Nothing To Say

Nothing To Say

(“He will not break a bruised reed, and He will not put out a smoldering wick, until He has led justice to victory.” Matthew 12:20

The words escape me today like bats lodging together midday.
The page is blank, my mind is slow, the ocean is miles away.
Imagine a smokey jazz club but the piano is out of tune,
or a summer afternoon when the squirrels don’t need to
climb the trees; the walnuts have begun to fall to the ground.

There is a quietness that feels intrusive; there is an emptiness
that feels oppressive. There is a heat wave on the way.
My branches are dry and my mind is unreasonable,
my memories are weak and my eyes are blurred from
thinking things should have been different. Thinking
I should have changed it all.

I blame myself for the lonesome trench, for this
yearning that extends past my reach. Light as a
hummingbird’s feather, the smoke from my candle
is flickering low.

But sometimes the next day is better than the last,
sometimes the routine is disrupted, and you find the
tiniest
glow of impartation. It is impractical to dig in
yesterday’s sludge.  

Sometimes it is someone’s smile that strengthens my mind,
sometimes it is jazz playing in the background.
Sometimes the light hits the window so subtly that
I can discern all the colors of the spectrum one by one.

I need to train my voice again to sing the songs that
capture the moments that ignite the love that only sets
us free
from having nothing to say.

Bright Like a Needle

Bright Like a Needle

(“Your light must shine before people in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.” Matthew 5:16)

The light was apparent from a distance,
small but bright like a needle in the night.
It guided the lost to hard won hope;
It sent the vagabonds on the way with solid instructions
and food for the day.
It was high on the cliffs, sending its beam in all
directions and once.
Some ignored it and struggled to find their way.
Others saw it obscured by mental fog.
But for me it was salvation, an escape from
the agnostic samples of my soul.
I’d be happy to see the light again,
to look at the work illumination begins.
I don’t disbelieve, I’m just out of living examples
of lights that shine for any person, reason, or rhyme;
of lights that open the way for queries about the
nature of things.

The applause of people can disguise the focus
shot in the dark. Alone is overrated. Alone is
understated.

Let the light set this soul aglow. Let it disclose
all that is hidden or too quiet to be heard. Believe me,
the longer I believe the more the light wains like the
sliver of a moon.

Like The Friend Who Slows Down

 Like The Friend Who Slows Down

(“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you. I will take away your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” Ezekiel 36:26)

I sleep because it is the
only escape
from the relentless hammer-on-anvil
in my head.

I crave attention,
not like a toddler or
narcissist,
but like a neighbor who longs for
the voice of a friend that extends
beyond words. A touch on the back
of the hand
would be enough.

My tears are the mud puddles left by
torrents of rain,
my breath is the only sound my body knows.
I did not avoid you because I disliked you;
I’m stuck in this corral of pain.

If you know me, you’ve seen me
change my mind
over and over again. Topics become
clearer, doctrines murkier, and people the
center of truth I’ve desired.
But my heart, or its orientation,
is unchanged. My spirit has always wanted
a home. A log cabin with a fireplace
and chili on the stove.

My spirit has always wanted to
let you stay rent-free. To hear your children
play in the background. To hear the
mustang you drove, or the
honda 450 we rode into the coastal hills
summers ago.
To hear from someone who knows,
like the friend who slows down
every time they see you.

Today my tears are more like
blood lost
through the ache of waiting and
living too far behind me. I do
not
want to live in this now where
the pain is a broken record that
sucks my attention from

Every tender love I’ve known.
Even your own, dear friend,
sweet son, loving daughter,
and,
Christ, (how I hate to admit it)
feels cold and I wish this long
winter of spikes and icicles would end
in the agnostic revelry of Spring.

Restore my heart that is weary, for
the waiting has me writing pain
where the beauty once began.