Of Puppies, Children and Autumn Days

Of Puppies, Children and Autumn Days

(“I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding and revealed them to little children.” Matthew 11:25)

Mid-November in a Pacific Northwest village
along the Columbia River there is a neighborhood where
dogs and children run free and kids play basketball in the
middle of the street.
There are netted trampolines where the
boys and girls squeak
and dogs named “Winnie”
and
“Simmie”
and
“Kitty”
visit each other’s yards.
(Though the chihuahua is ferocious and rumored to be
demon-possessed, her owner knows she is only a child
protecting her new home from the giant monster puppies
that live either side of her.)

Two brothers smile at the old man in the middle,
moved here in pain and resigned to never move again.
The older, maybe 13, loves Kitty the chihuahua, ignores
her hackles and brings puppy Winnie over in hopes
they will play. The oldest of the trio of pups,
the chihuahua only cuddles with mommy and daddy.
But the neighbor boy may know something the rest of us
do not;
how to lure the love out of a silly little brown dog.

The younger brother skips just like puppy Winnie
and laughs through the wet grass in mid-Autumn.
His name is Cooper and the old man in the middle
told him his name means
“Barrel Maker”. He smiled. Ran and told his mom.

And they both waved at the man who loves having
children and puppies cut across his lawn on their
sunny day adventures.

Heaven’s Candlelight

Heaven’s Candlelight

(“As a pleasing aroma I will accept you. Ezekiel 20:41a)

The stars are heaven’s candlelight,
the horizon an altar of prayer.
The grass and fields are hymns of praise,
the wind the gentle voice singing in unknown tongues.

There is nothing to contain you,
there are no walls to constrain you,
we sing our refrains and hope you interpret
our silly theologies into ballads of love.
Every doctrine has its holes,
every fabric we try to stretch
across the universe
is bound to show its imperfections viewed
so close.
There is nothing to explain you,
we will sing what we barely know.

So, take this sandy stalk, let it be the wick
you light,
the smell of sage or alfalfa wafting
from the pasture to the river. Let our
bonfires light the hills with sweetness,
our laughter the mere beginnings of holy
chants and song.

Our eyes are your candlelight,
our hands an altar of prayer.
The friends we hold and opponents we invite
shall ever bring you praise.
We breathe the spirit’s gentle voice singing
in unknown tongues.

My Secrets Slip Out

 

My Secrets Slip Out

(“You will see heaven open. You will see God's angels going up and down to the Son of Man.” John 1:51b)

I confess there is a vacancy,
a place where love should be found,
but I find no one there.
I’m not cut out for crowds anymore,
I have no more tricks up my sleeve.
but sometimes my secrets slip out
and I fear the few who have stayed will
finally leave.

I confess there is a jealousy,
a place that feels so empty
because I want to be what
everybody else really needs.
I’m just not cut out for rules anymore,
I have no more tears left to shed.
But sometimes I pour out my heart
and delete it because
I fear the few who have stayed will
finally leave.

I confess what I have confessed before,
a place that should sing your name
because I am just that broken
and weary of trying to change.
I’m really not cut out for much anymore,
I have no more advice to give,
but sometimes I fake a few lines
with the hope of hearing a voice
that tells me
why you would never leave.

He Has Climbed

 

He Has Climbed

(“This royal law is found in the Scriptures: ‘Love your neighbor as you love yourself.’] If you obey this law, you are doing right.” James 2:8)

Where is the understanding, where is heaven that the kingdom rules?
Have you heard God’s questions,
have you forgotten to answer?

  

Forget not the speakers of truth,
the good words and the passion words,

the thunder words, the wonder words
that strike like lighting from the throne.

Listen. He has climbed the mountain of the Lord.
Listen. He has knelt beside the hungering.
Visit him. He now sits with movement calcified.
Visit him. He now wonders about the crucified,
the effort, the broken bones and heart he shares
with the beloved.

