To Sculpt Vignettes

To Sculpt Vignettes

(“Listen to me! For I have important things to tell you. Everything I say is right.” Proverbs 8:6)

I looked ahead through the tunnel vision where I hoped
to see a light at the end. It had all been so simple then,
a new day of discoveries or a day trip with friends.
We would ride to Oakland and sit in a coffee shop in
the 70s
where words were spoken from a tiny stage. Where
I first read the early lines of my poetry and sometimes sang
songs I had just written for the girl beside me. We would
drive back home in my best friend’s blue VW bug feeling we
were the luckiest posse alive. We could have studied the
words like the night before a big test. We could have
memorized the verbs that made the evening pass like
an old freight train at night.

I was too nervous to try busking in the park. My skills
were crowded, my fingers careless across the strings.
I did know the songs so well, though, that they came out
of my dreams and into the waking room covered with
psychedelic posters of my favorite bands.

But I sang them nakedly and rarely ventured outside.
I rehearsed them alone wishing my voice could tune
the melody just so. Now I am old and my range has been
shortened by the passing of time. I can barely sing my
rhymes I hoped to retain.

But I could speak. I wanted to sculpt vignettes that
were lit from above. I wanted a better name than just
the sound
of cloudless days. If I am lucky, I’ll write
a piece good enough to stand upon the smallest
stage in the park
and be heard by someone who nearly and only wanted
to be reminded of love a league or two ago. I’ll play
the notes on black and white keys while I recite the words
I hope will make you smile.

I Could Listen All Day

I Could Listen All Day

(“When the king heard the words of the law scroll, he tore his clothes.” 2 Kings 22:11)

The flock of geese flew overhead sounding
like children on a playground. The fog had turned
to rain and
they felt closer than ever, flying under the
misty domed sky.

Don’t stop browsing these pages, they are never
exactly the same. Never assume you know the
answers because the question will be different each time.
The cattle lying in the rain-soaked field are
commentators of the scripts we read.

Once around the neighborhood,
skirting the road where new developments form,
there is a cemetery just north of the edge
of the mudded field where you can see the river from its
its gentle hill. There is little boredom when the
river punctuates the occasional verses testing the
waters,
testing the distance to the end of the day.

Though the sun is not shining there are rays
that pierce the heart even on the most clouded elevations.
There are voices reciting lyrics and faces leading
the band. I’ve heard them before, but today they
sound new, like a baby’s first words: colors, books,
up and down, mom and dad. I know thousands more
but the babble of babies is its own interpretation. I could
listen all day.

I’ll Listen Closer

I’ll Listen Closer

(“He makes sure that orphans and widows are treated fairly; he loves the foreigners who live with our people, and gives them food and clothes.” Deuteronomy 10:18)

There are signboards on the corner
that write off every unrecognizable name.
But every name has a mother, every appellation
a definition. Every pair of eyes sees the
spectrum,
every mouth speaks its native tongue.

I’ll speak slower if I’m hard to understand,
I’ll listen closer if your words are sifted through the colander.
I love the unknown rhythm your words make when
you punctuate your sentences with a countryman.
You smiled when you showed me the videos you
made with your newest drone.
Your wife interpreted for me that, yes, you could
fix the problem with my MG.
I tried to pay you, I did. You laughed and I
think you said
it was nothing. But it was more than that and
you deserved even more than I offered.

You tinkered like a magician,
you laughed like a penguin,
you talked like we were brothers,
you sang without knowing the words.
I believed you like a clergyman,
I smiled like an old friend,
I talked like we were comrades,
I sang without knowing the words.

Now I’m older, but not by much,
and you are just the same.
Our languages are mixed,
our friendship exists despite the
placards that try to send you home.

Like an Autoharp

Like an Autoharp

(“My sheep listen to my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.” John 10:27)

It never occurred to me, but I’m sure it happened,
someone recognized the riffs I had written so long ago.
So I recorded an alternate version. Disguised my voice.
Detuned my guitar. Hammered the piano strings like an
autoharp. I dreamed
I was Bob Dylan. I thought I could compose something
like pinball percussion. I tamper with the tempo too often.
I staged a guitar circle like it was 1973.

