An Unvarnished Sky

An Unvarnished Sky

I didn’t expect to go out again today,
the rain reminded me to sit with a pillow under my back and
a quilt around my lets. The call of a friend woke me from
the scratches I was reading in the book and my malaise,
and I took her to pick up her vehicle being fixed 9 miles
up the road.

I have all the time I want. No one wakes me up early,
no one demands my time mid-morning until late afternoon.
The rain spoke most of the day, but I had trouble interpreting
it’s call. Weeks ago, I wrote further ahead in time.

The sky was unvarnished and paintless,
the pencil mast of a sailboat etched the horizon.
I thought of warm waves, countless days
when the warm sun and wet sand were all I desired.

All my days have regressed to mediocrity;
happy hours meet sad sandstone head on.
Like a stream whistling from the hills I
sometimes wish alone felt more like sanity.

I didn’t expect to go out again tonight,
I spent the day centered on myself. Not
selfish,
but sifting every emotion through a sieve of
old beliefs and common words that
leave me mimetic. I can lose myself in the
music for an hour
and be back to brooding by the next
wink of morning. The sky is just a canvass
for my unpublished masterpieces.

Would You Show Up?

 

Would You Show Up?

(“The Lord would speak to Moses face to face like one would speak to a friend.” Exodus 33:11a)

Would you show up when we least expect,
knock on the door from inside a dream?
Would you correct the recipes we have misunderstood,
direct us to banquets where we feast as friends?

My attention has been torn asunder (there,
I admit it). I’ve been pushed to the edge by
playground carousels,
buried beneath the bedrock by relentless
gravity. It is time I came up for air.

Would you dig deep enough to find us,
wait until our breath returned?
Would you suspect us of heresy, try us for treason,
or despite our errancy, meet us at our unevenness?

My pages are being rewritten (there,
I wrote it). The ink is drying faster than
my slow unfolding intended. But birds still fly,
preteen hawks perch on the fenceposts looking like doves
until a closer inspection.
It is time I read outside for a while.

Would you meet us before sunrise, though
our aches precede the day? Would you
send us your poetry, ask us to dance,
answer our questions with only your smile?

Would you befriend me, or have we been
from the foundation of the world?

Unexpected

Unexpected

(“Do not owe anyone anything, but love each other. Whoever loves his neighbor has done what the Law says to do.” Romans 13:8)

I had not expected to grow old,
at least not by this time in my life.
I wanted to hit my stride, glide into the final landing
gracefully.

There was a man in the ditch, by the side of the road,
a vagrant, a countryman (if that is what you insist on calling him)
and a megachurch minister walked by,
then a deacon with nothing to do but check the
ledgers for contributions walked by.
And they were so busy with their kingdoms
they hurried down the road to their ordained destinies.

I did not expect to return,
at least not by the same road I left.
I wanted to end the hike, strike the summit, banners ablaze
and waving.

The blood had crusted around his wounds, saliva slid down
his scrawny beard and chin. He lived a stone’s throw
from the citizens of town and proudly voted republican.
But bandits do not check your bona fides
before they take your money. There was a man walking by
on the same side, mowing the same ditch,
an illegal (if that is what you insist on calling him)
and, touching the split lip unlaced on the bleeding face,
washed the wounds, shared his wine,
broke his bread, and helped the victim
into his olive green truck. He sped through the turns
along the river until they reached the home he shared with
his cousins. The doors were royal blue. Who was
the citizen, and who the neighbor? Who was love,
and who was legal?

I did not expect to write this,
at least not at this time of the day.
I wanted to cry my tears, swear I did not deserve this last
upheaval.