Stuck on the Floor

Stuck on the Floor

(“I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also who is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite.” Isaiah 57:15b) \

i would do anything to ease your pain,
to sit with you while you struggle to breathe.
I would not utter a word, because each syllable would be
an
intrusion into your grief.
I know there is nothing than can ease your pain. 

How do we lose someone precious,
where do we take our sorrow?
Where can we find the end of our heartache
when the end of a beloved comes too soon? 

What if we could have prevented it, what if
we asked him to stay longer so the intersection
where he met the t-boning truck was free and clear?
What if, what if, what if, we had prayed harder? 

We never pray hard enough, do we?
We beg heaven after the events, but sound like
silk on the days before. Is God that angry;
did God take away the apple of my eye
because I found faith to flee too often? 

Did he look both ways, did he have a lapse in judgment?
Did I rush him out the door, did I call him home too soon?
I cannot breathe, the air is lead. I cannot bear
to see another face when mine is crushed and
wrinkled. Everything that is wrong in the world has
landed on me and I fear I may never breathe the same again. 

Don’t tell me God is with me now. Don’t tell me God
works
in mysterious ways. I am subtracted, I am absent,
I am divided from myself, I am stuck on the floor and
wanting to be alone for days and days.
It is all too new for your Scriptures and your prayers. 

  It is all too new.

I Belong

I Belong

(“It is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me. This life that I live now, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave his life for me.” Galatians 2:20)

I spent too many hours drowsy like
a wintertime bear. I waited for a knock on the door
or someone to pour me another cup of coffee.
I could have seen the hills where frozen fog had
decorated them like buttercream frosting. As the
day went on they melted like a cat licking cake.

My failures had piled up higher than I could reach;
my hallway narrowed in my sleep until I only saw
right and left directly in front of me.
I try to remember my dreams, but I fall back asleep
and they are gone.

I try to understand the words I’ve heard every day,
and they swirl past me like the mists that the haze laid
across the rolling field. I don’t ask for pity,
I never ask for money,
I only want to know I’ll make it through the
next decade older than I have become.

Haply, though, the chances were in my favor,
the changes like dusky diamonds on the road
were within the very breaths of my sighs and indignation.
I regretted more than I had forgotten
and ached more than the storms had gotten out of control.
I gave up and when I did

The mountains did not fall, the sidewalk did not trip,
the ice did not make me slip, the time took me no time at all;
I listened to your voice, and for once I knew
all I had been through
led me here. Where else could it have been.

My days begin and no longer wait for a mysterious guest.
Instead I find, more than bread, more than wine,
the wilds inside that lead me like adventure down the
wider halls of wonder. I do not mind the wandering
as much,
for I am no longer lost, though often alone. I am full though
hollow as ever. I belong, from Spring to September, to the
saints who sang uncanny music in my ears.

I Am No Longer Parallel

I Am No Longer Parallel

(“This is why he can completely save those who are approaching God through him, because he always lives to speak with God for them.” Hebrews 7:25)

I’ll outwait the heat wave,
I’ll watch for the message that comes straight from your hand.
I’ll hear little that makes me understand these days,
the way the world teeters and totters these days.
I’ll send you my words on the page so there can
be no mistake about what I am trying to say.
I’ll circle the wagons,
I’ll circle the tags and pricelists until we come
to an agreement. All answers will be in the
range of the standard deviation.

I use my poetry to hide my intent.
I write these verses to disguise the signals I sent.
I read your messages and have to fill in the blanks.
My words are the words between your sentences, even
though
we both lose a little meaning this way.
I’ve uncovered my heart, please let me see yours.
I’m missing a few crucial ingredients to finish the
recipe I hoped would satisfy me completely. I’m not entirely sure
what it is I am hungry for.

I used to know how to pray, or at least the words to say
kneeling under a pew that would include tears I held in
before mere mortals. I used to know the escape routes,
the roads that took me insanely close to the edges of my mind.

Now I want to say it all without metaphor. I want to say
I think I never knew anything I once believed. Will that
still save me? Will that make the dying delayed? I do not
mean to frighten you with my words. That is why I use
simile and parable. But here it is: I am no longer parallel,
I’m at odds with myself and I have no idea the destination
at the end of the day. Perhaps I’ll keep on writing until I
run out of words to say.

They Are Not Lost

 

They Are Not Lost

(“He did not do many powerful works there because they did not put their trust in Him.” Matthew 13:58)

They are not lost, we have not hidden them;
they are mostly found unbidden within our perceptions.
And so the sun rises, and so the clouds spread their quilt
across the sky.
And so the trail narrows, and so the half-souls have
tried to understand the switchbacks you’ve taken
to arrive outside their bubbled cities and towns.

Do you see mercy in every ray of light, and the dance of grace
in the dust it brightens? Does the thunder and lightning
remind you of magnetic love that still is writing the
sacred sonnets, the divine poetry of the sky?

No longer beg, no longer moan, no longer be ashamed
of the sadness you’ve postponed because tears have run dry.
There are melodies inspired only by you,
there are lyrics with your name behind every puzzling line,
there are trees where you sat as a child,
there are bluejays to remind you of foothill
excursions to play in the snow.

There is something that lurks behind today’s silence,
there is a mother’s son that cries when you cannot,
there is a spirit that fills the void and the density,
there is a parent that fashions it all.

There is only the miraculous,
or there is not.