So Many Miles from Home

So Many Miles from Home

(“From the end of the earth I call to you when my heart is overwhelmed. Lead me up onto the rock that is higher than I.” Psalm 61:2)

The horizon kept falling away the closer I came to
a new habitation. There were thoughts like mosquitos,
telephone wires draped across my existence,
curio shoppes boarded up since the 60s,
various buttes and razorbacks and gorges
and gray rivers knifing through the red clay
that left everything on hold. I had been here before.
But I could not place the name.
It seemed so far from where I had begun,
and farther still to my destination. I was
not
unlucky. I was not lost.
I was only miles from the end of the earth where
ships used to fall off.
I imagined the night filled with coyote howling,
I felt the warmth the earth still carried. The grass was
cool on my feet,
the dirt was warmer. There is no language here,
no signs to mark the way. I had heard there were
devils
along the road
but no one asked me for directions.
They may have climbed behind the rocks for the night,
they may have set me up for failure.
I don’t believe that, though;
I know my own behavior. Although I may have
welcome an imp or two
just for the conversation.

I stopped not far from where I started
and so my sojourn began. I stayed alone, though
I had not planned it that way.

Across another vast night the icy moon reminded me
that, sooner or later, I would hear a voice,
revamped, renewed,
an original version of
the first of me and the quiet divinity
that speaks to me so many miles from home.

To Answer the Door

 

To Answer the Door

(“The Lord said to Gideon, “The men you have are too many for me to give them victory…They might think that they had won by themselves, and so give me no credit.” Judges 7:2)

Some days I am one, occasionally I am two,
but most days I simply am none.
On holidays maybe two to five;
Most days I have less than I want,
All days I have more than I need.

My doors are unlocked, my phone is not blocked,
why don’t you leave a coffee at my door?
Why don’t I hear your voice the way I did before?
Is my address obscured, have absurd notions about
my mosaic faith made you lose my number?

Did you think I could muscle through this impossible etude,
did you expect me to refuse your offer of lunch or conversation
upon the wandering hills? What exactly have I spilled that makes
you see such a stain modifying me?

I was never the strong one, even when I needed to be.
I was never the rock, the tower, the fascinating power
emitted from ministerial license or prophetic indulgence.
I cried more than I slept; even when friends faced me,
warm words faded, erased by the time they turned around.

By now I’ve learned the routine, I settle into the shadows unseen.
By now I expect nothing, though my heart feels like rain and
a flash flood warning has been issued for the tears in my eyes.

I love you unguarded, but now disheartened,
I sit with the slow-motion collage of letters and words
that spring from my mind unheard by anyone besides
the god who says he has heard it all before. But, if I
hope for anything,
I hope he does not ignore the repeats so incomplete
that track through my days and punctuate my nights.

Some days I have won, most days I have lost,
today I would jump out of my chair and cross the
room to answer the door…to see if anyone is there.

Just for Kicks

Just for Kicks

(“For many are called, but few are chosen.” Matthew 22:14)

I was never a rebel just for kicks,
I was hardly an enlisted maverick.
But, by the time I had been stranded inside the bricks
and mortar of lines to cross and
coughing borders
I was forced to become larger than my story.

(Just between us, the butterflies that ravish the wildflowers
speak more eloquently to me.)

I was living like a ghost and no one saw me.
They saw the pottery I lived in and the tendency to crack.
I answered back but my arguments sounded like fallacy to
those who thought the cocoon was the condominium
we all should live and die in.

I heard you telling me to be fearless;
the judge and jury could not care less.
You have washed the gutters with your tears,
and yes, your heart has melted the listlessness away.

So I sported my fedora,
walked cautiously outdoors
and told the trees and the sky that
this was the last time I would lie
about who I am
and where I belong.

And my heart no longer kicked against the goads
that moved me to ride on donkeys or foals.
I rebuilt the house with the sun piercing every crack,
I re-spoke the words the Son of Man also spoke
and never turned back.

Many Ways to Become Rich

 

Many Ways to Become Rich

(“I know that the Lord maintains the cause of the needy, and executes justice for the poor.” Psalm 140:12)

There are many ways to get rich:
become famous, write a book
(do not sell poetry)
collect the spoils of war
(do not organize for peace).

The hems of my blue jeans were frayed
when I wandered the halls of temporary buildings
in the middle class high school I attended
in navy bells and khaki shirts.
(it is a sorry time when an aging man
must reach back to his teens to find substance for
his literary works.)

I never knew then the stitches that connected
breathing to living,
eating to breathing
and giving to eating
corn soup and simple fry bread
in the corner kitchens where friends waited
the passing of the latest blizzard--clapboard
government housing and those of a certain age
who slept on broom-swept dirt floors.

We rarely spoke of who would pay for the next meal
we shared in common, or the next pizza we tossed on
the table in town. From suburban bars with Italian sausage
to franchises with frisbee logos,
we ordered water if our wallets would not sing.

I had a friend once who frequented the bars. I loved
him (and I think he enjoyed Jesus without the weaknesses
of those who have no flaws). Once we had coffee,
often we prayed, he mowed the church lawn in his
cowboy boots
and on New Year’s Eve
he died
outside
the home where he lived with
handfuls of cousins and uncles. It was sub-zero
and no one found him until the slow northern sun
deceived us into thinking the warmth would revive him
if only we waited a while.

There are many ways to become poor:
sell your soul, increase the volume,
(do not listen outside your door)
exert your privilege
(do not befriend the frightened).

I have too many friends, I need to find more
who cannot wait to share coffee
walking down the frozen pavement.
How can I ignore you any longer,
how can my heart be so cold.

Everybody Wants to Know

Everybody Wants to Know

(“They kept on asking Him. Then He stood up and said, ‘Anyone of you who is without sin can throw the first stone at her.’” John 8:7)

The phone kept on ringing; everyone wanted to know the story.
Some were astounded, some felt he had been hounded, but most
were curiosity seekers with rocks in their pockets.

The letters with official stationery and watermarks kept arriving;
the mailbox was another source of panic attacks. New accusations,
new additions to the charges, new lies about what they said they had
not lied about. Though some were sympathetic, the still all had
rocks in their pockets.

He had failed, caught in the act, coughed between scene changes,
as sick over failure as over spoiled meat. He had wept, he had scored
a job just to keep his head above water. He shivered as he drove to
meet every client, sometimes drying tears before he went inside.

He heard about satan most times he gathered with the same clan
in a different town. He repented so many times he nearly drowned
in his own tears. He had revealed his weakness, sought out help,
and instead he was dismissed out of hand; one of the hands that
fiddled with stones in his pocket.

When men lie to destroy the one who sinned worse than them,
who gets to toss the rocks? When the men hate to make themselves
greater than the one who failed, how many stones will we need?

He heard about hell the rest of the times he gathered with
a similar clan that could not stand Obama. This time he was
done repenting
and showed the power of the poisoned arrows every time they
flew from the mouths of men that had no time for him. He escaped
to fewer trusted places, turned away from every face; the

fight for affection and the fear of unconnected rejection
nearly destroyed his soul. One rip after another left him
the loneliest he had ever been.

But he knew one thing, if not two, he would never carry
rocks in his pockets or spew another man’s sins by
phone or letter, word or sermon; he would not load another
man with a weight heavier than his own shame.