Our Clumsy Navigation

Our Clumsy Navigation

 

It is true, we have
finally come to our senses.
So let’s take a strong boat to
the other shore. Let’s not leave even a hint
that we know where we are going.
I don’t know how to sail, but we can let the winds
and current
take us tacking away from the harbor.
There are words we could borrow but no one
would believe then anyway. There are miles to
leave between us and our sorrows. There are
angels in the air, mermaids under the foam,
foghorns flailing at the mists, and mystic rivers
ready for us to cross.
We both know our stories by heart now.
We both know the water lines.
We both can finish the day and then,
by the orange light of the setting sun be lured
like monarch butterflies to the trees, like
salmon up the creek,
like souls aching to be left alone,
like souls seeking a reflection we both can recognize.
None of it makes sense. But that is why we must go.
We have waited, hoped half-hearted for all the signs
to point out our next departure. And we have stood
frozen and agonized by the shore
imploring a certain impartation, a cure for our
clumsy navigation.
Noah built a boat before it rained,
but we are drenched and stained by our own
immobility.
Jesus walked on the water in the storm,
but we have been tossed while only hazy ghosts
teased us like sirens on the shore.
Sensing the time is right, let’s embark this journey,
provided, of course, that we can see the stars
and trust their movement from sea to sky.

Between Simple Lines

Between Simple Lines

(“Blessed is the man who endures temptation, for when he has been approved, he will receive the crown of life, which the Lord promised to those who love him.” James 1:12)

Between simple lines drawn upon
new pages in a denim-covered three ring binder
lie the words left behind by soft graphite,
the misspelled connection between mind
and paper.

Grammar may not matter, punctuation only
dots in the appropriate places,
but I have labored to remember faces that
made my breath sweeter for a moment,
my space occupied by more stories than permitted.

The sadness exposes every hand I tried to hold
but withdrew for fear my company or my geography
would finally wear thin. Many I hoped to begin
but never initiated the conversation; I only invested
in sure things.

Do not turn away in the fog; the breeze will reveal
the sharp shadows by afternoon. Do not forget the
names we played; the hills will inscribe
the poetry we drank like wine. Do not forsake
the cord we twined; the hardships have tried
to unravel our young design.

Could I open a cedar box and smell every day
that lined the sidewalk with crepe myrtle
I might dance when the money runs out,
I might laugh at the nervous cancellations,
and
I would certainly wait on the corner where the
tennis courts began to crack, to see
if the same friend I looked for a half hour before
school
still walked the same way home today.