My lyrics stood the test of time, but rhyming was not my thing.
I sat down to write and rose up to play. And nothing new was
created. My mind runs on synthesized loops, my mind runs
in circles. My mind collects bracelets and trinkets and
turns them into idols.

I hear another voice, in the sky, in the earth, in my flesh,
in cricket clicks and blue jay calls-and-response. If I
ever find a way,
I’ll repay those anonymous composers with a cover
of the song
the Shepherd sings.
I’ll recognize the patterns I have heard all along.

My verses swerve from angel-hair skies to red
eyed
monsters in the night. My themes were never good
enough
for jazz. My fingers swell with age and forget
fretboard playfulness. I’ll try again,
listening to the wind,
remembering the way we used to change keys
in the middle of a measure. 

The Medicine You Need

 

The Medicine You Need

 

(“Because of what Christ has done, you believe in God. It was God who raised him from the dead. And it was God who gave him glory. So your faith and hope are in God.” 1 Peter 1:21)

 

Remember when you were argumentative and
missed the train and late?
Trains run on tracks but do not always run on time.

What if the medicine you need is buried deep below the earth,
What if the healing you crave is carried on the clouds?

 

Remember when you were so dangerous and
missed the point and weight?
Spikes finish spears but do not always find their mark.
What if the righteousness you need is as plain as ocean and sky,
What if the goodness you thirst is coded in the doubts?

 

Do you listen to the two-year-olds squeal and laugh,
Do you notice how they think puppies are funny?
Do you see their eyes wide and dark; a new face,
an unknown label for the color green, and knees that bend
every second; the tiny hopping child.

 

Who will come to the lap of glory,
who will sit where toddlers play,
who will arrive so early that they are soaked
by the rain before the sun beings?
Who will plant the poppies and daffodils,
who will tread the path to where joy begins?

 

Remember when life was so casual and
turned the eye and mind?
Sights seduced scenes that played across your thoughts in dreams.
What if the mercy you’ve missed is waiting on the edge of thought,
what if the favor, the bliss, awaits away from the crowds?

These Days I Rarely Understand

These Days I Rarely Understand

(“All scripture is inspired by God...so that everyone who belongs to God may be proficient, equipped for every good work. 2 Timothy 3:16-17)

These days I never understand a word you say,
while everyone else prophesies about dead end days.
How many days on the calendar,
how many decades in the rear-view mirror,
how many centuries of waiting in caves,
how many isolated on mountain peaks with
their stashes of canned goods and guns?

These days I never understand a word you say,
while everyone else preaches about conspiracy certainty.
How many people does it take
to keep a secret from the rest of us?
You swear everything you see with your eyes
is invented by newscasters and forecasters of death.
But everything you find in your head,
or is invisibly said by unmasked hatred
you swallow like chocolate cake.

These days I never understand a word you say,
while everyone divides the garments of the poor
and casts lots for the leftovers to carpet their bedroom floors.
How many lungs without breath
until you put on your boots and join the rest
who cannot stand for one more chokehold in the name of
law.
Remove the blindfold to see what is in front of you,
and sell all you have to join the hidden,
and tell how long it took to find the forbidden words
that set the prisoners free. Don’t speak of equality
until you can imagine traffic that accelerates the moment
you become a pedestrian. Watch the crosswalk son.

These days I rarely understand a word you say;
but love. I’ll scrape my knees for love,
cross the street for love,
eat what you eat for love,
take the heat for love.

I remember every face that said Christ was a white man’s
religion,
and when I tried to convince them otherwise.
Today I would listen. I don’t know how, but he has become whiter
in this stolen land haunted by its ancestors who knew grandfather better
than we think we know his son.

Please dream with me about undivided skies,
plains that grant us bread,
rains that soften our beards and faces,
and streets that bear the names of original blessing instead
of original sin.

Listen with me and let us understand (grandfather, son and holy ghost)
if we will not love, we have not listened. And if we have not listened,
we have not understood.

