The Pockmarks of War

The Pockmarks of War

(“He brings an end to wars throughout the earth. He shatters the bow and breaks the spear; he burns the shields with fire.” Psalm 46:9)

I don’t need to think about it,
I don’t need to start again. I’ve heard the cry
of victory that savors peace like an early supper.
I’ve heard the mothers begging for skirmishes
to cease. I’ve seen the pain melting from the faces
who swore to study war no more.

Throw the spears into the forge, remake them into
garden rakes. Throw the guns into the furnace, remake
them into gazebos where the only invasion is music
on summer evenings.

Heed the voices who are crying. Heed the babies
who have been dying because you had to avenge
everything that ever pained your land.

The refugees hover inside whitewashed tents,
they take cover when they hear the missiles whistle
overhead. The children know the drills too well.
I’ve watched them huddle, leaving behind every
vestige of nationality. Sadly, the vileness of violence
followed them to nowhere home.

Why do we use words like love and caress our bombs?
Why do we mutter syllables of peace and prime the fuses?
Why do we pray and send away for more munitions?
Why do we hug it out and then paint targets on people’s backs?

Do you see creation? Do you see the children’s songs?
Do you hear the sound of tomorrow? Do you hear the robin’s song?
Can you feel the beauty of lands where pockmarks of warfare
have ceased? Can you feel the daylight that opens the door
a self truer than military salutes and slogans?

When Joy is Ancient Like Rain

When Joy is Ancient Like Rain

(“Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving; let us make a joyful noise to him with songs of praise!” Psalm 95:2)

Run in for cover,
that’s how my soul feels on days like these,
find somewhere to hide. Not that
I am in danger; I find my heart craving
impossible meals and solo excursions with
a gypsy mind.

There were two friends on the road,
one danced with his classmates and one
sipped wine whenever it was offered.
They had met up after 50 years,
they thought they might recognize the
old poppy fields. They thought they might taste
the teenage pizza they shared, a large
hot Italian sausage. They played pong
while they waited.

There were dark wooden tables there.
There were girls who recognized us.
There was a boy who looked like me
who thought he knew, finally, for once,
how the world worked and how God handed
out prizes to the penitent.
He cried in his room a lot over
cravings and old coffee cups underneath his bed.

This man, me-who-writes,
would give up a quarter cup of convenience
for a pinch of ad-libbed laughter in a
favorite restaurant.

I could sing of your insanity forever,
the ways you schemed, the poems you dreamed,
and the ways you viewed the world, they way
you practiced each scene like it was the first day
of a trip through the winding roads of the East Bay Hills.

Today, though the rain speaks every name I’ve
learned along the way,
I will listen for their songs. The joy feels like sadness,
the gladness sounds like monks chanting. The silence
looks like a doorway to sojourn and paisley afternoons.

To Console or Call

To Console or Call

(“More than anything, keep loving each other actively; because love covers many sins.” 1 Peter 4:8)

It all smelled naked to the untrained eye;
like shame in the garden, rain during harvest,
so we covered it up with fragrances and smoke.

We were frightened and cold.

It all was larger than our own small acreage;
like memes in their orbit, tales oral and ancient,
so we hid in closets or glued green leaves on our broken branches.
We were broken and old.

Our minds were bigger than our bodies could take us,
our dreams unlimited have become finite over time,
the choices, from tears or sins, stares and pain,
have little chance of presenting themselves again.

Old friends, has my behavior surprised you? I must say,
you are as fragile as recent as I can remember. I would
not fail you even when frightened by the swordplay that,
I must say, wounded and nearly destroyed us both.

In these final few chapters I am wrinkled,
the band of pain is tightened around my brow and
I could use the eyes flashing with acceptance,
the voice sure with remembrance of both our broken wings
and broken hearts,
the standing invitation that never asked questions
and the pool of forgiveness (just mercy, no suggestions)
where wounds could be both cleansed and forgotten.

My feet are cold, my eyes are tired,
new friend are kind, but old friends are desired
who,
knowing all love all. We all were in the garden,
we all took a bite, we all have cursed and all have
accused, and now, as we ease toward our final mooring

I would give all for you, old friend, to console or call,
with love covering all. 

Love Covers

“Hatred stirs up strife, but love covers all transgressions.” Proverbs 10:12

If I had the physique I dream of, I might change my wardrobe. Barrel chest, six-pack abs, high caliber guns for biceps, calves and thighs well defined; yes, I would not be afraid to wear a t-shirt that actually fit well. It would accentuate all the hard work I put into achieving my incredible frame.