Pretending to Know

 Pretending to Know

“For with whatever standard you judge, you will be judged, and with whatever measure you measure, it will be measured to you.” Matthew 7:2)

1.

Everyone thought they knew him,
everyone pretended to know his motivations.
What they could not imagine was the way
he sat on the edges of darkness because no one
listened to the way he waved his hand, hoping for a ride.

He could have walked, but more eyes would see him.
He could have avoided it all by staying at home.
He didn’t like walking though, it reminded him too much
of all the falls he had taken. Cross-examined based
on supposition and opaque opinions
he kept his head low and voice quiet.
He missed a number of friends he felt he
no longer reserved. He didn’t make new ones
not knowing what they knew or what they assumed.
True, his sins were worse than he admitted. But based
on past experience he didn’t trust the precarious stares
of those who did not know him.

So he kept his distance and tried to write away the fears.
He used to laugh at dinner with friends; he used to hear
the fascinating songs they played. He used to be content
for half the day, but now he either naps or seeks stimuli
to ease the pain.

It’s not that he is innocent, but the sentence imposed
kept him bound and on the edges where no one could find him.
He hoped he could slip the knots that dug into his wrists,
and the endless thoughts that would never die. He did not
want to become
one of them. He wanted transformation and less preoccupation
with the way the road bent miles ago, with the way
the miles ended ages ago.

    2.

You may have discerned that the He is Me, and I’ve
wandered around trauma without processing it well.
You may conclude that my writing plays a major part in
rearranging the damage done along the road. I never
withheld forgiveness, never denied my wrongs, but the
stings still stung and the silence still stabbed my aching soul.

                                        3.

Would you believe him if he told you he was once sought after,
and that he was frightened of climbing hanging roofs? Would you
blame him for going so silent when once he was sought after to
speak to a crowd or two? Would you understand that there are still
days when contentment feels like a distant cousin? Would you look
out for him if you knew he was coming to town? Would you buy
him a drink just because you spotted him at the bar?

                                        4.

It’s getting better over time, but it seems some of my talents have
slipped by without taking time to rhyme.

I thought I saw you yesterday, having lunch in a Mexican restaurant.
We hadn’t talked in ages and I was sure it was you. I don’t thing you
saw me, or maybe didn’t recognize me. But feeling the need for protection
I stay in my seat, nursed my beer, and read my book on Universalism.

If it happens again, I promise I’ll come to your table and give us both
a laugh. Until then, thanks for listening. Until then, I’ll find the river
road warm, and talk to the ducks eating their lunch.

All Tattered and Perfection

All Tattered and Perfection

(“For the kingdom of God is not eating and drinking, but righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.” Romans 14:17)

Where lives intersect; eat and play and love,
we can dance the steps of the joyful,
we can hear the melody redeemed,
we can note the steps, follow the quarter-tones,
and wonder at rounds geometrically opposed to
the strict sounds that stayed within the walls of
our protected subdivisions.

But we must not journalize the stranger; bell and chant and candle.

Here in the day we are reduced to children again who
play by the rules until the rules hinder the play. Why can’t
the newest one have four strikes, not three? Why shouldn’t the
corner boy paint portraits in pink and green?

Once we have discovered our New World we die if we think
the discovering is done.
Each coast is clearly concocted of sand dropped in new
frameworks against the horizon.
Each cavern is deep or dry, shallow or dripping with stalagmites
dialed by time slower than the kitchen wall ticking.

Dry eyes, warm clouds, sand crabs, foreign sounds,
hands raised, knees bowed, hymns sung, voices loud.

A hush at supper, a shout at soccer; vespers and incense,
chocolate and cadences; each soul is its own invocation,
and benediction can begin

The moment we embrace the introspection that longs for
the dances we’ve never learned or seen or heard.

The Dancer is not of this world or your world,
The Dancer spreads the music through every crack in time.
The Dancer indwells each space between movements
and encircles the down-beats tapped or clapped or missed
in our tripping attempts to follow.

The Dancer is invitation; all tattered and perfection,
torn and covered with the crash of waterfalls and the
force of hurricanes. The Dancer is whisper; the epicenter
of creation’s silence fully alive.