Dance With the Runaways

Dance With the Runaways

(“And the disciples were filled with joy and with the Holy Spirit.” Acts 13:52)

The time passes like a semi on the highway.
The rain hits like pellets of joy. The wind was from the south
and warmed the mid-September air. There was nothing foolish
about spending the day outside.

Words were scarce as he searched for enough to fill a page or a pail;
his appeal was heard though, more thoroughly than he knew.
The wind turned for a moment and blew the lid off the
neighbor’s trash can. It flew like a frisbee across the warming street.

I won’t be remembered for keeping my mouth shut.
I can sing the joy, I can speak the prophecy, I can hum the tune
that calls for freedom to flow from the surrounding hills.
I can, in a word or two, remind you of redemption,
the song that is meant for everyone.

Can you hear the echoes, can you feel the rejoicing of those
who feel the vibrations and have set the captives free?
Have you listened long enough to dance with the runaways
who have fled the dirges of the day?

Come, leave your vitriol behind; find a new word to terminate
the sentences you have imposed. There is time, though it may be
running fast,
to catch up with the jubilant sound of every voice freed to
sing the day away while others are blindly following their own
scripts into dark and silent caverns of gloom.

Just When Everyone Else Is Walking Away

Just When Everyone Else Is Walking Away

(“But from now on, the Son of Man will be seated at the right hand of the power of God.” Luke 22:69)

Empires are threatened by authority that wields its power
like dying. Rulers rage at the gentle grace that sits upon
the face of those who have learned, at the sharp side of the spear,
that military parades are the antichrist in a world desperately needing peace.

The Son of Man, the human one, the person no one understands,
will always be the one brought before courts with made-up charges
from the cream of the crop.

The accusations fly and Satan laughs and dances: That man told us
to stop paying taxes.
That man is misleading so many people of our nation.
That man says we shouldn’t give anything to Caesar.
That man says he is a king!

The empire implodes. The purveyors of propriety pull their hair,
the strong men grab their whips to teach a lesson or two that the
Teacher
needs to learn.

They thought to sit him down and shut him up,
they encouraged every false claimer to speak up,
they needed charges, false ones, accusations grown of
discontent and jealousy. They needed to rid the nation of
this threat to their good way of life. Follow this man and our
whole reason for existence could be ruined. Mute him;
forever.

You will never see the power of the divine until you
contemplate the splintery stake upon which Jesus sat.
You will never understand the dream of God until you
study the way the Son of Man ruled from a cross meant for
shame: humiliation: death: In those moments you may receive
illumination that God’s power is not like human kings who
write out executive orders to rid the land of more uneasy people
of color.

God’s throne is not golden, it is not gilded in precious jewels,
it is not at the end of a royal carpet with warriors holding up
the corners. God’s throne is among the jesters who know how
shame can bring rain that washes all the dust away. They are the
ones who started to tell the truth when kings thought they must be gods.

No one ever knew, and many still do not, that God is no king, but is
a servant. That the Son of Man is not a destroyer, but a giver. And
it is time to know kingly edicts can only come from crosses of pain
that remind us that we have been forgiven again and again. And the
Son cries, “Father forgive, for they have no idea what they are doing.”
And the jesters dance just when everyone else is walking away.

To See You Dance

To See You Dance

All I want is to see you dance the
way a toddler does at a wedding
in the rain
after the music has stopped
before the cake is cut. All I want is
to see you child and free.

All I want is to hear you sing the
way a robin does before the morning
shines on the dew
after the roosters have crowed. All I want is
to hear you sing for the roses and sunflowers,
for the does and rabbits, for the grass and the breeze.

All I want is to feel the blue of your eyes
scanning the skies for the next joyful song
in the meadow
after the picnic and
before the quiet stroll home. All I want is
to feel you like a cloud embracing the
naming of your day, the meaning of the
beloved, the skipping stones across a crystal
lake.

All I’ve said, and left unsaid,
I’ve stuttered far too often, and muttered
to myself afterward that
everything I say has too many meanings.
I want to play, and simply play, to dig
in the sand,
to tell you the ocean belongs to you.

