Carry Me

Carry Me

(“Blessed be the Lord—day after day he carries us along.” Psalm 68:19 [The Message]) 

Spared the paper illusions, I moved on with the day.
The sky fell upon us like a dust devil bringing the
clouds’ perfume to inches from our reach. Though it
had never happened this way
since time began,
we were not frightened. We knew the universe is chunkier
than thin papyrus or tomato soup.
On the average every day opens like an unwrapped gift
left inside the living room window.
But the box is heavier than I’m willing to admit.
The corners are taped so carefully it takes until
well in the afternoon to
open it. By that time, I’ve used up my portion and
retire to wonder why some promises have a half-life
of hello and goodbye. Lately I simply wander
the same path up the hill toward the woods and
back home to the empty doorway. This is not a
complaint.
Just the words of uninvited pain and wordless days.

So

Carry me.

By the way,
I don’t blame anyone. I’ve been paper-thin in
my day too. I’ve lost my favorite hat to the desert wind.
I’ve sighed too many names. I’ve left too many guessing
what my words would be. And so I hear you say

Carry me.

I’ve always taken friendships too seriously. And
duties have frightened me away from extended afternoons
in simple laziness. We should have shared more beers.
Watched more baseball. Laughed at how silly all our
doctrine became
once people decided they were experts
about God.

We all just need a day or two to be
carried away.

To Speak Up for Me

To Speak Up for Me

(“Therefore he is also able to save to the uttermost those who draw near to God through him, seeing that he lives forever to make intercession for them.” Hebrews 7:25)

I stood in the doorway watching everyone leave,
I stood in the doorway and lonely was not yet a word.

I enjoy classic diners with jukeboxes that play
45s cut before I was born. Strawberry shakes,
chrome counters and laughing so loud you put
another dollar in the machine to play the song again.

I didn’t mean to retire, it just happened that way.
I stood in the doorway where people gathered to pray
and I knew I could stand no longer, not by myself, not
without help, not without coffee and tears from a friend.

I enjoy being anonymous, I enjoy being known.
I know those aren’t synonymous, I enjoy being alone.
But solitary is sadder without an ear to hear my
Complaints in the dark.
And popular is just another word for how
friendship bracelets made us feel as kids.

I’ve been left standing in the doorway more often than I’d like,
standing abandoned in the doorway, sunspots all around my head.
Although some were invisible visitors and crept in undetected,
(this aching heart reacted to the overall theme, not each detail
of the narrative.)

I like parks where you can roll down the lawn
on green hills as far as you can. I like to watch the
clouds with a friend as they blow in over the skyline.
We never called out shapes; we were modern and cubist
after all. I like parks where frisbees and picnics share
the same air.

Everything perceived is a wave, a particle, a neuron, or
maybe angels. No one realizes it when they abandon you,
they just do not notice you are gone. Colors of morning
and sounds of engines warming fill the space the friend
once inhabited. No one
means to leave you alone.

I would turn away from the doorway, never to return,
but it will not still the yearning, the restless cry for
someone
to speak to me.
To speak up
For me.
To shed tears for me when
mine have run dry. An advocate, a brother,
a sister, a sponsor into the halls where
clouds are made to entertain an avant garde
and silly writer like me.