Don’t phone in your respects, touch his trembling hands
and sit. The silence is eloquent, your presence is rhyme and verse
that shatters the curse of age and loneliness.

Break your bread with him, spend your time with him,
pour the wine for him, and hear the stories he told just
yesterday
like you hear them for the first time today.

The knees give way, the heart grows weak,
the mind faints like a violin in the sun.
The memories spin like hummingbirds, the handwriting
recedes into notes about appointments and doctors,
food banks and offers to join the village where only
elders are allowed to play. But

the spirit never gives sway to the years. It is evergreen,
it bends in the wind and draws living water like xylem
to the trees. 

Time is never wasted when poured like ointment on the feet
of the ones who only knew to speak of good tidings
and pronouncements of peace to the weary.

Wash the feet of them who cried over your own.

Not a Bookmark

Not a Bookmark

(“But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.” Hebrews 11:16)

This is no bus stop,
waiting for the next ride out of town.
This is no train station,
hoping to ride the rails further underground.
This is no turnstile,
counting your head as you pay for your playland.
This is no country club,
where drinks are served to the exclusive male and
other perfect genders.

This is ground zero, baby.
This is where the work gets done.
This is bone marrow, honey.
This is where our lives get born.
This is the opening curtain,
This is where we play for keeps,
This is first night on the boards,
No time for taking bows.

Who said this was the time to improvise,
to replace words of truth and love with lies?
Where did you learn to see darkness in the sunrise
And whiteness in the anthem you sing?

There is a better union, if only we will keep on walking,
there is a brighter day, if only we will circle the halting,
There are deeper rivers, if only we will keep on hoping,
There is a new downtown, if only we will keep on holding
the cigarette man
and the $20 girl
and the shivering boy
and the ignored woman
in the sphere that makes all things equal
and all things beloved.

This ain’t an Uber stop,
it’s not a bookmark or placeholder.
This is the essence of days, eternity past,
and, to be bolder, the garden we are called to tend
till kingdom and heaven come.

After Lunch

After Lunch

(“Then he said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.’” Luke 8:48)

He had just finished lunch and his hands
were still greasy;
he needed to wash them before touching anything.
He wasn’t sure where the pain would take him,
it had struck him nearly dead the day before.
He wasn’t sure what friends would believe him,
or if they would talk about their aches too.
Or would they leave him thinking every word was
another complaint from a faithless mind?

It struck him, a mallet to the head, that so many who
once loved his words,
now barely heard what he had been saying
for years. Certainly, since they could not see,
the invisible pain must be a cry for attention.
(or at least something he should become strong for,
should overcome for the sake of those who walked past
him in phases like the moon who heard the same tune
and nothing new.)

He washed his hands with dishwasher Dawn
And cut the grease, deleted the germs and viruses
just in case someone might hug him back into the world.

Some even asked him, face to face, why his prayers
were not answered or
why he felt God fell silent
when he inquired as to causes and sources.
There must be a reason for the secreted decade
of pain.

Just the same, he wondered too, but with more passion
than suspicion. Just in case, he took to asking, in the
fashion of the day,
what the the definition of love was
among those who stayed away. 

A trace of mustard remained between his fingers;
he noticed the spicy notes as he scratched his nose.
He wanted to spill the beans, empty his heart of everything,
but there was no one nearby who would do the same,
and he feared losing his sanity over silences that remained
when he asked the rest of his friends why God had not
answered them.

But someone saw, the decade of bleeding, someone obscured
by humanity’s crush, someone surrounded by heaven’s attendants,
someone, it seemed, just like us.

He braved the cloud of unknowing, reached past the murky air
into the other world that crams this world complete. He found,
still with pain unabated, someone who knew before
he was known. His hand still stained, he moved in closer,
and remained until he was finally noticed. And then

He withdrew

still laid flat by the relentless plague; still chased by the
the unshakeable isolation of the unclean issue of nerves
he had spent a fortune to heal.