Here is my heart. It’s damaged I know.
Here is the me-of-me, sometimes making
mud pies I pass off as birthday cakes. Until
you taste it, and somehow say it’s the best cake
you’ve ever had.

Here is the sorrow of me, the hammered part that
only wants to play the music that will help you
dance.
Here is the insanity, only wanting the lyrics that
fill your mouth with songs and joy.

If the morning allows, I will show you the sun
beaming on the tulip fields,
and slowly walk away as your
aches are healed, your face shines
new like noon,
your eyes, sometimes red with tears,
wide open like summer.

If the morning allows I
would bring coffee and conversation,
and tell you I understand,
and will always, until the last dance
on faltering feet,
understand even better than before.

The Dance Had Begun

The Dance Had Begun

You told her she had wasted her days, that she should have
spent more time dancing. But
you failed to ask her, or inquire about her,
why her breath came like gasps of sundown so
early in the morning.
You suggested she could do better,
you commanded her to smile,
and she did, so as not to upset you,
but her feet stay glued under your vision.
Her thoughts wound around her like smoke
from a burned-out village, like the steam from
a circus calliope. The clowns had gone home
before the bigtop collapsed.
You wasted her time with your inquisition,
you stole her soul with your invented advice.
She heard but could not listen; sighs were her
language and you
spoke in unknown tongues.
You could not answer the question in her eyes,
you had no language and made no reply. She
knew,
though untranslated,
you meant well but missed the target, missed the
heart of it all.
She would have cried if you had given her time,
she would have written her pain on a dozen
cocktail napkins.
She wished for semi-darkness, she hoped for
another song to begin. She looked for faces that
read her sadness. She searched for the one hand
that spoke more than
a dozen deductions. She could not move as long as
the suggestions shoved her into corners, over cliffs, and
into canyons while she waited for just one slice of
an
orange from China,
or chocolate from the Mexican coast.

She floated once the silence left her alone with
the one who offered to walk her home and silently
offered her cherries and wine. No one knew it,
but the dance had begun.

You Don’t Know How to Dance?

 You Don’t Know How to Dance?

(“Everyone was rejoicing and making sacrifices to God in their great joy.” Nehemiah 12:43b)

You’ve told me you don’t know how to dance,
but I don’t believe you. We were all meant to
move along this planet with undetected rhythms
that rhyme with our heart.

I know the songs bubble like champagne
when you think of your children in the sun
and your mother, the central one,
and your father, departed too soon and too long.

I know the songs are sad sometimes,
I’ve heard you sing them, and I have cried too.
I know the songs are silent as clouds,
soothing as breezes touching the trees,
and punctuated with laughter when kittens
upend the day, or a daughter makes it play
with the box the mail came in.

You’ve told me you don’t know how to dance,
and I still don’t believe you. The earth and sky
have taken a chance on you today
and are waiting for your face, shining like the sun,
to find a private space where maybe the frogs keep time
and robins fill the air with melodies between the
garden and the pond.

I know the songs are choking sometimes, the pain
sticks in our throats sometimes. And that’s when,
with your permission,
I’ll chime in and finish the lines that you cannot.
And then, gaining our composure (or not)
We’ll sing that last refrain together (there is no other
audience that the spirit wind)
and let the holy mixture of laughter and tears
create a space where we forget our troubles
for just a moment. And know, in the next pang of trouble,
we can go there again.

You Wear Stripes and I’ll Wear Checks

 You Wear Stripes and I’ll Wear Checks

(“Rejoice greatly, Daughter Zion. Sing aloud, Daughter Jerusalem. Look, your king will come to you. He is righteous and victorious. He is humble and riding on an ass, on a colt, the offspring of a donkey.” Zechariah 9:9)

You wear stripes and I’ll wear checks,
we’ll dance until the world thinks we are the whirling milkshakes
from the midway at the state fair.
We’ll walk past the sunset, we’ll take our hands out of our pockets,
we’ll walk without a word to say, we’ll take the same midday meals we
took yesterday.

