But It Is Nearly Winter Here

But It Is Nearly Winter Here

(“The blind men said to Jesus, ‘Lord, we want our eyes opened!’” Matthew 20:33)

The full array is spread before us every day,
before our feet and after our ears,
we are webbed like atoms,
we are circled like planets,
we are sun and we are shade,
we are remade with each breath.
New molecules that have existed from the
beginning of time.

Not all see who say, not all look who pronounce the
name of God as only heard in their own vernacular.
When the light bleeds through the narrow cavern openings
will you greet it like chilled chardonnay on a summer’s afternoon?

But it is nearly winter here, the tree limbs are roots above ground.
The snow flies rarely and stays only days. The hummingbirds,
now that it is mid-December,
should be migrating away in their charms so high that they
are unseen as they traverse the landmarks underneath flatiron
clouds.

I think hummingbirds do not flock. I think they are duets or
trios. They are playful cousins who show up every day; one
shows the others
where the nectar is and they stay the afternoon for rose hip tea.

But it is nearly winter here, and one ruby-headed friend still
hums outside my window. He knows where to find the feeder,
just above my eyesight as I watch the sky. He knows when it rains
to stand atop the sugar-water dispenser under the eaves to dry
his wings for a while.
But he has not packed for a southward journey, perhaps he will
stay through Christmas. I wonder if he knows that I delight
to see his lightning wings even in the shorter light late Autumn.

I asked for open eyes once. That was decades and lifetimes ago.
But I saw what I was trained to see, the rifle scope was well-aimed.
Enemies flew through the air; sinners, heretics, new age sages and
sugar-coated snowflakes. Dark was magnified until my eyes could
not stand the full light of day.

I asked for open eyes once again. And I awoke. And I saw the
silent attraction that pulls all things to itself; and pulls itself to
all things. And I wondered why anyone would want to
unravel the eternal tapestry of things.

Above the Orange Sky

 

Above the Orange Sky

(“This is what God told us: God has given us eternal life, and this life is in his Son.” 1 John 5:11)

In the regions of the orange sky
I have laid down my restless heart only to
take it up again when the phone does not ring
for more than a day.

My moments were once filled with 6-strings,
my days with a dozen friends,
and my nights with dreams of music and members
of the band.

I want to hear, “how are you” again,
I want to ask, “how is your heart, my friend?”
I want to be the voice that only speaks peace,
the fingers that only send safety in a world so
anxious it starts burning before the sun comes up.
Sometimes the fire in our minds is a hell like dying,
held up by fear that drowns the words we know the best.

I would call you up, hear your voice and know, before
the first word
that, just like the garden you water;
you are thirsty for someone to cool your brain.
We are much the same.

I have tried to water my own for so long I fear
only weeds exist where roses once bloomed.
I know it is too soon to make a final judgment,
but the smoke hazes my vision of the better day.

Will you call me up, hear my voice and say, before
the first tear
that, just like the poetry I write;
I am a jumbled alphabet waiting for someone to rhyme?
Would you give me time?

You read words that water your mind,
words that cause tears to drop upon the page.
You are fearful as I; I am thirsty as you.
Words or water, bread baked together
or broken at the table
what if the sounds we remember
of music, and names, and holy silence
shatter our reliance on tiny rules
and remind us of greater loves.

I will join you in your garden if you will hear my song,
and perhaps a dozen, perhaps only one, will join us
and hike along the trails of delight until the stars rise
above the orange sky.

Beyond our Reach

Beyond our Reach

(“He will once again have compassion on us; he will tread down our iniquities. You will hurl all our sins into the depths of the sea.” Micah 7:19)

Yet my heart still yearns for more love than I’ve been offered,
and I cannot admit it to the faithful and devoted
for I should be content with the love they espouse,
the love they says is unending,
(and the love I know to be true).
Yet so few grew in their affection for

a stumbler who trips over mere gravel,
a bumbler who constantly unravels plans and acquaintances.

