Morning Glories and Poppies

 

Morning Glories and Poppies

(For every friend who never gave up on me.)

(“I myself will see him. My own eyes will see him, and not as a stranger. My emotions are in turmoil within me.” Job 19:27)

Please don’t turn away,
my health depends on it.
Talk runs circles and sometimes out of bounds
but I promise the campfire in the center holds
both the secrets and the potion
that makes friends nod at the silly jokes
and laugh at unpleasant memories.

I’ve been a joke, I know it. I’ve smoked the place out
with my long-winded stories and half-witted heart.
But starts are better than endings; noon is still long enough
to walk among morning glories and poppies.

I do not care to win; and do not want to lose,
I only wish to erase the words that made you cringe.
I only wish to hear the voice that makes me smile,
that asks for more music when it’s been a while since
I’ve sent a mandolin lullaby. It’s this friendship that,
like others,
makes me feel I have met with God.
Met together, and left the day lighter, for laughter,
tears, nods and empathetic cries
are the best prayers I have ever uttered.

And I shall ever laugh or cry or keep my silence
for you were sent by God
when I felt I did not have a prayer.

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?