We’ll lay down the memories, etch them into the sidewalk,
we’ll lay down the memories so plain, we will never forget
the dancing that brought rain, the songs no one explained,
and the hours we spent unafraid of the next day or the day after
That.

Tomorrow we might step up to the sky,
tomorrow we might climb the stair, see if we can fly.
Let us look like fools in a world that, adoring war,
celebrates medals and ribbons, bombs and acquisitions;
let us loop behind the firepower with wild poppies from the fields.
Let us lead the parade on
the day after tomorrow
where gardens and festivals meet on sunny Sundays
midafternoon.

Have you seen us lately? Have you felt the breeze?
Have you heard us lately? Have you felt the thawing
of ice bricks; have you felt the mighty withdrawing
from their thrones?

Sing, though the words are indecipherable. Dance, though
the patterns and colors do not mix. Feast, though your pockets
are empty. Drink, though you have forgotten why.

You wear stripes and I’ll wear checks,
we’ll walk down the midway from entrance to exit,
wearing palm branches for sandals and the flowers we
planted where muskets once were manufactured.

Speak it to Me Warmly

Speak it to Me Warmly

 (“I always thank my God for you because of his grace given you in Christ Jesus.” 1 Corinthians 1:4)

Speak it to me warmly so I can hear.
Allay my fears.
All I want is to know you better
so my bones don’t shatter every time
you want to talk to me. 

The clouds shrouded the hills across the river,
a film noir in February,
and the douglas firs on the ridge looked like
castles in the fog. 

I do see it in you, the things I miss in me,
it has always been this way.
From the onset of my first failure
to the day I sailed to your door
I have seen poorly and heard the thunder
on sunny days. 

The marina invited all the neighbors and their
dogs
to ease into a winter sun that reflected off the
green glass water where boats moored still as
stopped clocks. The ducks dove below the surface
nonchalantly grabbing lunch. 

I do hear it in words I have forgotten.
Remind me then.
All I want is to breathe easier
so my arms don’t shake every time
I sit down to write. 

Don’t call me crazy, but I hear bagpipes
that sing of Scottish highlands.
I hear fiddles and babies bawling for
their mothers.
I hear the sheep bleating, the sky receding,
and evening calling out to dance.

I Do Not Dance Enough

 I Do Not Dance Enough

(“Then the men asked, ‘Why are you looking among the dead for someone who is alive?’” Luke 24:5b)

I see the stars and I want to keep them company;
I see my protection above and within it all.
(I committed the crime; I was not framed.)

A chihuahua barks while a fat stellar jay perches
in the tree outside my window. Hummingbirds sweep
by the feeder
on my redwood deck and speed to the walnut tree
branches for refuge.
(Someone once told me I do not dance enough.)

I visited the San Gabriel Mission more than once as a child,
and created a model of cardboard and green tempura for
a school project. I was 10, and, even then, knew my art
would never hang on a wall. I wanted my mom’s opinion,
and after stalling for the longest two seconds I ever knew,
she said,
“It’s unique.”
I knew what she meant and never made a model again.
(She did like my writing, though.)

The air is light today with a full July sun. The leaves wave
at one another vivified by the river breeze. Shadows on
the siding hint that the afternoon is waning. I may walk along
the marina later
or spend time finding celluloid reels for a future viewing.
(I ought to ban “ought” from my daily life.)

So, vocabulary fails the description. My words are
unvarnished models of a universe I have met. No longer
the center,
life spills from light-years and babies’ mouths, from
empty tombs and full moons, from synapses and
the way light dances in signals to the brain where
we process everything.
(No one deserves life or earns it. We are born in the minute
we breathe the Spirit.)

