Might Awaken

Might Awaken

(“In fact, we still feel as if we’re under a death sentence. But we suffered so that we would stop trusting ourselves and learn to trust God, who brings the dead back to life.” 2 Corinthians 1:9)

The air was heavy, no sound would carry,
nor rustle of grass, no buzz of wings;
only broken-throated diesel groans
from tugs up the river. For all we knew,
nothing stirred of the few who showed up
to listen.

Once daylight was warm as a freshly pressed shirt,
muscles keen, eyesight huge, green bright and receptive
to the morning songs. Once seats were filled,
ears were tilted, laughter ran like a room full of toddlers
and everyone had heard our names.

Today was a dark corner, a numb shadow,
a memory that picks names from a hat and
hopes for the luck of the draw. Do I know you?--
for the third time in a row.

Words did not bounce; they barely made it to the wall
and fell spent upon the floor like a preschool attempt at
paper airplane flight. Ideas did not expand, they merely
repeated,
merely repeated,
paused and repeated again; for emphasis.

Some might say the spirit fled, others that the
atmosphere was dead;
some might hear what I heard, and change the dial
to find something worth their while. All along
I knew the day would die. I am sorry my earlier
joys and fancies
have not followed me this far, this lately.

Pretence is the greatest sorrow; mix this lonesome
solitude with a greater solace that better songs,
lyric and guitarists, might awaken the soul tomorrow.

Fabric so Thin

Fabric so Thin

(“Truly I tell you, the tax-gatherers and the prostitutes shall enter the kingdom of heaven ahead of you.” Matthew 21:31b)

Next time let us know what rules you are referencing
before you throw someone out of the game. Meant for
safety,
you were too hasty
in using them for exclusion.

Here I am, scratching my head over
the notices sent, phone calls spent
setting fire to feet and repeating tales
20 years old and crinkled around the edges,
a number that alleges, a word that stretches
fabric so thin we see through the attempt
to fabricate a hobo-sin; exempt from your
own temptations.

Here I watch the triumph band, stomping
lighter boots front of the parade-ground procession;
the torn dresses dance the breeze restitched we play;
the red eyelids speak stone sober day-end’s grace;
the forgotten fly with the beatified,
the tortured cry, now beautified,
the lame skip upon the hilltops
while the blind twirl like toddlers unwatched
hearing better than grownup ears.

Where will I march, come the day that poor
and lonely meet to celebrate down homely street
the rainbow once mere blood-red
that finished the world’s catalogue and
turned it on its edge.

The Wilderness Hard Times

“I took care of you during the wilderness hard times, those years when you had nothing.” Hosea 13:5 (The Message)

Ah, the wilderness, the place where another human soul is days away, either by travel or because of broken relationships. The place where there is scarcely food or drink and where, though depopulated of people, creatures like scorpions, serpents and beasts have made their home. This is the literal wilderness to which God refers. When Israel was in the barest and most barren place, God took care of them.

Coffee at Holly's Corner

Coffee at Holly’s Corner
(“Jesus replied, ‘What is impossible with man is possible with God.’” Luke 18:27)

“A trip would certainly do me good,
along the rails watching winter coast to coast.
Life isn’t too quiet, and the noise needs not abate,
it’s children and friends too far away that have caused
my heart to feel cornered in such a beautiful place.”

She nearly finished her conversation with the customer before me,
nodding “cappuccino 2%” my way. I nodded too, and she took a cup
empty from its stack
and landed it with a question on the counter.

“I shouldn’t feel this way,” she whispered and asked,
tick-tocking between the first customer and me,
“Life is balanced now and the river runs silent,
so why am I
unnerved like lonely, unsure like the last child upon the playground.”

I couldn’t help her, no magic wands can chase the blues,
(it was my snap-diagnosis; it may have been the weather or
a song on the radio, or a latent early morning dream).
I couldn’t help her, no magic words can change the moves
(there are no transplant drugs for geographic upheavals,
loving one place so long and landing new a little).

It might pay to wait, defer the hope,
wait out the winter, visit the kids,
or offer conversation to the barista
who never meant to bend an ear so personal.

For all the children, happy and 80, who played together
on summer swings; it is hard to explain, this tedium that
looks so sad when the birds are a-wing on a late October sky.
But I’ve looked for friends I loved (did you get my call)
before I knew to be blue over no one left to talk to.

Last week two 85 year old school girls giggled about
looking for boys in sixth grade at the Grange.

I couldn’t help her, our brand-new barista,
but the sky turned bright by noon today and rain
was suspended while the editor, artist and daughter
sipped like a family at the front table where the morning shafts
always fell.

Tears and Claims

Tears and Claims

(“Tell Hezekiah that the Great King, the king of Assyria, says this: ‘What kind of backing do you think you have against me?’” Isaiah 36:4b [The Message])

On one side of the road they pass me by in cap and gown,
dissertations glowing on well-laid classic or wove;
on the other side they barely notice me,
stuck in the corner of the switchback as I am.

No one taunts me anymore, (except my own thoughts,
oh that they would stop and let me breathe),
no one taunts me anymore, nor ignores. I am
simply the driftwood that landed on the side of the road
days after the flood receded to go back home.

I crutch in the solitude of my own making,
though I did not choose this isolation;
and limp alone (I walk upright and straight in the
presence of life’s companions)
uncertain the destination.

I heard a 90 year old dying, oh so slowly,
ask for her mother so breathlessly
you might believe she mother was just in the kitchen
bringing cookies and afternoon tea.

I am not alone in my loneliness,
travelers left and right watch the daily traffic,
the world passing us by on both sides of the road.

How can the wife of a husband like me
understand my tears and claims of ennui?
Is she not enough, she must think, and more so
she is; enough and more.

And Lord, oh Lord, how can the path wind in sorrow
with the Joy of the Universe my Companion? How, then,
my faith, my heart, my goals burnt like a mildewed map,
will I find the laughter along the journey again?

Good Company

"Good Company"
(“Jesus clearly did not come to help angels, but he did come to help Abraham’s descendants.” Hebrews 2:16)

I’m no angel and I’ve got a lot of proof,
my robe and wings having been removed
each time I attempted simple perfection,
a soufflé-like servanthood that nearly always fell.

I am happy for Your company, can You tell?
I’m not sure how to express it (though others will tell
me without hesitation the proper posture and sell me
a cd with the instructions.)

I am lonesome without Your company, have You heard?
Perhaps I misaddressed the card once again, requesting service
from another loner like me; with limited time, limited resources
and limited availability.

You are the life of my party, You’re always invited.
Join in any conversation, I mean it, in spite of my tendency
to trap the words and expel them with nuggets of personal knowledge
to show I need You less than I’ve told.

You can bring the angels with you, I enjoy the way they smile
when they look at me (and the rest of my kind). I enjoy the way
they smile at how much help we’ve needed, how little they could do,
and how simply You saved us sinking--I’ll use the old-time word now--
in the mire.

It was Your tears before You faced the terror that make You such good

Company.