Violets of Joy

 
Violets of Joy

(“And they came to Jesus and saw the demon-possessed man, the one who had had the legion, sitting there, clothed and in his right mind, and they were afraid.” Mark 5:15)

Once accustomed to the madness that fights
mongrels in the cemetery,
we pass the fences without fear,
walk by at night. It is customary
to tell the children there is no haunting there.
Just an old man with drool in his beard and
toes shaped like rocks from scraping against
the headstones.

But watch the violets of joy emerge from
deep within the healed soul,
hear the voice once screeching like iron
now
quieted as a weaned child
and we have no answer

But to fear what we do not know.

Let the day come easy now,
let the morning open like drops of sunlight,
let the streams whisper background calm.
Let the neighbors stop in wonder
and offer ears to hear the new song
sung from an old man’s throat that
makes the blue jays gather. The melody is
childlike,
the lyric repeatable. Free is a word
that even the townspeople

Need to learn.

There is More

There is More

(“Then Abishai said to David, ‘Today God has handed your enemy over to you. Let me thrust the spear through him into the ground just once. I won’t have to strike him twice!’” 1 Samuel 26:8)

It is true, the belly lies exposed.
His head still as night while the late fire glows.
There is more trauma than you know,
more caves that hide my innocent soul.
You have seen the spear pierce the doorway twice
within inches of my breathless life.
But I will not press my advantage here
before the sorry face that reflects only
stars and flames
here at rest before my feet.

How long does the piercing take before the
sainthood begins?
How long the weary suppression of every
song I love to write?

It is true, my judgments lie exposed.
My words shake like dice thrown for someone’s clothes.
There is more madness than we know,
more kings that chase some innocent soul.
We have seen beyond the inflated price
stuck upon the heads of breathless life.
But if I did press my advantage here
before the hoping eyes that borrow only
stars and sky;
won the day, night the defeat.

How deep does the weeping dig before the
morning is joy?
How far the pebbles in my shoe on every
shore I yearn to see?

And into another afternoon of waiting for
a voice still too far away to identify. Surely You
know
I wait only because
You promised to arrive before my
pain has taken its toll.