Tiny Birds

 

Tiny Birds

(“I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them garbage, that I may gain Christ.” Philippians 3:8)

Passions can become extinct, dying embers of past certainties.
The warmth was only a memory, the friction of feet on asphalt
created the heat. As long as we kept moving the sparks flew
unreviewed, but sure to impress at least the occasional traveler.
Rarely leaving the main road we followed the stripes set before us
as sure as directions drawn on a map. We never looked for moss
on the north side of trees or rocks. Warned that detours were destructive
we stayed on summer highways where mirage snakes kept us company.

But a few of us felt the heat was oppressive. It was old and coal,
it was scorch or chill. We soon lost the color in our cheeks,
the wonder of the breeze, and the other creatures we had left
behind
because they refused to be our kind. We put them in their
own boxes outside and let the sirocco sort it out.

One day someone looked.
She took their eye off the road.
She emptied her pockets of charcoal and dust.
She saw two swallows dance like adolescents
100 feet above in the vibrant blue. Spiraling upwards,
they pierced the sky in precision, swinging within inches
of each other’s bodies, green wings pushing the air behind them.

The same day we all looked up
and saw the two lovers soar to the far corners of the horizon
in a clear sky, vacant except for their celestial display. Circling
our peripheral vision, they were barely spots as they
swung around the invisible center. The radius between them
decreased as they glided, the air guiding their elegant ballet.
We lost track that day of everything, except two tiny
swallows that captured all

We had ever wanted.

We had walked face-first, fallen full speed
into the dark. We lost our way in our birdwatching,

And wondered if it was better to be
tiny birds
with a joyous song.

Dance on a Comet's Tail

 

Dance on a Comet’s Tail

(“For by one Spirit all of us—Jews and Greeks, slaves and free—were baptized into one body and were all privileged to drink from one Spirit.” 1 Corinthians 12:13)

If I could put on the asteroid belt or
dance on a comet’s tail I could show you
all the constellations are just stars once
your perspective has changed. I never could name them;
the dots never connected and all I saw were spots
in the sky.

But small as they seem
they are farther away
than you dream in a lifetime of fantasy.
If you could wrap your arms around Mercury
or Venus you would still see only
scattered and shimmering dust in the void
that smells like rust or rice,
maybe burnt carbon if you could breathe
hard enough.

Hug Mars the next time you are on the way
to display your vast knowledge of divine plans
and the meaning, the beginning, the purpose (we’re
listening) of life. How deep are the footprints
of the average citizen seen from the closest wanderer
to earth? How long will they live while the light travels
across multi-verses to your rods and cones?
And who will hear your pronouncements, crimson
and dry, across the spotted night, broadcast like
a bursting firefly. Might you find another theme?

Once you have finished your preamble,
perhaps you can scoot up to the table where
the rest of earth’s miscreants
laugh over our shared experience

and sing the Celestial jigs and reels that began
before the Spirit
brooded over the face of the deep.

I Would Dance If I Could

 

I Would Dance If I Could

(“Lame men and women will leap like deer, the voiceless break into song. Springs of water will burst out in the wilderness, streams flow in the desert.” Isaiah 35:6 [The Message])

I would dance if I could
(just a reminder to my friends and former peers:
I once moved across the floor like lightning,
sang till my throat was dry).
I would be a dervish if the offer arrived in the mail.

I suppose I will one day again
when I reach the lighter home within,
but now it all stays dense like granite,
matter in solid form keeps slap happy words
from making a dent.

And I’ll tell you plainly why: people I depended on,
who wore my same uniform,
whose feet I once washed, whose children I once hugged,
make potions in their laboratories that make feet stick
in the mud. Sinking sand and nail-scarred hands cannot
share the same mansion.

Nowadays the ones I see dancing scare me to death,
the ones singing songs in broad daylight and spreading spit
and virus
over the enraptured audience
make me shiver. I’m back to singing
Carole King songs again.

The rivers of life I once waded in
are dammed up at their source. The pipes
have broken, the cause unspoken but suspected,
they burst heavy with silt at the seams.

As mirky as my mind is, as cloudy as my heart,
I still await the showers that open poppies and
make the sunflowers peek from the sides of the road.

As achy as my knees are, as arid as my throat,
I still await the ballads that repeat mercy and
make the sun-children speak from the joy of the Lord.

