It Should Be Second Nature

It Should Be Second Nature

(“The Spirit of the Almighty Lord is on me, because he has chosen me to serve him. He has sent me to tell good news to poor people. He has sent me to comfort people who are very upset. He has sent me to tell prisoners that they are now free. They can go out of their prisons!” Isaiah 61:1) 

It should be second nature, this message for the poor;
it should be our constant theme, this raising their banner.
Now in spiritual affluence, gone is the poverty that others
placed around your necks making you lie face down in the dust. 

It should be our first response, this comfort for the distraught;
it should be our song most joyous, this melody of delight.
Now with their wounds assuaged, gone are the deepest cuts,
the hardest to heal. Now only trust that scars are simple reminders
of healing. 

It should be our primary work, this demolishing of prisons;
it should be our loud refrain, setting the prisoners free.
Now with bars broken, gone is the isolation that kept
you bound in perpetual darkness. Walk free, walk out,
sing your ballads of abandon above the mountains. 

There is contentment ordered from heaven,
there is room to roam for once proclaimed from above.
While you thought every word that kept you captive
was a divine decree, the words came that set you free
and what you never dreamed became true on the day
the prophet spoke the way of love that meets us closer
than from the future they feared. Their deliverance is
their legacy. 

It should be celebrated, this image of joy skipping
underneath the sky.

Eyes on their Wings

Eyes on their Wings

(“You are worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honour and power, for you created all things and by your will they exist and were created.” Revelation 4:11)

Can moths with eyes on their wings, or
the color of fallen leaves, stop my traverse from
breakfast to work like a giraffe out of place
at the University commons? Life is not a rebound
from fractured intentions, but a constant awakening
of boundless moments; a necklace adorning
the middle as the end.

Can a doodle inscribed outside the warmed eggshell
hook my glance to stare much longer than my schedule
allows? Etched from within, there is no timeclock
to measure the naked chick’s pointed beginning
to its shivering first sundried, outside, front-born
day.

What can take me away from me, from my,
from I;
what can capture my eye, steal my breath,
start the tear unbidden--
unless I look first for

The invisible, the eternal, ineffable
that dwells as surely in sand fleas
as with the marquee displays of
of wild and foreign universe of space;

Speaks daily with intent of the Maker’s
(as recent this, as forever as then) words
and breath which have scribed a world of
new pages leaping like flames above all time.

Where Upon

Where Upon

(“When God created man, He made him in God’s likeness; He created them male and female.” Genesis 5:1a, 2b)

Where upon the mountains, the names of things are airy,
only in the homes are labels plastic attached.
To save a bird from extinction, we give it the distinction
(classifying by name wing-style and beak)
and pin a note to the forehead sky, hoping it will
notice, male and female, to mate, fly and procreate
littles and much until the name is ubiquitous once more.

Where upon the memories, the names of faces are blushing,
only on the meadows is laughter’s echo holy.
To save more hope from obscurity, we remove its impurities
(drinking at the river run pebbled stream)
and fly another kite high in reflection, knowing it will
capture, male and female, to live, love and honor
bigger and focus until
the

Name is heart and marrow once more.

The Wild Ox

The Wild Ox

(“Can you depend on (the wild ox) to use his great strength and do your heavy work? Can you trust him to harvest your grain or take it to your barn from the threshing place?” Job 39:11)

There is no way to train your strength,
yoke you, cajole you, lead you, plead with you.
Your power is greater than mind,
your attention boasting, nostrils flaring like
a fire-breathing dragon.

Why would I try to tame, sun or rain,
the elephant’s cousin, the rhino’s comrade,
the stomping that grinds the earth to powder,
the pawing that turns the prairie dark as arctic winter;
as dozens of paws make the sod roar applause
leaving clouds upon the flatland, clouds upon the
razorbacks, clouds upon the buttes, clouds contending
with the sun.

Nets cannot collar and clatter annoys,
smoke rings comply with blue instinct alone.

Wielding microscopes and parsing DNA,
dissecting brain matter and genealogy
only take me to the cliff’s of Ocham’s razor
positing what I cannot posit by
reason alone, while I look within time

For That which time cannot contain.

Will Soon Be Complete

"Will Soon Be Complete"
Tranquil sits the afternoon while the showers
drop less like rain, reminders of the autumn and
soon coming December.

I cannot decide whether my heart is the same,
alone and quiet, presently, with wishes to speak to no one,
or laugh at my billiard inabilities with a few who
know it doesn’t matter.

Lightly looks the river’s surface while seabirds
call, watch and scavenge without noticing anyone’s
regard while gathering their meal.

I cannot decide whether I want the attention,
fine accolades for another performance,
music or oration, staged or spontaneous.
Whether I want the attention,
suppressed laughter when I miss a note or
stub my toe.
I could not gather the courage to ask
a stranger to take a photo of us on our
honeymoon.

I want to go to Hawaii, I want to find my home town,
I want to play on the stage day after day,
I want to be silent and read without residue.
I want to know all about you, I want to hide my journals,
I want to see why you function, I want to cover my blemishes.

Coolly the afternoon crawls toward evening
while the traffic flows, compact to semi trailer,
behind my house like the a 24-hour Walmart where
workers never sleep. The day, without my permission,
will soon be complete.