Concrete Creations

Concrete Creations

(“Even before time began God planned for Christ Jesus to show kindness to us.” 2 Timothy 1:9a)

I woke up with nothing to do and stayed that way
till far after noon. I sip my coffee; I drink loads of water because
my physicians are making sure I do. So, religiously I put ice in a glass,
pour the water and drink four or five glasses a day. If you read this would
you be kind enough to attest to this with my favorite practitioners?

It is not entirely true that I have nothing to do,
my fingers are tapping out these words, aren’t they?
But I forced myself to sit here today although there seems to be
little of the artisan words I desire to punch out of my brain.
And perhaps grace covers that. Perhaps grace fills the starved
and closed quarters in my mind.

I’ve written about these things for 25 years now and I seem to
have less to say the farther I go along. I had it all down pat,
I knew how to write a riddle or parable. I knew how to turn
the ending in such away that you wanted to stay all day, or
sometimes
you wanted to simply run away.

But I never wrote wanting you to be bored, or to scratch
your head
wondering why this word was glued to that one.
Like the disciples locked up in a room after the resurrection,
I have become a hermit, talking to no one for hours at a time.
I confess my words sound hollow because they come from a hollow
mind. I once
knew what I believed,
and now I am not sure. The pendulum has not swung for me.
Instead I find myself in the middle where it has come to rest with
no movement at all. I wait for the breeze to shift. I pray for breath
I can hear. I wait for the Spirit to be bestowed even though I have
no point of reference to know full I can become.

Truth? I feel empty. Other truth? I feel full. Have I been on a diet
that of so much fast food that I slowly make my way to what would
otherwise, have been inevitable. I must fast a meal or two to open this
place meant to be filled renewed. I must open wide the doors for the grace
to flow through. I must not puzzle over nothing to do; perhaps that is the
best way to receive. Yes, I will breathe. And breathe. And welcome the
grace of the Spirit to fill me complete. I will tell you what these moments
create once they pull me into the reworking of the words I use for art,
even when I am listless.

So I hope to become full of concrete creations that paint sacred
landscapes where holy places can be found.  

My Head Couched on a Hymnal

My Head Couched on a Hymnal

(“Little children, let us love not in word or speech but in deed and truth.” 1 John 3:18)

 

The fires I once warmed my hands beside
have gone out; the embers have died. The
magic words
that supplied my point of reference have all
be redefined.
These recipes, these ingredients,
these passages of time no longer taste the same.

I sat on the beach often enough to feel when
the wind shifts and the spray spatters across
my forehead. I sat well into the evening as the
sand crabs scampered out of sight.
There has always been a longing for
nights like that: a bonfire on the beach,
the sound of foghorns rolling,
stories told and often repeated,
guitars strummed while we meet for
the first time like it was the last time
we would see each other.

I sat on the back pew and wondered,
(I used to call it praying)
if the words were still any good this far down the road.
The divine spark feels like wintergreen,
the inspiration another long winter’s day.
I crave, I cry, wait like I’ve never
waited before,
for someone to tell me all my past
has been forgotten.
Or for them to say they have never
gotten over the way certain words made
them feel. I laid on the back pew,
my head couched upon a hymnal,
while the ache ate its way to my consciousness.

The fires can be relit, I know. But I long
for more than memorized words. The food
tastes better when shared with you.

The Accumulation of Things

The Accumulation of Things

 

It is not the pain,
it is the accumulation of things.
And, I hate to complain, but today
the weight of solitude caused my knees to buckle.

Yesterday I received letters from friends who
have
melted my heart and let me into their own.
One, a glorious musician, air force navigator,
adventurer and conspirator in all things poetic and
spiritual.
The other, a widow. I attended her grief during her
husband’s final days and her son’s just one year later.
I was in over my head. But we stayed with her son,
her, me and the attending nurse,
until the light faded from his eyes. He was kindness
embodied, shoveling snow from the church sidewalk
with me when the drifts
were nearly high as our heads.

And most days the memories of these living friends,
these who for 25 and 35 years have never ended their
grace to me, their smiles encased within my heart,
a place reserved for fireplace talks and Christmas carol
variations. Most days they inhabit with joy my only alone.

But today it is the accumulation of things. Today
I wish for a finger’s touch on my arm, the kind that warms
you, and maybe makes you blush. The kind that pushes the
button to allow the tears to flow again. Today
I wish for the eyes that do not look away. The kind that
are lyrical, the kind that coax miracles from melancholy
without demanding faith of any kind.

Just like dividing an integer by zero,
solitude upon solitude becomes impossible.
A sparrow’s song outside the window breaks the
ennui for a moment. Maybe some carolers will call.

An Extra Can of Soup

 

An Extra Can of Soup

(“Now He who supplies seed to the sower and supplies bread for your food will also multiply your seed sown and increase the fruits of your righteousness.” 2 Corinthians 9:10)

Please don’t follow me home only to
turn around and leave me
there alone.
I have no money, but an extra can of
soup and an apple or two. Perhaps Spring
will allow us this modest repast
so I have someone to talk to.

