Oh, Never Mind

 Oh, Never Mind

(“If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand?” Psalm 130:3)

Until the final word has been sung,
until the final syllable rolls of your tongue,
there will be little to write until the listening is done.

I etched every mistake like a stylus into clay;
I memorized them; I kept them in a diary high
on the shelf hoping no one would find them, no one
would redefine them, and, at the end of the day
someone would right them to banish my pretense.

Although I wrote them, they were meant only for me,
but somehow, they were released into the ether where
daylight caught them on the fly. They had been only intended
to come out at night when fewer eyes kept watch.

They were a record of my illnesses, the symptoms well defined.
They were a mirror of my inconveniences, a probe into…

Trying to describe it here after all these years may sound
like a metal spoon pounding a kettle to coax get the tea to come out.
But what I think I hoped was that someone would read it all,
and, without excusing at at all, would absolve me of everything
written or forgotten,
and treat me like the whole thing had been a farce,
like the words had never existed,
like the story was far more nuanced than the
ledger I kept them in.

the eternal eyes removed all doubt and looked away
without a single glance at my exact notions. The
party started hours ago, and I thought I was disinvited.
Until someone whispered that the party was for me.

Nothing Came to Mind

Nothing Came to Mind

(“My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch with me.” Matthew 26:38)

Who are we in the darkened garden when
the greens are black and gray? Do we know the way
to the secret place, here well outside of the day?

Where are we when the sun has gone down and
the last hymn sung? Do we remember
the tunes in dusky doldrums when unknown footsteps
break the spell?

I could have been someone,
but so could have anyone.

Wouldn’t you rather find a place atop a hill
to peer past all the dust kicked up by power plays
and statements sealed with “scout’s honor”? We both
know it is true,
that half a promise is no promise at all.

How can the weight be so heavy when gravity is so weak,
how can tears flow when, for all we know, we had it all
figured out?

I would be baptized again if it would change anything,
but something tells me more ritual is not required.

How can our eyes be so heavy? The wine? The meal?
The daily grind that brought us here? The sudden quiet of
a garden; olive and loam? If there is a silent power that
moves the universe, we should have rehearsed our part,
we should have stayed awake, we should have lasted longer
into the third verse.

I should have said something,
but nothing came to mind.

Call Me with Coffee

 Call Me with Coffee

(“For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.” 1 Corinthians 13:12)

Today light was handed me through a clouded sky,
and so my confidence lies partly awakened
and partly shaken;
life is like that.

Egos are like that.
A flash in the night, a comet out of gas,
a star you saw yesterday hides behind
a hundred moons.

I’ve given up my toys, but not my play.
I’ve given up my chums, but not my friends.
I’ve given up my pretensions, but not my dreams.
I’ve given up the timeouts, but not my curiosity.

Today was wet like yellow raincoats,
and so my letters melt slowly on the pavement,
partly faded.
Memories are like that.

Today is like that.
A wish for the past, a vision that did not last,
a story, a song, a friend beyond arm’s reach
and a hundred years long.

I’ve given up award shows, but not my creations.
I’ve given up tattling, but not truth-telling.
I’ve given up flattery, but not greeting cards.
I’ve given up standing in line, but not patience.

Today could be like that.
I have not disappeared at all. I live within
the chemical flashes of your brain. But your
voice is hidden from me,
and your warmth escaped like the first frost of autumn.
Some fences are like that.

I would have kept you in my field of vision,
I would have revised my strategy until you knew
there were no reasons for walls or silence
or u-turns of offense. Only friends who, like the
molecules of water,
sometimes are drunk from cups and
sometimes empty into the sea.
Today is like that; today, if you think it,
call me with coffee on your mind.

Shuttered My Mind

 

Shuttered My Mind

I have shuttered my mind from the mad fire

that torches the fraying ropes of contentment.
And I am not perfect yet; in fact,
I am so far from it I cannot find it on the map.

The connections wave in the air, sailors away to other duties,
while, landbound, turbulence wakes me every hour and
leaves my mind riddled with fallen leaves, broken branches
and shattered jars that once held messages from across the ocean.

I have lost heart in the desert
while panic attacked in the jungle.
I have lied to keep my name intact,
I lied to keep yours gilded.

The sun is shining today, the shadow of naked branches
are painted on my neighbor’s house. I peeked
between the shutters
and hoped the shadows would flee and leave me
ready to sing again

On buttes with native flutes in the background.

Every time I have danced, though,
every word I ever sang,
the next day my windows exploded,
my mind reloaded every action that proved
I needed to board it all up again.

The air does not speak, nor does the sun hug
the locks and granite traces away. A voice, though,
could add a tiny space to let one ray leak through
this untitled soul the sits alone.

It's Easy to Get Lost

It’s Easy to Get Lost

(“Christ says ‘Yes’ to all of God’s promises. That’s why we have Christ to say ‘Amen’ for us to the glory of God.” 2 Corinthians 1:20)

It’s easy to get lost when you let your mind wander
where the forest obscures the horizon. The jazz station
plays with time signatures all day long.

