Thinking About Dancing

Thinking About Dancing

(“Then the lame will leap like a deer, and the tongue of the mute will sing for joy, for water will gush in the wilderness, and streams in the desert.” Isaiah 35:6)

I’ve been thinking about dancing,
late evening to dark under the lights where
someone got married just an hour ago.
I’ve been thinking about music,
a couple of guitars and a beer, singing
what we used to write 50 years ago.
We invented everything back then.
We pretended life was different back then.

So many times, thirst showed up in ways
that only melodies could quench.
Friends showed up and brought laughter
like
disco.
The rhythm ran up and down our spines,
tickling us to find the floor with sunshine
underneath. We never were alone for long.
We never were left waiting while the rains
had their way with us.

(I should pause here and explain that
though the refrain sounds like joy uncontained,
it actually hides beneath layers of pain so noisy
they I rarely know how to keep time.)

But
you

Speak one word and everything comes back to mind.

You

Knock on my door with sage tea or cabernet sauvignon,
my choice,
and I look at your feet to see if

You might like to dance with me.

Once the Evening Falls

Once the Evening Falls

(“Jesus put His hand on him with loving-pity. He said, ‘I want to. Be healed.’” Mark 1:41)

I would rather be hugged in mud than
sit in sanitized lectures.
Come closer, let me feel your breath.
Sneak up on me like my tiny chihuahua;
she sniffs at my feet if I do not notice her.

I would rather receive one knowing glance than
open a hundred cards in the mail.
Come closer, don’t leave it to chance.
Surprise me like the birthday when
a friend I had not seen in 40 years showed up
unmasked and asking nothing.

Share a bowl of oatmeal with me,
let our fingers touch as you place it before me.
Cut the sandwich diagonally and let
the noon pass between, lingering long enough
that I do not forget your voice

Once the evening falls.

Each Morning the Cobwebs

 

Each Morning the Cobwebs

(“You must eat these things in a holy place…” Numbers 18:10)

Each morning the cobwebs decorate my brain
in dusty fog; pain is the wall between overnight dreary
and midday promises of clear skies, though clouds hug the
lowlands no matter the time.

My mind has shrunk and slowed. It hangs on to old
impurities, a swamp of pitfalls, a canyon of cliffs, a
mudded well with walls so slick from slime, escaping
is no longer in the plans.

For each day forward, for the moment the sun and the
mouth of the well align,
there are a month of others when a monster hand covers
my only minute of warm, my only breath of light for
weeks at a time.

Some days hasten, some hold back, my hours are not my own,
they belong to the malady in my head. Some days are over
before I’ve begun. Some days repeat hour after hour, while
I hesitate to venture past the mailbox. Sometimes I take the dog,
sometimes I fear saying “hi”.

I will not excuse my damp flailing, the past failing, the present
and constant funnel where my wounded heart hears even the best
words as foreign babble. I’ve troubled you too long, son, daughter,
friend, peer. I’ve troubled you too long; only the dearest to me
know. Only the dearest heard the words rebounded from my
wounds and sounded like another angry hurricane to rip the
foundations again.

Perhaps I could trouble you for a meal, coffee, breaking bread?
Perhaps I could trouble you to sit with me, silent, a simple spread
so holy that soul and spirit are nourished,
dispensing with ladders, the climb to advancement
is found on park benches, sandy beaches, or a artisan picnic
before the storm roars down the river.

Perhaps my thoughts will be clearer before the evening ends.