I’ll Listen Closer

I’ll Listen Closer

(“He makes sure that orphans and widows are treated fairly; he loves the foreigners who live with our people, and gives them food and clothes.” Deuteronomy 10:18)

There are signboards on the corner
that write off every unrecognizable name.
But every name has a mother, every appellation
a definition. Every pair of eyes sees the
spectrum,
every mouth speaks its native tongue.

I’ll speak slower if I’m hard to understand,
I’ll listen closer if your words are sifted through the colander.
I love the unknown rhythm your words make when
you punctuate your sentences with a countryman.
You smiled when you showed me the videos you
made with your newest drone.
Your wife interpreted for me that, yes, you could
fix the problem with my MG.
I tried to pay you, I did. You laughed and I
think you said
it was nothing. But it was more than that and
you deserved even more than I offered.

You tinkered like a magician,
you laughed like a penguin,
you talked like we were brothers,
you sang without knowing the words.
I believed you like a clergyman,
I smiled like an old friend,
I talked like we were comrades,
I sang without knowing the words.

Now I’m older, but not by much,
and you are just the same.
Our languages are mixed,
our friendship exists despite the
placards that try to send you home.

Somewhere in the Distance

 Somewhere in the Distance

(“Therefore say, ‘Behold, I give to him my covenant of peace.’” Numbers 25:12)

The more I know, the more I do not understand;
the more the certainties, the more the canyons of smoke.
And though the air is filled with ash
and the oceans with reflections of the sun
my world is motionless, save for the unspoken
poetry that lies at my feet.
One day silence is peace,
the next day it is centripetal force
and the quiet bears the weight of the universe.

The more I look, the more I think the world has been
fixed with chewing gum. The more flavors, the better,
I think,
but the chilly air sneaks in through the corners,
the rabbits sneak in through the breaks in the fences.
Some days are paradise,
some days lead to hell,
some days run in circles,
some days lead nowhere at all.

I would stall if I could,
put off the daily pain for another day.
I would procrastinate these whirligig stories
that augur more deeply by their telling. I would
embrace the silence if
the silence was not all I knew.

But somewhere in the distant there are eyes I have never seen;
their arrival is unknown, but days may turn into hope
and dreams into visits from those I wish were closer
and had not departed so soon…
…somewhere in the distance.

Sing Me Closer

 Sing Me Closer

(“I have spoken once, and I will not reply; or twice, and I will add nothing more.” Job 40:5)

There was once a man, a preacher, a laborer,
a well suited-and-tied man. He could pray beyond
the boundaries of time that ticked away at the end of meetings.
No flowers, little elegance, simply words strung together that, more
than
once,
made me wish I could pray exactly the same.

There was once a man, another, a hopeful, a bull,
an untailored man. He could tell you what God had said
right in the middle of the first man’s prayer.

I often wondered why either of them were there.

I do not fault them; I nearly envied one. My prayers were
drops of tears when alone,
perfect informal eloquence when presiding. But never so long
that anyone suspected I had learned a holy language. And
never so specific
that my words could be mistaken
for palm-reading, fortune-telling, or guidance from the
Almighty
who (I hoped) could speak quite well on Her own.

Today I go through a week of days with no live conversation
for hours at a time. I have spoken once, then not at all until
the night begins to fall.

I would give this gift.

But no one knocks on the door to accept it.

I despise spiritual language. I do not have the mystic’s vocabulary.
The only dialect that has ever moved me,
the only accent I’ve learned that removes the pain
are the words that wrap around your heart so hard
you feel like you might die,
and you might as well,
in the love that feels more divine
than pews and prophecy,
pomposity and prayers
combined.
Sing me closer so I can breathe,
touch my hands, warm, and I may, once more,
believe.

Come Closer

Come Closer

(Many of the people told him sharply to keep quiet, but he shouted all the more, “Son of David, have pity on me!” Mark 10:48)

Blindness only happens when the light can’t get in,
and walls are erected to keep the holy from the ailing.
Dust explodes under the feet of the hopeless who hear better
than the seeing
and know better the feeling that the bottom is closer than
the surface walkers know.

Keep the rabble away from the quiet meditations,
keep the introverted crying while pentecostals shout,
liturgy can divide as surely as it unites,
and lifted hands with ingrown words lock hearts
tighter than we think.

“Keep quiet!” “Sing louder!” Stand up, sit down,
hymnal, dance around the pews at least one more time
and we’re sure to see the magician on the stage turn
our ailments to wine. We heard it happened in another
place, saw it posted, and overheard the miracles that
only occur to the initiated who are quiet enough.
Or loud enough. Or love liturgy. Or sing off key.
Or talk in tongues. Or never talk at all.

Fit my expectations and live!

But a daring few. Sorry; desperate. A desperate few disregard
the traditions and smudge the carpet with mud.
A blind loner finds the back bench and does not leave until
someone heard him shouting above the enforced sanctuary
with no talking aloud, where children are proudly herded upstairs,
and spares and strikes are reserved for Sunday evening conversation.

But an aching few whose pain keeps them from shouting; still,
silent and loudly, move past the requirements of the moment.
They sit in the middle, never making it to the altar (for the uninitiated,
that is the place at the front of the church, where people get saved for
certain.) They sit in the middle while masses swarm the altar
and yell in so many languages even the angels need interpretation.

This poor soul, so quiet and blind, is berated by one returning to his seat.
“How could you ruin the blessing, destroy the anointing, by sitting here
sullenly in this place?”

But shout or whisper, the desperate listener cries for mercy and hears the quiet
rebuke that says, “Come closer.” And, liturgy or adlib, the desperate wipe away
the habits of the faithful and

Usually find healing purer for both their ignorance and candor.