Word Upon Word

Word Upon Word

(“I will praise the Lord, who counsels me; even at night my heart instructs me.” Psalm 16:7)

I’ve been wondering what I should write because
sometimes it seems
I just pile word upon word like a jenga tumbler.
But I’m satisfied in what I’ve heard when lights
fade and the darkness brings the quietude I crave.
Stay and do not leave me here alone. We need no
sentences of nonsense to keep us awake. Sometimes we
can sit for hours and other times the seconds tick slowly
like the hum of locusts in the trees. The moments can
drone on in our faces like midnight apparitions.

I see the path behind me; hear the oceans I used to
visit and I long for years of yesterday when sunny days
inhabited my dreams. I listen for the familiar sound that
echoes like the laughter of friends. Along the way they
have seen my careless excursions and offered to accompany
me when the way was too steep to climb. This late in the
afternoon
they remind me that soon our rest will come, we will abide
asleep in the darkness that only shrouds us for the night.

I’ve listened as long as I could then I reset my alarm for
just one hour more. Words have accompanied me before
and they will carry me again. But theses streams of scenes
that show up in my dreams at night sometimes escort me
like a doula helping the morning give birth to unrehearsed
understandings. I’ll bend my ear to the blended affirmations
between the lines of night and day.

The Fat Part of the Day

The Fat Part of the Day

(“I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Jesus Christ.” Philippians 1:6)

Whether it happens or not, the night won’t cloak
the starry hosts that dot the sky. In my mind there is
nothing that is disposable.

The possible lives outside the boundaries of theory
and prediction. The sheets of wind can strip away
every hindrance to creativity. It all grows as tall
as it can. It never throws away another chance to
mix the paints in pastel combinations. It is the
last to leave the party and the first to jot down the
poetry
that had been buried too deep to find with simply
a rational mind.

I did not plan on what to write, though I thought about it
through the fattest part of the day.
I can’t explain where the words come from,
and if I could no one would read, though they
might act like they understood.

Prizes lie on the horizon,
blue ribbons behind the throne,
accolades of innocence just
waiting to be interpreted. The impetus
is unclear.

Today I started with my heart pacing,
my head throbbing,
my memory hoping for another word
of reassurance
before the afternoon waned toward the dusk.
I cannot do what I wish I could,
I do what I wish I could not,
and the
no man’s land
between the two
feels like the stagnant ponds that settle
between the confluence of conscious and
spiritual. I plan to explore this soon.

Open Their Hearths

Open Their Hearths

(“I will seek the lost, bring back the strays, bandage the injured, and strengthen the weak, but I will destroy the fat and the strong. I will shepherd them with justice.” Ezekiel 34:16)

Did you deeply believe you pulled the strings?
Did you think you could pull the rug out from under them?
Did you think they were blindfolded and could not see
the machinations and motives in your published screeds?

Where did you come up with such ill-advised plans?
Where did you find the words to push them down the
throats of those who waited for directions home?
Somewhere you decided to cut bait and run,
and leave the consequences to courts you thought
you controlled.

Once you closed your eyes, once you were out of view,
once you were alone, no one but you, only you; once
there was no one to perform for,
once the cameras shut down for the night, did you
allow the cries to reach your ears of all
those you stole from? Did you account for all you stole?

You called them strays, but they were herded away by
your incongruous religion. You called them animals while
you foamed at the mouth and lacerated compassion like
a butcher’s cleaver.

There is a day, indeed it is here,
there is a way that the weak will travel
that takes them inside the heart of all creation.
Your time is up,
your rule is over,
your words are zed,
you’re not so clever.
There is a moment decreed when
all the injured will find alternate phrases
to the ones fed from pompous and penal
pulpits.

You lit the fire, but they will open their
hearths to the sojourners of solace.

A Family Recipe

A Family Recipe

(“Yes, you are our glory and joy!” 1 Thessalonians 2:20)

I am a recipe for family chili
on a yellowed index card in the back of
the roll-top desk drawer. It is almost memorized.

I am a telephone number I remember
from high school. No one lives there
anymore.

There are stars blinking in unknown constellations
tonight. But I cannot see them through the clouds
that overtake most nocturnes here on the river. They
try to send me a message in code, but I miss even
Venus that once brightly welcomed me home. The
stars bloom late here so near the ocean.

I want a body like when I was 20.
I want a mind that won’t scatter the wind
in disremembered rhymes. I want you to see me
nearer to life than this; age and pain
sap my hopes while lately I find
less hope than I should. I have more than
I deserve.

I am an old love letter written in shaky cursive
stuffed inside an envelope with a date far older
than seafarer’s charts. I knew how to write
without edits. I knew how to edit without restraint.

I am faint, I am brittle. I cannot wait for
the next time around a table
with eyes flashing next to and across the
conversation. I want to remember it like it
still touches my cheek with its palm.

