Letters Flying Everywhere

Letters Flying Everywhere

(“You keep completely safe the people who maintain their faith, for they trust in you.” Isaiah 36:3)

Days before the latest dawn
the thunderstorms snuck in under the blue.
They left the sky cleaned and calm.
We could breathe again, unsullied by the
rain that washed the dread away. The breeze
was easy.

There were echoes of war, distant booms of
violence that crowded those who were listening.
We heard what we had never heard. We begged
for streets free from combat boots and full of
summer sandals shopping for new colors to wear.

I want to write with words wrapped around bombs
exploding purposefully with letters flying everywhere.
I want a conflagration of vowels spinning between the
pages and consonants so crisp they smell of burnt bacon.

After that I’ll write about trees and flowers again,
about bees and buzzes, about sunlight and breezes.
I find my mind so occupied like an overpour at the bar,
that I barely can mutter intelligent sentences.

But look around me and scout the extravagant lyrics
unconnected to the chorus or bridge. Please excuse the mess;
I was just given the arrangement a day ago and my fingers
haven’t traced their melody long enough to make sense.
But once I get my cadence down, once I memorize the breaks,
you’ll be able to dance right up to the final coda and laugh
that the night was over so soon.

Until then, we need words that ignite over night skies to
keep us in line. We need more rhymes to teach us the
daily grind for peace we never knew we would fight.

I Could Not Fight the Fog Today

 I Could Not Fight the Fog Today

(“Suddenly Jesus met them and said, “Peace be with you.” They came up to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him.” Matthew 28:9)

I could not fight the fog today,
I could not squeeze anything out of the morning.
I could not see the clock today,
I could not tease another moment of sleeping.
The fog did not lift,
the air did not open,
the clock whacked at my misunderstanding,
the sleep would not hold me in its arms.

I weary walking down the road hoping to meet
a man or woman
to see through my façade,
to feel the days that tread on my heart,
to see the escapes that are closed to me,
the open doors that are locked from the inside,
and the stone that has been rolled over the opening
of all I once was.

What I once was
was less of me
than who I am now.
And still the showers of blue rain
drown joy. Alone there is little joy.

I’ve believed in the resurrection nearly my entire life,
painted eggs were always figures for the one who
sprang from the tomb and hung around for awhile to
greet the women who saw him first, and all the others
who hid (like I hide) and unlocked their doors from
the inside.

So I wait for a knock on the door, and a greeting from one
I have longed for.
I wait to hear the footsteps in the garden that bring life closer
to me.
I cannot exhale the fog. I cannot whitewash these blues.
I cannot invent a hundred invisible friends to remove this
granite lonesome from inside of me.
I walk by a cemetery nearly every day and
all the graves are undisturbed.

My honesty has never bothered God (that’s my guess)
it’s all the rest that worry me. Laser advice pierces my forehead,
prayer promises are sent on autographed cards. I do not blame them,
they hold on to the same uncertainties.

Here today, there are no supernatural greetings on the road; just
asphalt, rain, fog, and a clouded mind.