The Braided Strand

The Braided Strand

(“And he said to them, ‘Take care about what you hear. The measure you use will be the measure you receive, and more will be added to you.’” Mark 4:24)

We pull hard on the braided strand
like junior high boys
testing their skills.
How high can we drag our
evolving bodies above the
wrestling pads on the gymnasium floor?

Points are awarded for how high, how quick,
how fixed our eyes are upon the goal.
Friends are added for how strong, how silent,
how cool, how calm our sweatless face laughs
at the dare.

The doors are unhinged, the locks are broken,
the arms and legs of hundreds of acquaintances
buzz like flies in and out of the unspoken rooms we
hoped to populate with
a handful of lifetimes.

Did you hear about the one-way friends,
the directors of your life, the raters of your dives,
and the takers of your soul if you do not surface
soon enough for their satisfaction?

Did you hear about the open tribes,
the round-dance, the nods at your stumble,
the givers of your joy when clumsy is the
only step you’ve learned of their songs?

We pull hard on the braided strand
and,
aided by strangers (a first-day handshake with
a nameless face)
we find our rhythm, get our footing,
grab the slick rope and laugh at our efforts
together
to find a place above the clouds.

Earth and dirt, dust and sky; we live only
inches above the surface of gravity and sighs.

Not a Fly Left

Not a Fly Left

(“God did what Moses asked. He got rid of the flies from Pharaoh and his servants and his people. There wasn’t a fly left. But Pharaoh became stubborn once again…” Exodus 8:31,32a [The Message])

There is no more time to wait, swatting
midges that land on my sandwich near night.
There is little room to talk, faking
human while the smoke’s aroma indicts.
There are far too few moments, flicking
mosquitoes that hide behind patio lights.
There are hardly any words, poems
opening (I swear) hidden tombs oddly white

Washed like

A clock with hands set back half a day,
a book halfway read and put away,
a plea for clemency, honest truth’s escapee
slapping the neck and scratching its false identity

Until no one believes there is life in the tomb
and the midges and mosquitoes paint the sky black

While we wait (there is not time for that) for one fact
to bubble out of the sweaty tomb, death’s admission that

Leaves the patio free for picnics and sweet iced tea
on another summer afternoon.