10 Minutes of Clarity

 10 Minutes of Clarity

(“Our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, loved us and by his grace gave us eternal comfort and a wonderful hope.” 2 Thessalonians 2:16)

During the first half of the movie I had
10 minutes of clarity.
It was a French movie set in the 70s
and the subtitles kept me engaged.
For half the time of a good nap
the ocean swept over me without drowning me,
the loves and pains, the stains and steeps were
all the same. They did not disappear, but were
clearly there in my psyche; fish and plankton,
all a part of the biome of over 60 years
of mortality.

I breathed easy. Surgical incisions were insistent
but not consuming. Friends I hoped would call,
didn’t. But I remained undisturbed. I could see that
minutes or days beyond my control were simply the passing
of weather systems out of reach and unrelated
to my ability to swim.

I had not chosen this place, this fleeting vision. It
surprised me like a warm shower out of a clear sky
on a Thursday afternoon. I could not capture the clouds
any more than I could stop the waves that gently rocked
my soul.

It was 10 minutes. Then my anxiety; every shivering thought,
every regret over reckless words, every impossible repentance,
every lead-covered silence, every solitary song I never meant
to sing alone.
Every one of them, short-circuited within, powered my skin,
my heart, my lungs, my head and threatened to trip the fuse
I thought
was out of danger during my

10 minutes of clarity.

Today Tumbled In

Today Tumbled In

(Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord, and He will lift you up. 4:10)

Today tumbled in, a set of dice determined my mood.
The sun is out late afternoon
dissolving the marine layer in its
yellow embrace.
But the roll of the dice told me
the pain was beyond bearable,
I put it all on the table
and wept the day away.

There are fault-lines you cannot see,
cracks that do not show
and I am tired of being strong when
I’m only leftover rain and a hurricane
quickly running out of courage.
Maybe I am blind.

Life is full of philosophy
until an unlucky family
deals with sudden death
and fatal illnesses.
Maybe I am shaken.

It baffles me,
maybe I mean only half of what I say,
and maybe I see less of what surrounds me.
Why do I wave friendly at neighbors
when the tears flowed just a moment before?

Today tumbled in; night will steal the mood,
replacing it with dreamscapes of fear or pleasure.
These are the days that I give up believing;
my opinions never changed the time of a single sunset.

I am old and life frightens me but occasionally
amuses me. Most often I let another well-constructed
syllogism fall on its face and other bodily unfunctions.

I am not strong. I am not certain.
I am only one late in life person
who hopes these days that seem so remote
from human connection
will not be the gamble they seem to be.

Tomorrow will tumble again. Know me, please,
God of numbers and ABCs, of
wisdom and idiosyncrasies
better than the crumpled pages
I have written upon.

Prayed Alone

Prayed Alone

(“He alone is immortal; he lives in the light that no one can approach. No one has ever seen him; no one can ever see him. To him be honor and eternal power! Amen.” 1 Timothy 6:16)

I dreamed I saw a man,
a small man,
a round man,
crowded on his knees
into the dark corner of
a half-pew. He prayed alone.

I dreamed he saw me,

just a guy,
a plain guy,
edging next to him
as he half arose from his
long kneeling. He prayed alone.

I dreamed, we did not speak,
two humans,
too precious
to despair alone;
I joined him in the shadow
cast by earth. We prayed alone.

I did not know him,
maybe me,
or a son.
Maybe a mixture
of everyone I’ve known who,
swathed in light, had prayed alone.

Half Done

Half Done

(Love each other in a way that makes you feel close like brothers and sisters. And give each other more honor than you give yourself.” Romans 12:10)

Our house was home-made décor, half done projects
on the walls, a green bean bag and dentist’s chair
on the living room floor.

It was mostly home, though the horticulture lacked
for purpose or design; the landscaper sneezed too readily
once hay fever season began and the weeds had a heyday
from fence to falling fence.

Sun tea was always brewing atop the flat verandah roof,
mom sunbathed will past afternoon and 45,
the black lab found the shade only after nuzzling each
visitor to their knees.

We liked the summer East Bay and found new ways to
play the same games, old ways to ask the same girls
for dates we were certain would turn us down. We lived
in town
and drove an hour to spend the day at Briones. (I’ve
written about it before. See my anthology, published after
my demise, and filed somewhere between Berkeley skies
and Jesus’ people meeting at Jacob’s Well for burgers and fries.)

Our house was occasional Goodwill influenced, though
we shopped mostly for clothing at St. Vincent de Paul.
I found platform shoes and denim blues, along with
paisley flannel shirts and macramé beads that looked mostly
like watermelon seeds.

I share all of this to say that, of all the ones I’ve known and met,
I miss you the most; the one who sat with me when the world
had ended. I miss old VWs and pool parties, talking about nothing
as if we were solving the world. I miss you, (never let me
regret
having felt it this well without telling you about it.) I miss
so many conversations that still have commas, and never
ended until

The words left unspoken fell upon the backyard pasture,
mixed with the lawn gone to seed and settled somewhere close to
or north of Petaluma.

Half the Supply

Half the Supply

(“Here’s what believers who are in low positions in life should be proud of. They should be proud that God has given them a high position in the kingdom.” James 1:9)

The days are dry without end, the summer light
grills the ground, the constant beige baked into every
rock and stone. And hours since the light is gone
the rugged desert floor radiates the same heat
toward the stars. Stingy with its release, the air only
becomes breathable
a pair of hours before dawn, before
the sharp light and arid sky provide
only half the supply life needs for thickets
and underbrush other ecozones display
with less effort than a butterfly gliding
bloom to bloom.

We walk soon after dawn, before noon and the
straight-line blaze from the sun and its rays overheat
every possible path. Flat as a billiard’s slate, no shade
breaks the invisible beams; no respite for earth and its
captive passenger to take a breath, wipe the sweat,
and hope new rain will fall swallowed by washes
and sent to start the seeds awaiting the second half
of verdant genesis.

And while the wait, and during the walk, some
30 feet distant on the dusty floor, a color far outside
the decorator’s wheel; a bright, a sheen, a damp magenta
and intense yellow;
the solo desert flower caught the eye. The parched earth
below a gasping sky had offered more than the forests
of coastal mountain ranges.

In its poverty the desert offered an isolated endowment;
the smallest of flowers from the poorest supply
greeted the eye with more reflection
than a thousand on a rainforest floor.