Shoes on the Beach

 

Shoes on the Beach

(“The Captain of the Lord’s army said to Joshua, ‘Take your shoes off your feet. For the place where you are standing is holy.’ And Joshua did so.” Joshua 5:15)

No one wears shoes on the beach
and no ones hears you coming on the cold winter sand.
You can watch the waves, foamy stars; you can stand
for days before time reminds you of the friends
who once watched with you.

There are no duties on the beach
and no one makes you take up arms against enemies.
You can breathe the mist, salty wine; you can leave
the future as you memorize the driftwood at your feet.
Smooth, white, gray and light; you wonder its origin
and family tree.

No one wears shoes on the beach
and no one cares about sand or mud-caked toes. As
the world turns the sun toward down humanity thins
as the horizon is crowned. Perhaps the unknown few
will warm the chill, earthy flames; perhaps they will
let the sea touch their ankles, the fire touch their hearts
and slowly discern the holy love circulated without.

Within.

Imperfection, Like Driftwood

Imperfection, Like Driftwood

(“Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty, God shines forth.” Psalm 50:2)

It rained all day yesterday,
was dog day sunny two days before,
and in-between, where bare thoughts meet
the covered skin of wrinkles and sag,
I found another imperfection, like driftwood from
a rotting logging cabin.

We knew that age would show up;
shrinking icebergs and sanded obsidian lie
upon the earth as
testament or
transgression

While I have the skin torn off my back,
an incision to excise
invasive cells I had never noticed;
like the dark side of the moon,
I had no idea what was living there.

My elbows are gritty from leaning on the linen,
my face and back are dotted with pigments from
the sun and from
the ancestors
who transferred nothing but their
DNA
to the thin shield of my skin.

But You (not the sun) shine on me in
perfection.
In my fading cells Your fascination with me
(all dying is resurrection)
aligns my soul to lie upon the water,
my face to the Bright,
let the wings of Your love
hum the song I’ve forgotten but
known all along.

As the scars will prove,
nothing here lasts forever;
not even the words I struggle to strap to the page.
This house I live is showing its age. But the
love of a thousand friends times ten thousand days
will stay
as my echoed song in frequencies of tranquil
days,
blazing worship and
uncovered praise.