Concrete Creations

Concrete Creations

(“Even before time began God planned for Christ Jesus to show kindness to us.” 2 Timothy 1:9a)

I woke up with nothing to do and stayed that way
till far after noon. I sip my coffee; I drink loads of water because
my physicians are making sure I do. So, religiously I put ice in a glass,
pour the water and drink four or five glasses a day. If you read this would
you be kind enough to attest to this with my favorite practitioners?

It is not entirely true that I have nothing to do,
my fingers are tapping out these words, aren’t they?
But I forced myself to sit here today although there seems to be
little of the artisan words I desire to punch out of my brain.
And perhaps grace covers that. Perhaps grace fills the starved
and closed quarters in my mind.

I’ve written about these things for 25 years now and I seem to
have less to say the farther I go along. I had it all down pat,
I knew how to write a riddle or parable. I knew how to turn
the ending in such away that you wanted to stay all day, or
sometimes
you wanted to simply run away.

But I never wrote wanting you to be bored, or to scratch
your head
wondering why this word was glued to that one.
Like the disciples locked up in a room after the resurrection,
I have become a hermit, talking to no one for hours at a time.
I confess my words sound hollow because they come from a hollow
mind. I once
knew what I believed,
and now I am not sure. The pendulum has not swung for me.
Instead I find myself in the middle where it has come to rest with
no movement at all. I wait for the breeze to shift. I pray for breath
I can hear. I wait for the Spirit to be bestowed even though I have
no point of reference to know full I can become.

Truth? I feel empty. Other truth? I feel full. Have I been on a diet
that of so much fast food that I slowly make my way to what would
otherwise, have been inevitable. I must fast a meal or two to open this
place meant to be filled renewed. I must open wide the doors for the grace
to flow through. I must not puzzle over nothing to do; perhaps that is the
best way to receive. Yes, I will breathe. And breathe. And welcome the
grace of the Spirit to fill me complete. I will tell you what these moments
create once they pull me into the reworking of the words I use for art,
even when I am listless.

So I hope to become full of concrete creations that paint sacred
landscapes where holy places can be found.  

The Waves Broke Like Concrete

The Waves Broke Like Concrete

The ocean waves broke like concrete on the
boarders in the sand who
dug in for the ride;
a modest place to rent.

Never wanting to hide, but a helmet would be nice
to protect the hard-shell thoughts that pinged like
billiard balls through the felt and slate mind. It
was high tide again
and the swim to safety
was beyond the reach of tenants
who had no claim to stake.

Was there a suction that would hold them in place,
a tentacle strong enough to grab a neighbor who
also could not swim
and stick it out long enough to
watch the sea back away again?

Is this the way families are made,
the way babies survive?
Is this the advent or the resurrection,
is this the tick tock at the art gallery,
have we run out of time?

Fascinating rhythm, strange syncopation,
days and nights,
weeks and months,
high tide, low tide,
neap tide and rip tide.

One look at the moon or sun
has a way of explaining everything.

Mud in His Hair

Mud in His Hair

("Learn to do right. See that justice is done—help those who are oppressed, give orphans their rights, and defend widows.” Isaiah 1:17)

You preferred he sleep with mud in his hair.
You preferred outrage at a man who slept in the shed
because the pastor thought it was better than shivering in the rain.

You stretch walls to the sky to keep out infestations,
slick-dirt children and mothers with desperate and
hollow eyes. You call poverty an invasion,
refugees criminals and serial adulterers saints.
You kiss your flags in pagan idolatry and expect an
Amen
at the end of your national anthem.

You expect a throne, a crown, barbed wire and cages;
you bow before liars, stand inspired before hitmen with tongues
like asps. You never tire of banquets to honor
the alternative facts
you've chosen to spoon feed to
your progeny; tiny birds unfeathered in nested bubbles.

Toss a roll of paper towel
to the man with mud in his hair.
Give him an orange on your way to
Starbucks. Deny him a night without rain and
complain that the pastor
let him sleep on the concrete again.

Maintain your buildings, guard your doors,
and you can transfer all the blame to every
sluggard who sleeps in the rain.