Masked by Sandstorms

Masked by Sandstorms

(…a darkness which may be felt.” Exodus 10:21b)

Every time I’m disconnected the lights go out.
Why do I sit in the dark, afraid that love has faded?
Why is it heavier than memory or the last syllable
of conversation?

You’ll tell me it’s all in my imagination. You’ll say
“you’re just fine, light a few candles this time.”
The wicks are dry, the candles are stored in the
junk drawer, the floods are high, the sun is masked by
sandstorms in the heat. I

Haven’t heard a word since the last time we talked,
haven’t seen your smile, cannot find the chalk-lines
that spelled my name on the driveway in pastel.

I know I fear the storm before the clouds ever form
below my feet and over the dead end of the street where
the water pools, where the mud pulls the wettened sand
infertile and the roses lose their petals.

You’ll tell me it’s all in my mind. You’ll say,
“You’ve overreacted again, turn the breakers back on.”
The breeze is naming you, the fruit trees don’t need to explain,
your fantasies have forsaken you, the darkness is
only the desert misapplied.

I’ve memorized every word. I chant them back to myself.
I’ve lost the rhythm though; I’ve forgotten the movement that
blazes lonely trails through midnight forests. I only remember
the ones I once knew when

The light was open, and I last saw your face.

You Belong

 

You Belong

(“I will turn darkness into light in front of them. I will make rough places smooth. These are the things I will do for them, and I will never abandon them.” Isaiah 42:16b)

You belong to the earth,
you are a child of the sky,
though others may not see your worth,
your soul was made to fly
above the echoes that have exploded like
cannons in your mind.
You were made to walk in shoes that fit,
that shine, that warm, that find the winding path
where you belong. The beach cabin where
your mind is at home, where the waves echo the
beat of your heart, where the sun rises and speaks your
name
as more beloved than your ears have yet heard.

I would walk the solar system round just
to bring more starlight to you.
I would record the voice of heaven just
to bring more music to you.

The songs were written before your breath,
the lyrics are honey, caramel and cream. The
stars danced on the day you were born and
tonight will celebrate once more.

You belong to heaven,
you are a child of the voice
that spoke the worlds whirring in the void.
You are the first thing on heaven’s mind,
the last ever left behind. Your feet
leave prints on the sacred earth
for others to follow the way with you.
Your voice leaves whispers in the holy air
for others to hear and speak back to you.

I would collect the oceans just
to let them soothe your weary heart.
I would gather the sunshine just
to let it warm your winter hands.

You matter more, a princess, a daughter,
than you have ever been told, than
you have ever remembered.
And now believe (oh if I could embody the word)
Beloved is your title, your name, and has always been
the place you belong in heaven, in earth, in sky, in song.

After the Kneading

After the Kneading

(“However, for this cause I obtained mercy, that in me first, Jesus Christ might display all his patience…” 1 Timothy 1:16a)

How long does it take for darkness to unfurl,
for the taste of violent cuisine to roll off our tongues
into loaves from the earth baked in the noonday sun?

We used to let the elders take the front of the line
in our potlucks and banquets,
with unaccompanied minors right behind.
In that thin place between age and innocence we
hoped
prophetic purity might arise.

Time (that place unmeasured except by planetary motion)
outpaces our lusts and unmade faces until
we are dissatisfied again by the meager fare
of private meals where with little love and less challenge
we eat by ourselves.

But bread is meant to be prepared with muscled hours,
rising after the kneading like a carnival balloon.
Bread is meant to be shared with all who detected
the aroma of the afternoon, arriving to a circle of
friends for a repast near evening.

Some bring guitars, some bring songs,
some read poetry, some play along,
some limp in slowly, others tumble like clowns,
some take off their shoes, some make the rounds
and hug every neck, high and low, telling
the same jokes they’ve told one hundred times before.
Still everyone laughs; maybe everyone snickers.

We’ve been around the block a few times,
some have even met each other in the ring;
some have had words with each other more times
than you would believe,
but that is why they share the bread which redefines
argument and apologetic from winning and sinning
to singing and ringing the dinner bell with the
screen door wide open and the wine already poured.