I Will Listen for the Streams

I Will Listen for the Streams

(“They will not be hungry or thirsty. The burning heat of the sun will not trouble them. For He Who has loving-pity on them will lead them. He will lead them to wells of water.” Isaiah 49:10)

I think I might do my best trying to find God
as a monk in the wilderness,
a hermit for half an hour among the sand
and spiders without a page to read,
without a pencil to write,
just the hard floor the sun baked,
and a stick to etch meditations on the earth.

I think I might be happy for half a day
sitting by the dock of the bay,
no tunes in my pocket,
no guitar in my lap,
just the squeak of dolphins playing
while waves clapped against the pilings.

I think I could construct something simple in the forest

given wet mud and pine needles
and a survival expert as well.
Without a tent or a cookstove I know
I would starve before the sun was one quarter done.
But I’d still watch the blue jays play
and the fawns leaping after their mothers.

I know I’ve seen the face of eternity in my best friend,
in the toddler whose laugh fills the room,
in the longest hug I’ve ever received that felt like Jesus
was squeezing all the hurt out of me.
I know I’ve seen the king in the face of children swinging
at recess. I know I hugged creation when
I greeted my friend in rehab,
and when I hugged him after he failed.
And when those who knew all about me
kissed my cheek like a prince. I winced before
and after, but still saw the sun brighter that day.

The suburbs seem so much farther from imagination,
my meditations do not fit the square corners of intersections
and property lines.
But the same love dwells in this silent weekday afternoon
as does in the constellations, the red sand, the wild waves,
and all the affections that have led me to this place.

I will listen for the streams.

Listening and Living Well

Listening and Living Well

“Live in me, and I will live in you. A branch cannot produce any fruit by itself. It has to stay attached to the vine. In the same way, you cannot produce fruit unless you live in me.” John 15:4

The news has been overwhelming in the past several weeks. One after another, women have come forward with their stories of sexual assault and harassment in the workplace. Actions that once took place in the shadows are coming to light. As each new victim shares her account it has empowered even more to open up about their experiences as well.

Some of the accused have denied any wrongdoing. At least one released a thoughtful, though perhaps incomplete, apology. Others have used phrases like “if I have offended…”. Many brave women have spoken up, and their stories deserve to be heard.

As followers of Jesus, we are interested in truth. Jesus told us that He is the way, the truth and the life. We are also interested in valuing every person’s life; their humanity, their dignity and their worth. We must never dismiss the story of a victim or make excuses for the perpetrator.

As I’ve read and listened to the stories of many of these women I’ve wondered how well we do as the church in treating women as Jesus did. I also wonder if our structures enhance the role of women or hold them back, if our policies celebrate them or limit them.

Four women have accused a senatorial candidate of sexual abuse at a time when he was in his 30s and they were teenagers. All of the incidents took place about 30 years ago and the girls ranged from 14 to 16 years old. Without getting into the politics, there was one poll that shocked me. A JMC analytics poll found that 37 percent of evangelicals surveyed in that state said the allegations make them more likely to vote for the GOP Senate candidate in the upcoming election.

Jesus honored and elevated women. The church should follow His lead. There is a story about Jesus having dinner with a religious leader. This man would have been among the conservatives of his time, and probably wanted to test Jesus. In those days, when there was an important guest at dinner, people would sometimes stand outside, watching the discussion and meal.

In this case, a prostitute was among those watching. Called a “sinner”, this woman enters the house and walks directly to Jesus. Kneeling at his feet, she empties a bottle of perfume on them, crying and washing his feet with her tears. She then dries his feet with her hair, kissing them over and over again, pouring more perfume on them.

Simon, the religious leader, is deeply offended. “If this man was really a prophet, he would know what type of woman is touching him. She’s a sinner!”

There is another story that is very similar. This time the disciples are offended because the perfume is so expensive, saying the it could have been sold and the money given to the poor. Jesus tells them, “She has anointed my body for burial.”

