I Tried to Count the Stars

I Tried to Count the Stars

(“Jesus answered, ‘The foxes have holes to live in. The birds have nests to live in. But the Son of Man has no place to rest his head.’” Luke 9:58)

I tried to count the stars last night and
thought of you.
How naïve to believe they were
just lanterns swinging from an overhead dome.
I tried to measure the miles from them
to where I stood
and fell asleep as the earth turned toward morning.
I tried to count the years in our days and
wondered how we mourn a friend’s passing one morning,
and attend a christening the next.
Light and dark fight it out for our
attention. We are membranes with ears,
eyes diffusing summer leaves in sharp relief.

I assume I have passed you on the street a thousand times,
or met you on an overpass while chrome machines roar
underneath.

I tried to think my way through the last two decades,
pray my way into unconscious flights of ecstasy.
I have missed every face I’ve known,
have remembered la anciana begging on a sidewalk
in Cancun.
I’ve trimmed my roses before the snow fell and waited
until May to watch them bloom.
I’ve seen the rain spit up dust on a Texas afternoon.
I have swallowed my song too long
fearing the tune would elude me.

But I’ve watched, though I rarely see,
your way through the galaxy and your
face that dropped tears on the cheeks of a child,
on the forehead of a child,
on the first blue tulip, the first daffodil.
And I wonder how many abodes we count looking
for home.

The Shortage of Pillows

The Shortage of Pillows

(“And Jesus said to him, ‘Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.’” Luke 9:58)

Without a moment to spare I caught up with
the prophet who had exited through the double maple
doors.
An entourage surrounded him; suits, but no guns.
And I was afraid I might have to run to the end of the
parking lot to catch him.

Instead, I found him winded as I,
I looked in his eye and asked,
“Do you have any word for me?”

I had been in tears. I had pledged to follow the
Human One
years before and wandered from California to
Spokane, from San Jose to
Oklahoma, from Sacramento to
North Dakota and to the west coast again.
Every time I was certain (sometimes with deserved pressure
to go somewhere and do better);
every time I was certain I was following a divine plan
that would make my weeping cease and wring every selfish
craving from my tongue.

And so, a pastor on the plains, I was pulled by self-interest,
echoes of successes, and words in books that made it look like
the Spirit would bowl me over if I only lost my footing. If I
only scraped my knees long enough on silent tear-stained carpets.
I sat, mostly. Got bored, mostly. And never met the expectations
from holyghost shouts and unhinged inner dialogue. I could not
breathe without crying.

“Do you have any word for me?” I asked.

He was Italian, I think, and stretched his neck as he talked.
He glanced at me, stood straight and, without a moment’s pause
said,
“You will open a Christmas present soon.”

I had flown across the country (pastors often confer in
other cities to be anonymous and hope to be refilled)
and flew home two nights later.

I looked in my closets, I looked in the back of my jeep,
I read every letter, I prayed every steep and graded hill, but
never found gift wrap or ribbons. And my hope for
beatific visions
faded into dark February.

II.

I wish the
Human One
had answered me.
I wish I knew better how to follow.
The lonesome road can be the
closest thing to pristine joy
and needs no prophetic imagination or
central affirmations.

I wish I
knew earlier
about birds and foxes
and the shortage of pillows.

Today, my feet are in sandals,
my heart enjoys rambling (more
than ever before)
and I do not have to wait for a
published author
or a windy spirit
to knock me on the floor.

Only Vagabonds

 

Only Vagabonds

(“He answered, ‘The foxes have holes to live in. The birds have nests. But the Son of Man has no place where he can rest his head.’” Luke 9:58)

Is there a space in this world for my kind
--he sighed.
Adobe or stucco, bamboo or thatch; a place where
a heart can feel at ease, though the feet may obey every decree
that sends them homeless and walled.
--he cried.

Is there room for my story in a town this size--
she sang.
duplex or guestroom, fireplace or furnace; a simple cube
with a window where guests can visit one at a time and
I can watch the doves coo and chortle alone.
--she sank

Into the only offer that stilled the curses that made her nerves
shout like carpet bombs,
her thoughts grind like
catacombs of dead words that kept
living inside her mind.

--he lied
every time someone asked if he was happy, if he was content.
His house was warm, his family free of charge,
and his rent was paid. But blue sky or hardwood floors,
his shadows hung heaviest at midday summer. He
relied
on visits from the Homeless One
and others who offered only the comfort that
vagabonds provide.

Why the Quiet

Why the Quiet

(“Jesus said to him, ‘Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests. But the Son of Man has no place to lay His head.’” Luke 9:58)

There were times I waited all night just for a friend to call,
for someone to open the door to my heart.
There were nights I watched the time move,
a minute, a click, an hour, and the glitches crawled
between hellos and hugs.

Did You ever get lonesome with humanity as your posse?
Did You ever climb the hill to pray at night and wonder
why the quiet
was so full of noise and thunder?

There are days I pose like a model for students,
holding my face serene as they trace its natural wrinkles.
Why won’t they draw the inside? Empty. Full of salt and tears.
Why won’t they put down their brushes and join me
clothed only in sheets? Why do they leave once the class is over,
while I hover wanting just one to return and offer me a home?

Did You ever sigh along the lake watching us scramble for a living?
Did You wonder why the talk of the day never swaddled many
for more than an anomaly’s hour? Is it a flaw in our wiring,
a bug in the crawling measurements we know we cannot attain?

There have been years I never felt a home,
30 days, 54 days, 300 days, and a quatrain that felt like
a desert without rain, a forest without sun, a seeker without
someone

To follow.

Did You ever wonder at my lack of faith?
Did You walk into my thin wooden trophy case,
take inventory, and reconsider your choice?
I’m sorry the achievements are so scarce and
that creation (in your image) scares me somehow.
The northern lights, the soulful eyes, the cinnamon delights,
the chords and harmony, the memorized lines and poetry
are old hat or stale. I search the mail each day for a word
to make me feel at home.

There was a day, maybe two, when following You
was more than alright. And You still enchant me, romance me,
remind me and even confine me in Your love.

But home is elusive. My feet long, not for a mansion,
just for the touch of long distance that reaches deeper than
“I wish.”