You might start at the entrance, a graveled parking lot
with a semi-cab at one end and an suv at the other;
one of their radios is gurgling the blues.
It might make you wonder why the middle of the day
is denser than the beginning.

You follow the arcing trail, a wide white sidewalk
with bemudded bicycle tracks left over from yesterday
afternoon. All too soon the earth is wet as you
merge with the trees, bluebonnets and sparrows.

You take a breath, reminding yourself you missed half
the view; your mind had narrowed, enclosed all the
thoughts from the previous year as they bounded about
your brain
like clothing in the washing machine. Like
tennis shoes in the dryer.

Mindful of the static that buzzed across your consciousness,
you choose the mud and rocks instead, the sky graying
overhead,
and a lone butterfly gliding toward
the sunflower garden that has not bloomed yet
this season. (It was likely an angel, you felt the
magic of its wings.)

A mere quarter-hour in and you’ve lost the beginning,
which you don’t mind,
you’ve been here before; will visit again. There
are some days that even a best friend would
be an intrusion.

Another five minutes and you’ve lost the ending.

You know where the pond is, but you have lost your bearings;
halfway around it and you would be nearing the beginning.
But overclouded by trees the trail is foggy green, winding through
cones and around the cacti hidden like silver
deep in the grass.

The sun is out, but it is obscure. The wind is light, and will not
expire until the moon and stars drip dew upon the meadow again.
You had nowhere to go, and with no thoughts in your mind
you unwind the clock that clanked away each minute you wasted.

You had thought for nearly all your life that places like this
were perfect for prayer. But duty always beckoned before you
set one foot upon the sod.

This time you’re lost and exactly where you are supposed to be.

More Daffodils

More Daffodils

I wish the words could explode off the page in
an effort to explain
the blast furnace of pain
that eats at my ease within each
wavelength of my being.

A friend once asked me, after reading
my poetry,
“But where”, he said, “are the flowers and the birds?”
(and that was before the onset of fire-blades to my brain.)

Hidden deep in the suburbs, my walks are a chore;
living next to the mountains, I still saw less than more,
and the daffodils lasted only until the
next nervous tic in my mindless rearview mirror.

What I’m trying to say, to make plain,
is that these words are the tip of what is submerged
in sad electrical impulses that have lassoed even the
most lofty refrains of cathedral hymns.

Sunshine does me good until I go inside,
beaches make me happy until the door is closed.
It seems I’m predisposed to a setpoint I have not chosen.

And yet, I’m chosen and loved (human and divine).
But it seldom changes the flow of muddy ink that
paints me into these corners. I am pursued, not the
pursuer. There is love nipping at my heels.

But I’m boxed in, cowering and chilled, inside
dreams and visions I do not choose. A best friend
retreating, the better hopes receding behind the
vacancy hollowed by blackness and pain.

I would offer more daffodils if they would buy a longer smile,
more poetry if it would paint it all so clearly that

No one would offer solutions, pray my absolution,
ignore me, abhor me, but would
stand up for me when I said,

“I wish there were more flowers and birds
on my page than there are in my mind.”

Say the Intimacies

Say the Intimacies

(“You must pray at all times as the Holy Spirit leads you to pray. Pray for the things that are needed. You must watch and keep on praying. Remember to pray for all Christians.” Ephesians 6:18)

Once a thought in the mind of God,S
then a word and command, the world began.
There is no mud nor air contributed by man,
no angel or demon made the seas meet the sand.

Once infinitesimally small with all the weight and fury
the entire universe would carry; expanding beyond imagination,
words eclipsed by eternity, music hindered by hearable scales.
The stars, like glitter and powder, sing sacred songs unknown
within the trails of swarming galaxies. A mere Painter’s
flick and colors spun from the Center of all being to the
edges of Not Known.

The Scholar and Artist who still conceives a day on this planet,
a year on the next, is not deaf to the whispers or agony
of a single creature upon the universal canvas. One cry
to His ear is all.

Turn over the contents of your heart, pour out the tears stored
in hidden jars and all will stop as the Father hears.

Dawn delays, dusk slow its rosy dark while
eye to eye, heart to heart, every word, every thought
is heard and repeated. One appeal does not deplete
the constant supply of wildfire love, nor any whisper
too soft to merit the gentlest reply.

Sing if you pray, or chant new rhymes, keep matins
or vespers, shout or whisper, knees, feet or prone,
crowded or alone; seek and say the intimacies
that have crowded you too late and early, too
recently.

It is OK to Talk to Yourself

“I will also meditate on all your work, and consider your doings.” Psalm 77:12

Sometimes my mind collapses on itself. Going from large, creative thinking full of vision and possibilities I find myself narrowly focused on my own problems in the small circle I inhabit. Though I live in a town with around 35,000 people within a 30 mile radius, I think mostly about myself and a small handful of others. And though I live in a state that includes some of the most beautiful shoreline in the world, I don’t leave the concrete and asphalt of my own home and a few blocks of downtown.