Dressed for the Dance

Dressed for the Dance

(“Pharaoh sent at once for Joseph. He was brought hastily from the dungeon, and after a quick shave and change of clothes, came in before Pharaoh.” Genesis 41:14)

They told me it was ending, the time was closing in,
the final act was over, we waited for the epilogue.
We had heard the announcement for ages, for lifetimes,
for moments we wondered would ever end.

But we kept on dancing, with our without the band.

They told me it was time now, the auditions began,
the callbacks, the final chance to make the team,
to be called an actor, a thespian, a professional
at my craft.

But, I kept on dancing, and never heard their laughs.

They agreed I had talent, I read well, they said,
“You have presence, you have intensity,
your belief is suspended and your belt holds up your pants.”

And I kept on dancing, avoiding cracks to save my mama’s back.

Which is where it started, with her, with mom. I was groomed,
I was dressed, costumed and confessed I loved the stage and applause,
while I was shy as a turtle who dreams of going to school without its shell.
I had done well to fight my bashful nativity until a guerilla war
left me slow to trust and playing in the dust; a quiet corner of my
personal prison cell. Books don’t talk back; books serve as friendship well.

But I dressed for the dance, scrubbed my face, neck and ears;
washed the ancient cream-colored Bug and picked up my date who
helped me

Keep on dancing. Dressed in rags or royal, my estimation is this:
esteem can be beaten, but dancing is forever’s food; dance on,
dance on.

Strike Your Pose

Strike Your Pose

(“For Adonai takes delight in his people, he crowns the humble with salvation.” Psalm 149:4)

Strike your pose and remember the angels who
will never let your feet be tangled. Oh humble,
the Eternal views the movements of joy.

Circle with hair flying, arms flailing, verdant blurs with
borders of blue. What began this transcendent dance
higher than angels’ sight within heaven’s range?

No translation is needed, memory informs the cues,
as the glory unrestrained replaces the
years of treeless skies.

We know what harm yesterday feared, what subtractions
our nearsighted ways nearly adopted for truth. Loss
was our cardboard cabin exposed to the leading edge of every storm.

When did the day begin to bright upon the pathway
to our weathered door? When did light hide no more,
the beams of morning painting the beams, ceiling to floor?

I remember the steps from younger days, the swings and lifts,
the leaps and shuffles eight and over again. Partners painted
sunrises while rain melted against the metal studio roof.

We abandoned nothing, for we had not taken up the
burdens of age.
And now, in leaving them

The dance feels strange, awkward and full of risk; like the
first beat I tried to hear in three-quarter time.

Strike the pose, the lessons are free.

Dancing Kids

“My heart is steadfast, O God, my heart is steadfast. I will sing and make melody.” Psalm 57:7

One of my favorite poets William Stafford wrote, “Kids: they dance before they learn there is anything that isn’t music.” Jesus told us that we must become as little children to inherit God’s kingdom. This verse speaks of an inner confidence or stability that enables us to worship because the world is filled with God’s handiwork.

Over our Heads

Over our Heads

(“I am coming to you now. But I pray these things while I am still in the world. I say all this so that these followers can have the true happiness that I have. I want them to be completely happy.” John 17:13)

Angelic arpeggios are always dancing in a world with perfect acoustics.
Rain spins and mockingbirds on old limbs on forested ledges echo
the rounded chords; writing and rewriting, singing their choreography
under our feet,
and
over our heads,
and
within the earth,
and
from the farthest star.

I don’t know what the future is for my babies. I only wish them happiness.

Autumn drips more often in syncopation, the rain reminds the wind
to chime, bamboo and aluminum, hanging from garage and patio eaves.
The leaves take a chance, flying from their perches with cursive flight plans
until they land to cover the hillsides until snow.

The Father hears the request of the Son; in this world, before the next one,
for joy to be modified so all can read the lines, and memorized, the day
that begins mournful can arise, not theorized and greater dimension than
pantomime, is sung without a thought of how it will end, or
why it began.