Mary, the sister of Martha, sits at Jesus’ feet when he comes to visit them in their home. Martha is doing what is expected of women at the time; preparing the meal. Mary breaks out of the presumptive role and takes her place sitting before Jesus…as a disciple. This was unheard of in Jesus’ time. But when Martha complains that Mary is not helping in the kitchen, Jesus says Mary has chosen the “better” part.

Jesus met with an outcast woman, a Samaritan, alone at a well. Men and women were never to meet alone in that society. But, not only did he meet with her, he had one of the most theologically deep conversations recorded in the Gospels. He then sent her back into town to tell everyone about Him.

The very first to discover Jesus had risen from the dead were women, and they were the first to announce it to the male disciples. All of these things happened in a highly patriarchal society. Jesus broke the “norms” because all people deserve respect, dignity and the opportunity to pursue their God-given dreams.

So, let’s listen, and listen well. And, let’s listen like Jesus. Jesus said, “Live in me, and I will live in you.” Life is not produced by letting society squeeze us into its mold. Life is not produced by playing politics over truth. Life is produced as we all seek to keep our connection with Jesus Himself strong and unfettered. Then we will be a healing people. We will respect people, not take advantage of them. We will truly listen to peoples’ stories. And we will fully empower men and women toward their full potential.

Imagine Falling

Imagine Falling

(“Then Moses and the Levite religious leaders said to all Israel, ‘Be quiet and listen, O Israel! This day you have become the people of the Lord your God.’” Deuteronomy 27:9)

Imagine falling weightless in a slow spin into
a wide well that has no end;
bottomless and you find you have no more
need for air.

The silent liquid surrounds your every bend
and every wrinkle. Like a dream floating far above
the landscape below guided by the movement of the air,
your mass and the liquid’s are equal.

Imagine you fall without fear or reflex, bathed by
the warmth more solid than your usual air.
Each and every pore is filled, the entire scan of your skin;
more visible than air, your eyes do not burn. Every strand of hair
waves the slow tempo, the legato arc that, for this
imagined time
denies gravity’s demands, forgets calendar commands
while safely framed by beauty’s fantasy.

Imagine you stay much longer than you intended; an hour,
an evening, a day; and you recall the water (though it was not
water at all), now seemed like millions of molecules held together
by little more than a handshake. And the longer you stayed, the more
you sensed,
the liquid, the well, your skin were less foreign than you knew.

When we imagine that which is true, there is no other expectation
than that which we’ve known from the beginning. The Water
giving life and nourishing; the Joy stronger than death and
drenching our stubborn souls completely covered in Love.

Greet my Dear Friend

Greet my Dear Friend

(“Greet Ampliatus my dear friend in the service of the Lord.” Roman 16:8)

Sit with me, tell me of your travels, make me hear the scattered
play of the grandchildren outside the window. Visit me, though my
socks are scatter around my chair,
yesterday’s clothes lie on the floor nearby. I sleep on the couch
these days,
a concession to day’s pain and night’s shallow dreams that wake me
to feel day’s pain far too early in the morning.

Be a large friend to me; not tall, not broad, but someone whose presence
is unmistakeable. Male: let it be the depth of your thinking, the valley filled
with silence in which I can spill my aching opinions and hear the echo.

Female: let it be the spring aroma in the winter’s depth. The words that
play at my wit, sip the air if you see me twinge, and understand my tears.

Brother: do not rearrange my feelings for your own comfort. Recently
God dangled a happy offering like a carrot, and reeled it in: He and I
both know the insane pain the crawls through my skin. I would spend
a week at the job I had dreamed of and go home early within the next;
headache’s cannonball level me upon the battleground. If I am angry;
if my face is blank, do not draw your happy face upon it. Let it
find its place as God and I struggle one more time over His
curious mystery.

Sister: when you see my depression-dropping-like-angry-rain,
please do not restrain your comfort. My face is red, I’m slapping
myself instead of any face closer. And, I am far too afraid to raise a
hand to God! Use your voice, invented, I am sure, for the cure of
comfort. Speak with the intonation of lullabies and wedding vows;
quickly tell me you wish the pain was gone. And do not leave before
you tell me that I must sleep: “You must sleep”. And do not leave
until the covers are pulled neatly under my chin.

