Execution Hill

Execution Hill

(“Then Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them, because they do not know what they are doing.’” Luke 23:34a)

We pretended to walk across the river,
we made fun of the way others swam.
We filtered our sarcasm through a dozen
courtrooms filled with hungry spectators.
We expected a show, we expected to know
how the day would end and why we held on so long.
But we let loose of our story and demanded dancing
from a one-legged dog. We were not cruel,
just vastly misinformed.

We never expected the sky to storm from noon until
three, we had been told to expect sunshine on our sublime faces.
We were informed that we were born for this;
we believed it like a phone call from the government.
But we put our trust in iron, we put our hope in blades
of steel; we outsourced our future to magazines full of powder,
to derisive wars of words. We nailed the truth
to the wood.

We followed the dark procession,
we were there for the show.
We had nothing more to do that afternoon
than watch the slow execution of a trio of criminals,
(or so we were told.) We had heard the stories,
and met a few fellows who said they knew the
man in the middle
from an encounter along the road. They were
convinced they were healed. They were convinced
he didn’t belong hanging naked in front of the world.

We didn’t expect him to speak,
we expected little from him at all. He saved
those fellows along the road,
surely he could save himself like a king on a throne.
But we heard, quieter than the breeze, and loud as a
man innocent by degrees. It was forgiveness he eased
from his throat as we watched his life ebb away over those
hours.
It didn’t matter if we knew beforehand, now we knew
exactly what we had done. We stopped our talk and dice games,
and lost our exuberance for parades to execution hill.

The View of the River

The View of the River From Here

(“For I will restore their fortunes and will have mercy upon them.” Jeremiah 33:26b)

I’ve heard the excuses that sentence a man to
eternal consequences for a single mortal life.
I’ve seen your silly dramas you
tag
as Heaven’s Gates
and
Hell’s Flames.
I am weary.

Believe me,
I have sinned with the best.
I have hidden it even better.
I have wished my follow was better than my
swallowing every temptation that insisted that
sundown was the best time for finding the one thing
that would slow down my mind.

I packed my suitcase for heaven
but
could never tell whether the vacancy sign
was designed to invite me to a dinner by the pool.
I will not be consigned to hell
no matter
how loud your fist-pounding pronouncements.
I have seen the other side of the sunset
and the day follows plain as the love that
explains it all in oil paintings on the wall.

Fashion another runway, leave your granite slates
outside the gates and
greet the canvas that was painted on a day when
everything had melted, a day when
we were all shocked about
the grace of it all.

The same day you scared the children half-mad
with your fiery hell,
the people on the periphery were starving for
breakfast. But the children gathered at the
front of the stage
nonetheless,
frightened about the heaven they might miss.

As soon as the morning peeks through the window
I will show you
the view of the river from the top of the hill.

The Melody Fell Like Rain

The Melody Fell Like Rain

(“But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. For behold, I bring you good news of great joy, which will be for all people.’” Luke 2:10)

You sitting in limbo between dusk and dawn,
you’ve drawn your boundaries in the dark,
built your fortresses by dimming firelight.
You couldn’t see, which forced you to emit
certainties to keep away the cold and fright.
Even when the wind turned
you insisted the world was ending.
(I should say, for clarity,
all would be destroyed except your indoctrinated
minority.)

But on the edge of your eyeliners, arrowheads and
atomic defenses, there is a riff floating down from
unheeded clouds. The stars were obscured, so you
observed nothing but pre-quake jitters. You thought
the end was near.

Acid jazz sounds so ominous in the middle of the night.

But the melody fell like rain on the other side of the hill,
the riff that began like Voodoo Chile woke a cohort whose
campfire was all the light they needed. They had told stories
all night,
they had watched the lambs asleep
and played harps and pipes, sung highland and
baritone, mostly out of tune.

Even as the wind turned they remained undisturbed,
caught up in ancient tales, sagas passed down for centuries.
As the drops of heaven floated above their heads, one,
then another,
then each, then all,
laid down their voices and muted their lyres to hear
the song that had no beginning, the song that would never end.

It was sung backwards, as far as they could tell, but the
meaning was clear,
the words and tempo, 120 bbm, matched their own pulse
as they stood in wonder.
This was new and not a traditional fable; it was familiar,
but felt ageless, lyrics sifting through the layers of dust
that had settled like wrinkles on human faces.

Joy was a comma. Now it was exclaimed. Joy was a
rest stop. Now it was uncontained. Joy was a possession.
Now it was unrestrained.

Near The Top of The Hill

Near The Top of The Hill

(“Because of our God’s merciful compassion, the dawn from on high will visit us.” Luke 1:78)

The trail was no longer visible,
time and rain and winds and snow
had scraped the surface down to
virgin earth again.

All anyone could see was the lone stranger
silhouetted on the hill and
no one
asked how he got there.

But he knew.
But was too far away for his voice to carry.
He knew the company he kept at the
trailhead years ago.
He knew the risks they took and the
trout they caught
in waning daylight.
He could remember it all

Alone

Near the top of the hill.

Only a few had left him,
the rest simply scattered to other adventures.
Now the only connections he had were
electrons--
and wifi--
though that was spotty on the solitary lightyears
where he dwelt.

All anyone could see was a foggy figure
on the gray days when mist
turned the mountains to mystery again.
Those were the moments that prompted
theories of myth.

He was only a man.

Some days it felt as if his heart was left behind
somewhere near the beginning of the trail.
One degree off course and decades to walk
led him to the lonely seclusion he
had not chosen.

Each day began and
each day ended.
And those who looked on

Wondered what they had missed.

Over the Distant Hill

Over the Distant Hill

(“Don’t let any evil talk come out of your mouths. Say only what will help to build others up and meet their needs. Then what you say will help those who listen.” Ephesians 4:29)

Just over the distant hill and away
from the dusty syllables
of everyone who knows better than
everyone else…

Just beyond the dewy field and away
from the chiseled orphanage
where children walk in their sleep
and repeat the refrain of their adoptive’s martial songs…

Just beyond the last eucalyptus and away
from the fits and starts that
memory holds tighter than a baby blanket…

Just above the final crest and away
from the fatal consonants
of every lecture delivered like icy proverbs
from enthroned tongues of the allies of
insinuation…

Just there the final step, the last footprint in the
warm mud waiting,
the vagabond, with his heart packed high upon his back,
sees the fire of affection and

Sets his heart upon the brow of the hill that loves
truth more than judgment. And he sits awhile in
the embrace of warm; he drinks awhile in the
pastures out of harm
of the words propelled like daggers from behind.

He still wonders, though, an immigrant in a new land,
why so many “amens” at the words used to
shrink others down to size. Why so many
“hallelujahs” when dangerous barbs quote
scripture, and reduce it all to rules

Only the initiated have never broken. Having spoken
their piece,
they slap each other on the back, have a potluck and
evict the homeless boy sleeping in the shed.

He will never leave this new country, for, in truth and love,
he knows it is his native home.