Still I’ve groveled to earn back the friendship,
the kinship I admittedly broke. But I haven’t dug
deep enough, I think. The smoke still hovers over
embers of anger and rejection. I haven’t shoveled
long enough to prove my grief is great as their scars.

Let’s all go for a swim on top of the ocean,
let’s all go for a hike on top of the world,
let’s all seek adventures on top of dunes,
let’s all skim the top of rivers again.

I fear I’ve let the cat out of the bag,
I’m not as confident as my weekly proclamations.
There are few who care about my daily palpitations,
my constant mental storms and wilted white flags.

Let’s all glide above the atmosphere,
let’s all picnic above the earth,
let’s all round dance above the dust,
let’s all sing as if our hearts will burst.

My feet are calloused, my eyes itch from sand,
my directions are misguided, my arguments are obtuse.
The journey has been painful, knocked all my certainty loose,
the navigation is not at fault, but the way is weary,
and every sense assaulted like moth-eaten quilts.

Still I embark, never on time. Later than ever these days,
and watching my thoughts unwind. My destination has
always been the same; a tribe, a gathering, a clan,
a caravan, a band that loves to sing the same song

Out of tune because the earth keeps rolling.
The instruments enter and exit while the voices
find a common song,
An early song,
a folk song,
the music that encircles top and bottom
and leaves the air cleansed by the exhaled version of
the eternal song.

Some Hit the Wall

Some Hit the Wall

(“Simon Peter answered him, ‘Lord, to whom would we go? You have the words of eternal life.’” John 6:68)

Some hit the wall so hard they cannot find their way back
to the panels where icons wrote worship in incense chalk.
The pain spins them, the concrete pins them against the
bricks that scratch their honest diversions.

Where do they go, the innocent failures,
headstrong but too smart to toe the party line?
Impure, though they longed, in short, for more.

To breathe the first blade of grass; silent, unmown,
straight in its posture toward light that pulls it from
dark underground. Sharp and soft,
it shoots in slow-motion toward the explosion of sun.

Is there still time to lie upon a bed of green next to a tree
generations older than hierarchies of men? When?
Are names still uttered from double-scripted scrolls;
is life still the language? And, my name, does it roll
of your tongue like you love the sound of it? The short of it?

Some hit the wall and find themselves cornered. The explanations
no longer soothe the brooding ache, the excuses have exceeded their limit.
Some sit, simply waiting for the next dispensation of miraculous
stories from mighty crowds. Some sit. The waiting has erased
the overheard faith and demands the hand and voice
first-person. This time.

Though struck, though dumb, though deaf to the drumbeat that
once attracted my soul like the first blade of grass,
I have nowhere else to go except the vast uncertainty that
slides in front of me, just out of reach.

I can only write of ache. I apologize. The size of my soul is shrinking.
But buried black, dead at the bottom of the abyss,
a seed remains. A seed awaits (please)
re-germination to become a spindly grain hugging
the wall.

At Peace/In Pain

“I leave behind with you—peace; I give you my own peace and my gift is nothing like the peace of this world. You must not be distressed and you must not be daunted.” John 14:27

I had a very bad day yesterday. The pain level was a bit higher than normal and I can often power through a day like that. But depression hit very hard as well. I was in tears at some time throughout most of the day. Add to that the anxiety of teaching Romans 1 in our midweek Bible study. (Read the chapter and you’ll understand my apprehensions. It is probably one of the most misused of all Scripture to attack our homosexuality in particular, and all sin in general. As we neared the end of the chapter I told our group, “Please keep reading, because Paul kept writing.”)

Beyond Words

(“This is how God showed his love for us: God sent his only Son into the world so we might live through him.” 1 John 4:9)

How do you describe the endless distance of space which we call the universe? How do we fathom the long arch of time without end or beginning? How even do we understand the infinite smallness of the miniature sub-atomic particles of which the entire world is made? It takes volumes to even learn the language used by those who speak of such things.