If anyone had seen him reach beyond the veil,
then saw him the next day, and a month after that,
they would swear he had failed, and knock less often
at the door of his heartache.

But there were moments, shorter than lightning, when
he knew
there was less wrong and righting than this world knows,
and only love that heals whos and whys and those
who wait uncurled for the new kingdom,
the new world,
the--your will on earth as in heaven world--

World without end, amen.

Personally, This Letter

Personally, This Letter

“Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.” Luke 21:33

So many letters lie tattered beneath the newer lessons I’ve learned.
Yet the dusty seams bring me back again to the handwritten pages I
said I would never leave behind.
One said Never was sworn for life, and Ever was the bond. Friends
and brothers, square knots and sisters; but the sworn statements
broke upon the letter of the law.

I never wrote on stationary, I rarely used a blank page. Spiral notebooks
used to sleep on the bottom bunk of the old brown bookshelf unsung. I can
see phrases, words playing like “chiseled orphans” and “cacophonies of
Christmas lights” outside a teenager’s window.

Songs remembered, tunes forgotten; I paste the chords with weaker fingers.
I’m not saying I want to go backwards; I only desire the long talks around
the firebush in autumn or summer’s sacred meadow.

Some words I’ve hacked in half, others extended by a vowel or two,
but all I remember (my heart still tarries) is the laughter and tears
that were acceptable in season or out. Our gardens were full; rich loam
and metaphor. Our hugs were held well after harvest and fini.

And Now.

And now, Your words are still my meat, though my palate has changed.
In early fall the smoke from campfires writes another chapter of the book
I’ve laid down. And I hope the same smoke will stir the embers of friends
who I used to know.

With and without; words were the life. The silence, the pale blue lines
crossing the page, the margin asking where to begin. The silence

Is the reason I sometimes cry when no one is watching.

Will You speak in words I know? I am not nearly as old as You,
Ancient of Days. I need Your newer tropes and parables to pack inside
the vulnerable windows.

P.S.

P.S. I would send it personally, this letter, old friend,
but I fear, once more, you might not return my letter again.

The Layers

The Layers

(“My beloved is mine and I am his, he pastures his flock among the lilies.” Song of Songs 2:16)

The first layer of attention, the lightness of feathers,
the breath of linen, never left for over the briefest season when
I moved apart the leaves to find another pathway lined
with false proposals. Inclined to believe what I see,
I sought them for the loneliest era; time undefined by
the finite or eternity.

I cannot be specific about what layer was next, or how many,
or what order they came; though I do know the last two as I’ve
grown into a new set of clothes that feel like comfortable hand
me
downs.

Love was never questioned, no seriously; the first layers were
dance and six-strings, never weary of late nights, long walks,
unending talks of what we thought might be heaven to day,
or might be gone tomorrow. Unexamined, our love bounced
like wagon wheels unsprung. We were nearly nomads,
finding gifts between concrete cracks and below rocks
settled in mud
after the rain.
We acknowledged hell with a mere glance, little thinking
love might leave us wordless about eternal agony.

But these final layers, no, not the ones on top, not the last
bit of whipped cream topping a parfait; these final layers lie
deep within the dish, the final taste of perfect goodness. Here
is where
our minds met, and nearly exploded in the velocity of
pleasures and restriction, passion and restraint in head-on
competition for an affair of the heart that satisfied the mind
as late as sentiment slept.

Would this Lover of my Soul satisfy its imagination,
half would not be rich, semi would not be full;
but let reason ring with passion, affections
speak with acumen; and the whole more complete
having examined each competing thought with
honest eyes and unswayed heart.
We acknowledged hell with more than a glare, more wondering
love would put it there for any creation; and leaving
each interpretation to other tongues. There may be
more clever ways to constrict the days others spent
on loves with different names than we have heard.