I need a friend. I’ve made dozens. But wind and roads have scattered us;
a tiny minority have left the team in anger. But mostly I’m a hermit now,
locked up by three gatekeepers: Fear, Depression and Pain.

They have done their job well; so if you are an angel and have
an earthquake in your pocket, the doors are locked, but you are welcome
to open them.

Family Business

Family Business

(“Men made it very hard for Him and caused Him to suffer, yet He did not open His mouth. He was taken like a lamb to be put to death. A sheep does not make a sound while its wool is cut and He did not open His mouth.” Isaiah 53:7)

You who call for the end of all things,
nuclear conflagrations and conspiratorial
elections,
how smart you have become in your invested opinions,
claiming blue jays are hawks without reservation,
decrying marriage as just another contract with paper and ink.

How great our brains have grown to act as if what we know now
we have already known and leave God out of the question,
or question whether knowing Him is part of the question at all.

And you who call for Christ to return,
as if your aches and pains are the scheme behind all things,
though we all sympathize, (who wouldn't want a home where
eyes never go bad, the paper is on the porch, and health insurance
is affordable). But my limp falls far short of filling up the lack

in Christ's sufferings, if there is any lack at all.

And you who ache for the first wake of the final seven years
that the book series insisted would Leave Behind mostly the left
because they don't go to church, or when they do, the inhabit those
demonic denominations
who sometimes actually find an open mouth to feed. Do you want
the end
simply because your favorites are out of power?

I do not exaggerate, look not for hyperbole, I shudder when I
sense the Silent Lamb so mistreated, the Unblushing Love of
all
leaving word and protest on the floor like the greasy cleanup
of a short-order store. I weep that I do not see it well enough.
I shiver at stone churches, big screen projections, tight harmonies,
bright fantasies that stir up dust but stare at the the ones who
traipsed the mud into their house with their unfashionable boots.
Is it too late for anyone to remember?
Are we too far, too american, too rich, too accepted,
so high and holy that no one can see the vague resemblance
we once had to our Elder Quiet Brother?

Don't say He was harsh with the fakeries, unless you,
fakery of His family, agree you need His words strictly
for your own unfinished family business.

Winter Clothing

Winter Clothing

(“He is the one mentioned by the prophet Isaiah, ‘The voice of one, shouting in the desert, Make ready the way of the Lord; straighten His paths!’” Matthew 3:3)

I put my gray sweats on into the heavy morning,
air a slight drip, breath a damp hello on
toward the breakfast-view of the river
from the backside of the one block downtown
restaurant.

It may have been too early, I may have been too slow,
words were like the careful boats who heard the foghorn
repeating the same warning before the island split the channel;
deep north and sandbar south.

We may be hard of hearing, we may be easy talkers,
we may want to say it clearly but the waters drown
the spoken ink we fell asleep knowing.

My coat is cow’s leather, not camel brush;
my breakfast Belgian waffles, never locusts
(but I do eat honey)
and I’d like the road ready, the single block I walk
downtown sometimes early, prepared and ready
for better hearing and quicker feet
to follow, fog or not (and trade my learning for
love’s experiment, a t-shirt and sneakers on the ground.)

I put my gray sweats on, my winter clothing
while the adolescent boy I met was short sleeve
white and jeans. One sentence was a door open from the inside

And the rest of our talk (other men and our inventions)
we tried to open with good intentions. Our words are
stuck, our love perhaps not, but we need practice
to cure the bends from spirit to sound, heart to hello
before we goodbye next time we meet.

Keep Listening

God’s Message; “Guard my common good: Do what’s right and do it in a right way. For salvation is just around the corner, my setting-things-straight is about to go into action… Make sure no outsider who now follows God ever has occasion to say, ‘God put me in second-class. I don’t really belong.” Isaiah 56:1, 3a

Why do people classify themselves as “conservative” and “liberal”? It seems these labels cause divisions more often than they define anything. And, do these labels help our spiritual life at all? Here God says that we should be careful to guard the common good; doing what’s right and doing it in the right way.