Instead, I Sat on Porches

Instead, I Sat on Porches

(“The owner of the vineyard said, ‘What will I do now? I will send my son whom I love. Maybe they will respect him.’” Luke 20:13)

We are marvelous manufacturers
turning poison into water and water into poison.
We mistake dust for gold, and gold for panna cotta
eaten by the masses.
When someone lies, we don’t care as long as it fits the
story we’ve told. We want to be owners of the fields,
the proclamations, the minds and fascinations others must
never conceive.
How could anyone believe such insanity as
the silent discovery that our encased brains do not hold
the libraries of the world. They do not contain the languages
of ages. They are not filled with altruism. And if the peg does
not fit in the hole
we will whittle it into shape and call it our own.

I was waiting for the train to take me around the world,
to carry me backwards to where my soul first lived, where
my legs moved effortlessly, and my eyes were clear. I waited
on the platform to circle the earth, to slalom between the clouds,
to fall like rain on the manicured roses and wild daisies below.
The ticket was free.
It was given to me. And I could think of no other journey I
wanted to make that day. Though I envisioned heaven, we began
in Nashville, north to Cincinnati, and on to the Bronx where
I still waited for cirrus and cumulus to take me in. Instead, I
sat on porches. I heard about the rationing of rubber, the lines
for bread, the unsaid memories that were time machines for the asking.

The wrinkled faces broke my agendas. The thinning golden-brown skin
worn by sun and smiles stirred me like the lake just before the rains come in.
I did meet one University President, a nice enough fellow. But he was ready
to refute my position before he knew what my position might be.
And I shared sandwiches with a hermit convinced he knew the weather on
each day for the past millennium.

We, with untethered minds, assumed we were the gravity that pulled all
the truth of the universe so
carefully toward us that no one could disagree. And the
clouds still gathered. The hungry still waited. And the handful watched
to greet love in whatever form it arrived.

I've Seen Trouble

  

I’ve Seen Trouble

(“Don’t let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust also in me.” John 14:1)

I’ve seen trouble and so have you,
we have lived on the outside while the pots boiled
within.

I’ve wondered who will pay attention and so have you,
we have felt the pinch of a thousand wordless letters
from friends.

Sanity seemed a cross-country dream,
we have held on by a thread.
Tears were our food and drink while
others just shook their heads

And told us we were not strong enough.
I believed them and so have you,
we have fought and lost against their vain
demands.
I’ve seen clear days and so have you,
we smelled the meadow aroma after yester-
day’s rain.

Clearly the sun dried petals and blooms,
we have walked in the margins.
With one foot in the storm and one in the sun
others doubted our battles

And told us we weren’t right in the head.

I’ve found solace and so have you,
we have answered the small voice that is bigger than
our fears.
I’ve wondered why God pays attention and so have you,
we have felt the gaze of a closeup love that never dis-
appears.

Against the Law

Against the Law

(“But the tax collector stood at a distance. He wouldn’t even lift his eyes to look toward heaven. Rather, he struck his chest and said, ‘God, show mercy to me, a sinner.’” Luke 18:13)

He lived his life carefully, keeping prayerfully
between the white lines. Although he was known
to speed on occasion. Stop signs were a reason
to step on the gas
and watch how fast
he could leave the others behind.

But still, he was on a mission, an important calling,
a committee of certainty to discuss the downfall of
the nation. He carried his credentials in the glove compartment
in case he was ever stopped and asked
to slow down.

He had learned his lessons well, raised on good manners,
flagstaffs and potato salad. From alcohol to etiquette,
he knew what to forbid and what to accept. The
Fourth of july was nearly as sacred as
Lent.

It was no wonder that the person only caught his eye,
a jacket or a blanket draped over a figure kneeling
on the shoulder. There was no time to stop, nor to
even notice, how the gravel tore into the figure’s knees,
how the blanket became a shawl, how the figure had a voice,
a voice so scratched with time and loss, it sounded like
a 78 rpm record found in the attic. He had no time to
hear it, and besides, he would have to cross the median
which was--certainly the figure knew--which was
against the law.

And like every other mission, he took his seat
around the table
just in time.