Like Rustic Bread

Like Rustic Bread

(“But he said to them, ‘You give them to eat.‘” Luke 9:13a)

Remember when we used to meet for lunch;
Denny’s, Round Table or the shop on Monument Boulevard
with 50 kinds of hamburgers? Meals were
our sacrament.

Remember the pizzas we ate hurriedly halfway through
dress rehearsals? We never thought
two dollars
could go so far.

Remember picnics in the shade and
the dogs misbehaving while we protected the
potato salad
from ants on the ground and the sun in the sky?

Remember the bottle of Almaden when we
could afford it? Otherwise, it was Boone’s Farm.
With the stream singing in the ravine
the birds harmonized in the tree above our
makeshift eucharist.

These days I am shy about
dinner invitations. I am less sure.
Conversation is pizzicato in my trembling fingers.
Blood rushes to my face
belying the uncertainty of gravity.

Do you remember sitting in grand circles
waiting for all the relatives to arrive at the
memorial? It was January and the roads were
frictionless. The friends of the departed
did not mind the extra time.
The food never stopped, and our laps were
precariously full in
the great hall
where coffee was poured all night.

I would give anything to be
brave enough again
to break off part of my heart
like rustic bread
and entrust it into your hands.

The Shape of Sunday

The Shape of Sunday

(“Be sure to give to them without any hesitation. When you do this, the Lord your God will bless you in everything you work for and set out to do.” Deuteronomy 15:10)

There are always more people driving past the corner
where the ragged people sleep earlier than the arm of the sun.
Minivans with fish decals turn left instead of right
to miss the cardboard signs and boarded up shoes.
Men in collars, some in habits, pass the concrete where
the cracks and broken backs wait and try to catch their eye.

Get up early man.
Plant your seed with the sunrise.
Apply within. Generate your CV where the sidewalk ends.
Get a bath son.
Shave your face with your bowtie.
Save your money. Put a little away for a rainy day.

While you do; I’ll pray.

-----

He cannot remember they shape of Sunday,
he barely knows his name.
But I used to golf with him, debate with him,
and prayed with him for the Spirit’s flame.
Friends, peers, ministers; we patted each other’s
midlife backs on the links and in the fire.

He shepherded a river of sorts, and then I dove in too.
He bred new sheep a thousand miles south while I
briefly put my feet in the river unsteadily.

A million years later he was on the road to Jericho,
and waylaid by robbers, they took his health,
and now he cannot remember the shape of Sunday,
he barely knows his name.

He lives within broken synapses, he lives in
a frail apartment above an in-law’s garage. His wounds
are still untended, his breath slow as his mind.

And for all the life he spoke, for all the joy of the river,
for all the sheep who prance in the curling hills,
he is left with nothing but

Feet that have wandered to follow the Shepherd,
and slices of memory of words out of time.

-----

Don’t tell him you love him if you don’t touch the same dirt he does.
Rich or destitute, our feet are stuck to the ground.
First and last, the last will thirst until the first offer a
drink from the river.
The first in line who led you there
deserve a share of the crystal waters and the
trees on either side with leaves for
the healing of nations.
Is it too difficult a notion to provide him
some comfort, some health, some better abode
and some

Gratitude for a

Job well done?

Even when he cannot remember once, or the month or 

your name?

They Say Water Seeks its Own Level

They Say Water Seeks its Own Level

(“But whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never thirst again; but the water that I will give him will become in him a well of water springing up to eternal life.” John 4:14)

They say water seeks its own level.

The sun swung above us hugging the ragged horizon
as we ascended the narrow trail. It warmed our shoulders
like a shirt just ironed on an autumn day.

We were three as we trod the hardpan and wound our way
between stands of lodgepole pine. The sun followed us,
still kind as midmorning turned to noon.

We ate homemade trail mix, dried fruit and rinds,
enjoyed the pace, the breeze, the river below us
and the climb.

Our music was acoustic, our laughs the lyrics,
the birds our musicians, and our lungs worked full time
to sing and to climb.

What are friends? Travelling trios on an isolated footpath,
sharing the moment the sun takes its toll.

Parched, dry as aged wood fences,
our throats stung for refreshment as we tilted our canteens.

Warm, but clear, the water soothed us for a moment,
seconds of the hour; we were young, we were fine.

But once we stumbled; no, discovered. Once we happed upon
a rivulet meandering across our path and the spring above
which was its source, our tepid drink was forgotten

As we, each in turn, tilted our faces below the icy stream
that sprang from the rocks and wrapped our mouths, our
arms, our torsos, our minds completely around the unexpected offering.

We emptied our canteens there, puddling across the path,
and filled them from the slow trickle that broke through the granite.
We waited without time, the sun aligning with the river below
creating silver dancers where water and air barely kiss. We knew
what all hikers know;

The water is free, abundant, and pure. The spring would continue,
though snow filled the trails, and next year, or the year after that

We could return to find the pristine refreshment, the sacrament, the
grace.

They say water seeks its own level. Older now than young once was,
three hikers scattered across the continent and time
may think, in the same late moment of the day
of water that bore the mixture of earth and divine.

The Least and Latest

The Least and Latest

(But He answered them, “You give them something to eat!”) Mark 6:37

You have more than you possess,
there is more than what you see,
there are mountains beyond the mountains,
brothers outside the circle,
and the universe waits for you to walk
past the borders without fiat. Your fate awaits
past your cement bubble.

The least likely is your provider,
the hidden are your leaders,
the dark green and gray that we throw away
are the banquet of the forest and the beginning of the day.

But we were waiting for the hour to end, the dust to settle,
and the buzzing crowd and mosquitoes to march back home.
We only saw the mouths and heard the complaints,
wondered if the clouds would turn the whole scene into
another unruly Woodstock with nothing in our hands.

You are more than you remember,
you will be loved beyond the river,
you are faint sketches now of the masterpiece
of the ages.
You’ve lived on adages and acorns,
not truth and aged oaks,
and you shorten your hand, hide your heart,
and hope to go home before the thunderstorms hit.

The child will lead them and sing with the wolf,
the invisible will dance to the music you dismissed,
the pinks and greens that most blink away
are the party in the desert where enemies once played.

Do not wait, the crowds are hungry. Do not tire, the children are ready.
Embrace the frayed edges, feed them first and front. They are the beloved,
the least and latest in the line of neighbors
Christ has invited upon the hills of plenty that
he will provide.