Would You Walk with Me?

Would You Walk with Me?

(“The Son of Man came, and he ate and drank, and you said, ‘Look at this man! He is a glutton and wine drinker, a friend of tax collectors and other outcasts!’” Luke 7:34)

Would you walk with me along the field where the
yellow daffodils form the border between tree lines
and grass? Did you see this day coming, did you wonder
if the rain would last?

Would you come if I invited you to
a table with common food? Would you let me
fill your glass with wine,
would you be happy with spaghetti and a
slice of bread?

I remember how the bougainvillea climbed the
patio sticks holding up the roof and
made it feel like Hawaii when we danced to the
listing moon.

We were too young for alcohol, too old for
musical chairs;
we were testing the boundaries, we were
choosing up couples and pairs on an
early adolescent summer’s eve.
We waited until the night was over to
dance with the one we had danced with
in our heads. We could not believe it when
she said,
“yes.”

I have to admit these days are split between
wishing to have someone who tells me all their wishes,
and sitting alone watching the news on tv.
I’d rather play in the band than practice
a few moves alone before the black and blueness of
the night wrapped it up for us.

The field will still be here in the morning,
the path winding past the cattle and geese,
and I would extend my invitation and wait
on the corner for a chance to speak with you
about the questions along these streets.

Anyone who will tell me their story has
already won my heart,
crossed the path from unknown to spatial
and relieved my discontent.

I’d love your company, but I fear the conversation
that leaves me speechless when you ask me
what I want.

Red Ink on Blue Paper

Red Ink on Blue Paper

It was fate, I have no doubt about it.
There’s not a damn thing I can do,
I’ll never stop loving you.
I could tell you, every day and more,
the well is bottomless, the supply eternal of
the elixir that intoxicates me.

I wondered how many times I will drink of it,
will my thirst ever be assuaged? Or
will this liquid that has transfixed me
keep my feet walking to you. I’ve stammered,
perhaps because there is a place I want to dwell with
room enough only for two.

I’ve seen the surface of you, and I’ve sounded the depths.
And I keep exploring, new, yet, and next. I know I have
layers
I’m still afraid to lay bare. I have words to say, and then
I run away, leaving only vowels behind.
I could write a note, red ink on blue paper,
and leave it where you would find it. And leave it
behind for you to read after
I’ve long since departed.

I’ve held back in too many conversations. I’ve
not asked the questions, I’ve not made the declarations.
But one day, perhaps late before the sun goes down,
I might take your hand,
kneel on the grass,
ask the question you asked me a lifetime ago
(and tremble, not knowing what to say).

Other lives, next life,
and still it is this life.

The same way you adore the sun,
the same way it warms your skin,
is the same way I adore you,
the same way you warm me again.

Living is so lovely now, even if it’s dreams and
imagination. But the pain leaves at
the very thought of you.

The Days Are Short

The Days Are Short

(“He turned the wilderness into pools of water and the desert into flowing springs.” Psalm 107:35)

I wanted to get a head start and send you
the pre-snow breath of autumn. The days are short
for bare feet and wine in the sun.
And though my own hours are divided in
half,
I would share them with you as if we had
a hundred years to spend
listening to streams and frogs playing on the banks.
I would walk the levees, even though my legs give
out so much quicker in this slant-lighted season.
I meet my limit far too soon,
or start far too late in the day. Please
don’t feel you must arrange your schedule around me.
But the sparrows were bathing in
a puddle earlier, the leaves hanging lightly to
their branches as they blush before winter.
I wonder if last year’s leaves are happy as loam,
if the rose petals feed next year’s blooms.

Though pain commands my hours, tells my
bones there are fewer miles I can travel in a day, the
dawn peeks in anyway.
Complaint is not a language that settles well on my tongue.

There is time to build a new earth, though my time fades.
There are reservoirs of mercy though the sun sets early.
The deer eat the remains of the apples in my yard,
the guns half a world away disturb the mountain’s flow.
There are babies fighting for breath, there are elders
forced underground.

The day is punctuated. The percussion becomes harsh.
The rivers flow but are dammed by territorial possession.

And we wait for rain that will wash us clean,
we hope the river will soon drown our sorrows
and
cleanse our inhuman intentions.

Come, let us walk together, holding hands across the
hostile borders.

Once Sweet as Eden

 Once Sweet as Eden

(“So Josiah removed all detestable idols from the entire land…” 2 Chronicles 34:33a)

When you pack your belts with bullets and
conceal your violence with bibles, amendments
and squandered chances to layer the generations
with passionate dance,

The images once sweet as Eden
become blurs of unlucky happenstance.

I will still walk with you,
but leave your fantasies in the yard.
What caliber is your copper
and iron,
what are the shredded shrieks,
the frantic aftermaths
of your crass obeisance to
deafen the voices that cry from the land?

Notice the skyline, the upward arc of grass leaves
and tree branches. Notice the poppies gilding the
untended slopes dotted with occasional daisies.

Don’t forget the warm mud, or the voice of Abel.
The masquerades of oblation and
retreads of weariness have blistered too many
old tires rolling through the desert
on old station wagons between cacti and dunes.
We need to master our AM playlists again,
we need to let the sanity come full circle where
heart, prayer, peace and human touch meet.

When you pack your trunks with lunches and
open your car doors with sandwiches, repentance
will be complete. Every layer of humanity will
find the words

To sing the songs of redemption again.

Grief is Slow

Grief is Slow

(“Jesus said to her, ‘Your brother will rise again.’” John 11:23)

Grief is slow like the summer sludge in desert spring-beds,
grief is fast like yesterday’s clouds,
grief is heavy like muggy midnights,
grief is light like Christmas memories.

But death feels permanent, stiff and dry.
Death smells of the end of a long season
rather than a grand finale.

Death sneaks up on us though we’ve known its name
from the first last breath that did not return.
Death is sudden, a phone call after lunch or
crumbling on a tennis court.

And we look at the dirt, we stare at the sky,
we turn to every compass point, we cross our fingers
and hope that dying is not a forgone conclusion.

Though the seasons spiral around us, they are not the same.
The leaves that fall do not rise but turn to dust while
the branches sleep until spring awakens the sap again.

Traveling sailors return to port, children come home from school,
dogs sniff their way to owners who moved a hundred miles away.
Memories stay like tent pegs, the canvas ballooned by wind.

And yet, though this world is built upon clay--
monuments, palaces, armaments and warriors all decay--

There is more to say than someday. There is more to hear than
questions unanswered. There is more to see than lets the light in,
there is more to hold than our heart’s capacity.

So rise, love and grief, meet together at the moment of hope,
when, in the midnight of despair, behind the backs of everyone there,
life spoke to life like
deep speaks to deep
and gave death its expiration date.
More is here than skin can touch,
but in its touch knows the air is full of
living even after the breath has gone.