There is a banquet, there is a picnic,
and if you get confused, just watch the dragonflies play
and hear the echoes of the frogs in the damp grass

And sit with us a spell, sing with us a prayer (even
with your mouth full). Stuffed and sleepy we’ll end
the day, but will wait for the very last vagabond
who always arrives much too late.

Of Two Kingdoms

Of Two Kingdoms

(“God has freed us from the power of darkness, and he brought us into the kingdom of his dear Son.” Colossians 1:13)

And we dance at dark, choosing partners we barely know;
and we dance at dark, chasing music we barely see.
And we make up words to songs we’ve never learned;
and we dance at dark and scurry away at dawn.

Come the light of day faces we knew in the shadows
have disappeared. Once the music ends, we hear our own
words again,
and search the riverbanks for forgotten conversations we
thought we enjoyed
dancing at dark.

We do not destroy because we are wicked; we are sinners, sick
and gray. We harm the very ones who would hold us, but we
deny we lost anything along the way. We explode with invectives,
we spit shrapnel and curse each other with body parts. The beauty
of reproduction is a schoolyard cuss-word. We cannot stand
the intimacy so turn it on its head

Wait for the next moonless night to grab the fastfood imitation.

One time

Let the night pass slowly, like genuine maple syrup on
the biggest stack of pancakes; butter dribbling in rivulets
and the breakfast aroma filling the house. Let the night
pass quietly, like a midnight meadow when the stars’
glimmers are the only sounds.

Let the morning rise warmly, like summer days
and crepe myrtles. Let the full light dawn and
without a single word, crass or creative, do one simple thing:

Stare at a face, any face, fully lit; let the light and shadow
dance across each beauty mark and each imperfection. Stay!
Do not turn away. Memorize the face and be memorized;
and think about a kingdom filled with light unafraid of
the dark.

Better Vision

Better Vision

“Your eyes are the lamp for your body. When your eyes are good, you have all the light you need. But when your eyes are bad, everything is dark.” Luke 11:34

I usually sat somewhere in the middle of class. That way I wasn’t in front where the teacher would always call on me for answers, or see my museum-worthy doodles on my worksheet. And, I wasn’t in the back where most of the trouble-makers sat. I wasn’t stupid, even as a junior high student. I knew teachers had seating assignment ESP, and they knew exactly what sort of student you were by which desk you chose.

The Light of the World

“The city has no need of the sun or the moon to shine on it, because the glory of God shines on it, and the Lamb is its lamp.” Revelation 21:3

I have a lamp in our home office I use when I am practicing my mandolin. I turn it on by simply touching the base. Touching it twice more increases the illumination and, with one more, tap, turns it off. It took me awhile to get used to it. I would tap it; “on”! I would tap two times; “brightest!” But, then I would reposition it for better light, and the moment it touched it; “OFF!” I finally have the hang of things, though.

Miss the Mojave

Miss the Mojave

(“All of you are children of light and children of the day. We don’t belong to night or darkness.” 1 Thessalonians 5:5)

All I can say is we finally arrived,
travelling all night; summers from Southern
Cali
made frightful a daytime passage through Needles.
90 degrees at midnight, the darkness was dense
as the day.

I missed the Mojave; shadows of yucca were
moonlight silhouettes that moved across the dark floor;
shadow boxes viewed from the back of our desert
whale cruiser. The black Rambler station wagon
swallowed the desert heat and smothered the sleep
right out of us. Dad never paid for air conditioning;
and if we had it, he wouldn’t run it,
we sacrificed cool comfort for increased gas mileage.

One summer we returned so quickly we had to brave
the pounding sun on cracked sand hot as concrete.
Though sweat beaded up and vanished in a single thought,
the colors grabbed our collective complaints as
the death the dark insinuated was alive with the light
we hurriedly pursued.

Prickly pears with tiny yellow blooms,
Beavertail with magenta on outcropped rocks,
Red spines on Mohave clusters spiked their diameter
in tangled mass; scarlet dots the side of the stems.

Mesa and flatland, thunderheads and chuckwallas
swing the panorama from station wagon panel to panel.

Life was scarce, true enough, but not the phantom we saw in the
careful midnight crossing.

The radiator blew, dad always knew, and we never flew again
without checking our watches for midnight across
the great Mojave.