I don’t want to be selfish,
I don’t need the attention,
I don’t want the focus on myself,
I don’t need to lengthen your stay
beyond darkening evening.

I need someone to walk up my gravel driveway,
someone I once prayed for,
or
someone I once stayed with
past the shock, past the incongruent murmurs
of friends with no words.
Someone I delayed with
until the tears were rivers,
until the rivers were dry,
until the sentences became only sighs.

I’ve had offers, I admit. And then the trauma insists
I’ll freeze in the sun
the moment anyone
enters my door. Something keeps the words
choking in my throat. I want someone
I can cry with.

Will you do me the kindness,
(and perhaps I can find a loaf of bread)
to wait with me on days when I am tired of
being brave,
when courage is too exhausting,
when I cannot answer with faith or certainty,
when I only want to nap for an eternity.

Will you do me the kindness,
and hand me a handkerchief, please.
I’ve been waiting for seeds to be planted,
for bread to be abundant,
and a place to lay my head.

These Invisible Threads

 

These Invisible Threads

(“For the Lord your God is a compassionate God; He will not abandon you nor destroy you, nor forget the covenant with your fathers which He swore to them.” Deuteronomy 4:31)

I hide it; it has been damaged so long.
I lock the doors; I have been lonely so long.
I used to read the junk mail because it
was addressed to me. And if a personal letter
arrived face down under the furniture flyer and
the weekly shopper,
I would open it anxiously. Written words had
pierced me and left me bleeding before.
Now that the wounds are old(er) they surprise me
when saltwater inflames them like the first day
(when was that day? did the sun shine? did someone find
me tripping over my words? did someone hear me unguarded?
did my sin become fodder for the grinding wheel? when was
that day? and how many others? or months. or years.)

Or was I scooped up before my head hit the pavement,
was I engulfed in flaming love,
was my ruin the conditions for a new world coming,
was my injury the bed where fire and life collided
to reconvene uneventful joy and the beginning of
a friendly walk down the Emmaus road?

Lately I still cry and so do some of my babies.
Lately I still will the clouds away filled with maybes.
Lately I still read words harsher than I wished and (dance
steps) they do not slice me.
Lately I’ve written letters in my head to every one
I hid from, every one who hid from me, for precisely
these invisible threads, gossamer and strong,
that should never have been severed
at all.

Love So Slow

Love So Slow

(“Christ himself was like God in everything. He was equal with God. But he did not think that being equal with God was something to be held on to.” Philippians 2:6)

You’re not my type (my mind knifes as I fall asleep)
You’re not enough (my past strikes as I awaken)
The slightest silence and I am gone on another hike
around the edges of sanity. I would not have fashioned
my brain this way.

My mind is on constant rewind
back to the entitled days. The hidden greys
that belonged to men with unbridled consciences,
with untamed storms that leaked out every pore.
I shivered at the worst, ignored most at first,
and hoped my fears would never happen. I
wished away summer days with my feet in the streams.

Proving the curse a mistake was the dream
of my bedtime stories. Fantasies of
magic wands to clear my head of all the wrongs
I committed and all the damage I inflicted
and all the pain from songs I wish I had written.

Worse yet I fancied the light, rose in the ranks,
laid my hands on the sick, spoke like a prophet,
and wasted my best on hiding the rest which
dwelt in darkness too deep to define.

(Crying after midnight, sobbing insomnia,
and prayers that only groaned without relief.)

I would have beat myself into submission to
gain admission into the holiest place.

But well down the road I read the words again,
the sigh and gasps of embrace. Sand beaches,
baby children, dogs with ironic names became
the hymns I misheard from the beginning. And

You were my type after all (my soul kites and
my heart steeps in the love so slow it clings
to everything)

listening to "yer blues"

listening to “yer blues”

(“Say to the prophets who prophesy from their imagination: ‘Listen to the Lord’s message!’” Ezekiel 13:2)

Listening to “yer blues”
I’m reminded I’m not of the earth or sky,
I am of the universe, and that is what I’ll use
to decide the barrage of words that pass as
god-talk from people who just have no time to wait out
patient love.

(I’m so musical even my yawns sound like a song.)

You just cannot bring god down,
and you cannot just call him up from below.
You cannot make the fire fall,
and you cannot make a spring of water flow
from a rock.

(I’m so logical even my snores are antiwar.)

Why are you uncomfortable with silence,
Why do your god-words sound so much like your-words,
Your announcements are no better than palmistry
reading the wind.

(I’m so comical even my scars can spin a yarn.)

There is preaching in the zero syllable breeze,
there is gospel in the clapping branches of the trees,
the message is as certain in a stranger’s hug
as if Jesus himself stood among us unplugged
like a gardener.

(I’m so spiritual even my pores are open for more.)

Don’t preach when lunch will do just fine,
Don’t predict, conjure, invoke everything that enters your mind,
But walk in sackcloth, put on ashes, sit with the silent
whose words were stolen when the expectations of violence
became the sermon of the day.

(I’m so hopeful even my feet tread heels-over-head.)