Insert Your Name

Insert Your Name

(“Since you have been raised to new life with Christ, set your sights on the realities of heaven, where Christ sits in the place of honor at God’s right hand.” Colossians 3:1)

I no longer go hunting (daylight or dark) for instant remedies,
medicinal teas, flights of fancy or transactions of applause.
My hope is no longer in live oaks that decay, or additional deciduous
fallen and blocking the way. They will eventually crumble away.

I haven’t altered my consciousness in who knows how long,
though I have collected my thoughts and attempted to keep them
dry on the days I cry over one more phone call cut short,
email unanswered, leaving lasting words (the very last words)
ricocheting off the walls leaving indelible patterns and
interior redecoration.

I would tell him, I’m sure, love is secure, the ear arcane.
I would hug her, I would, if she found me with her eyes again.

I have fewer days around friends’ tables,
less hours at coffee and patter,
pain has robbed my easy informality
and turned a dollar of time into mere pennies.

Please believe, and insert your name within the margins of this writing.
What I have missed I would giftwrap and pass on to you.
From my storehouse of hiking trails and lunches at
Denny’s with a high school buddy, I would share every
hour with you that made each breath a treasure. I would
grab your hand (you feel the warm grasp already) and
interlock it with the friendship you think has crumbled
across the trail. You started the walk in the summer morning,
sun on your back, abreast on the hike, and always got home later
than you ever intended.

Let me grab your hand (you can feel the freedom already) and
place it so you face friend and the day, eye to eye, tear to tear,
and let the aroma of heaven erase the last words you spoke and
begin a brand new conversation.

I hunt no longer, dreams are less frequent,
but longings are deeper for the glimpse my soul has seen.

Come, Creatures of Heaven

Come, Creatures of Heaven

(“But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” 1 Corinthians 15:57)

Come, creatures of heaven, children of the light,
stand upon this earth with your damages uncovered.
Let the sun and the rain knit and unstain your holy wounds;
the breeze hides your sobriquet the Father has called you by
from moments before He spoke the first spark to begin
solid and liquid, gaseous and ethereal; material and spiritual.

He has called you the pet name above all names.

Walk; see the bent age of the longer follow,
watch the quick step of the newly graced,
and measure your own pace by the Hand of Him
who knows the words the world has pierced you with,
and replaces epithets of jealousy with mercy’s signature.

There, march upon this earth, between the paths of mere man,
the footprints of liberation, whose bruises are their badges,
whose tears are their trophies, and whose pain for the Name
most precious leave breathless those who have chosen the
easier way.

Soil Preserves

Soil Preserves

(“The seed sown is natural; the seed grown is supernatural…” 1 Corinthians 15:44a [The Message])

Soil preserves everything old in a blanket,
cools everything inches below the reach of sunlight,
provides everything to nourish early and new arrivals,
warms everything miles and miles above the core of the earth.

Children dig corners in their yards and sometimes
find
black buttons,
plastic wrap,
spoons and bones left by pet dogs and previous owners.

Potsherds preserved centuries below the floors of
yesterday’s living rooms in tells,
mounds of generation follow generation
never knowing what had come before.

Someday I will castaway my body to the graveyard,
a site slightly mounded with slab marking the spot.
It will become an architect’s hollow room
after I sign another
long-term lease for a studio overlooking
a river bounded by medicine-trees.

Soil may preserve my bones, digits and stones;
and cool my slacking skin. But heaven is more suited
for my soul’s final movement, at home at last,
no sorrow no sin, all is completed,
death is defeated,
life flows boundless and green
through the dreams planted before
the beginning of time.

Heaven's Note

“Shout praises to the Lord! Shout the Lord’s praises in the highest heavens.” Psalm 148:1

A sheep rancher in the remote mountains of Idaho discovered his violin was out of tune. He tried to make it sound the way it should, but without a tuning pitch, he was unable to get it right. A frequent listener to a radio station in California, he wrote the station concerning his problem.