purpose that leaves me
more whole by the end of the day.

I planned on wondering about how we all
are just walking each other home,
but I can barely give myself permission to
leave the house.
I planned on igniting some well placed
lightning
to scare the pain away.

Do you remember how we used to sing
with
only a guitar and made-up songs? Do you
remember
how we used to walk on the same hills where
the cows grazed on late afternoons?

There must be some sense to it all,
these memories that take my time away
from knowing anything for certain.
There must be a way to embrace
the new wine the spirit brings and
share the cup like sneaky teenagers again.

I got up from a nap to write this.
I was hoping it would do me some good.
But I pause before each line and want to
lie down again
except that sleep eludes me and
the pain
makes me homesick for the dwellings
of friends
where we gathered in laughter and naivety.
I’d call you again, but it hurts to speak
about the transfixed nature of this circle
of pain.

So, for now, I’ll repaint my boundaries
with hopeful words of remembrance
and how good it felt in those days so many
decades ago.

There may be a space so safe that spirit
draws open the tears and reminds us
we may not have this chance again.

A Different Degree

A Different Degree

When every footprint sinks to a different degree,
displacing the mud or sand beneath the weight of
one single
human being,
we detect the evidence of another life form
to speak and eat with, to smile and tease with,
to joke and to wander the skies from sunset horizon
to midnight apogee. We who walked the same woods alone
turn full circle more than once or twice over, expanding
its diameter three feet at a time to discover
another to break the silence of the hillside forest,

Until turning the last degree, on the periphery of vision
we meet. My heart stops, my hands shake, my mouth so dry
that words are pasted on my tongue and down my throat;
yet so anxious to speak after speaking has nearly been forgotten.

I turn full and final, the circle that meets you eye to face,
and, though no words are spoken, I see you are dressed
far too conservative for me

And turn the circle round with my footprints sinking
to a different degree behind me.