My dreams broke up with me overnight.
I think it was my birthday.
But then they insisted we reunite
over coffee and crying. I recognized the
voices but the faces escape me.

I am a family recipe waiting for
the constellations to come out at night.

All I Know of Flames

All I Know of Flames

(“No one lights a lamp and then hides it in a clay jar or puts it under a bed. Instead, they put it on a stand. Then those who come in can see its light.” Luke 8:16)

I thought last night was just a vast alibi,
an opportunity to hide behind the stone walls that
increased my isolation. My chihuahua was there and
can vouch for me. The power was out and there were no
flashlights to be found.
We did light a few candles but kept them far away from the windows.
We had grown accustomed to silence,
but we needed the visitation of friends.

It's not that I’ve fallen, it’s that I’ve learned light is
full spectrum. Tunnels are fine most of the time,
but a wide beam wash of a hundred faces at once
might change your mind.

The light I carry now, or, more accurately, that carries me,
turns like kaleidoscopes, bends around black hole, sends insects
the direction home and birds the tune of their waiting nests.
I swear I saw
light
like this once before. But now that I think about it,
we were all white privileged kids walking in the mountains
because our parents had the money
and we had the time.

Once on an autumn night, standing with an Arikara brother
over a vat of propane-fueled water boiling beef for a memorial,
we talked of deer and ice fishing
and then saw behind us, north toward Canada
the Aurora Borealis. Our conversation was punctuated,
like staccato notes. The beef would feed everyone in the hall.

All I know of flames this time around, is that they are the heat
of love that burns eternally. All I know of light that ebbs and flows,
I know my eyes are closed far too often.

Like a Night Uncovered

Like a Night Uncovered

(“But Jesus still did not reply. Pilate was amazed.” Mark 15:5)

There is a silence where weariness can
find its rest,
a confidence that envelops everything the
mind cannot digest.
The words are too heavy to lift,
the incense replaces trials and tests
like classical guitar, like a night uncovered,
like a celebrity sitting in the corner with
a shoebox covering his head.

Would it change if we were recognized,
or would conversation disguise our fears,
would answers come too quickly, would our
quick defense give us away?

I cannot see them between their paragraphs,
their citations and accusations tipped their hand
long ago.
They thought persuasion was what made me speechless.
It was their hubris instead.

There is an island where everyone can
breathe again,
A place in the sun that shines between
molecules of green and coconut palms.
A dozen sit on the golden sand telling
their stories unabandoned. There are no
juries or clinical trials, only beautiful eyes that
weep at joyful chapters as well as sad.

Let me rest my soul in your silence,
let my face finally relax.
I would memorize this moment forever,
I would pray you help it last. Let me
memorize the unworded countenance,
captivate me with the rhythm of your heartbeat
and steps.

Who Unplugged the Words?

 Who Unplugged the Words?

(“Look at the birds that fly in the air. They do not plant or cut or keep any food. Yet your Father in heaven feeds them. Are you not worth more than birds?” Matthew 6:26)

If you had asked me last night, I would have told you,
the sanity seems to be oozing out my pores. Pain inspires
visions of well-locked cages. Rationality fades at the
threat of rain.

But there are the robins again. A dozen in my tree again.
Plucking fruit and ants again. And not worrying
about the rain.

But these walls are not strong enough to keep my sentences
from breaking down between commas and misunderstanding.
You would think my head was porous, my brain-waves bid
me
adieu
as they make me search like a blind man for the thought
they have disconnected. Who unplugged

The words again?

But there are crows again. Commanding the cathedral trees again.
Cawing to protect their babies again. And not worrying
when they will land.

But these days are not long enough for me to send a search party
to find my sentence fragments. I’ve left a trail of them from
sanctuary to theater, from wife, to child, to grandchild. I run
into them
occasionally on walks toward the hills. But they are distorted,
the wind and rain have turned them inside out so much
I doubt they ever belonged to me.

But there are the hummingbirds again. Sipping at the nectar again.
Buzzing near my head like locusts. And not worrying
over unplanted grain.

Moods stay like glue while my words saddle up their horses
and ride into oblivion. But

The birds keep singing, and sometimes,

Some very rare times,

I understand their song.

Weather Remains

Weather Remains

(“While the earth lasts, planting time and gathering time, cold and heat, summer and winter, and day and night will not end.” Genesis 8:22)

Sometimes I race with the setting sun
so laden with weight and pain that
it smothers me overnight
while God is busy composing the morning.

Weather remains.

The aroma of clover sneaks up on me
from its bed of dewy sweetgrass, the icing
on the breaking day.

The sun skips ahead of me most days
when I am restrained by the heated irons
in my brain. The weeks inch along waiting
for my wearied footsteps, the months loop
around each other.

The evening folds in on itself
like a puppy’s eyes who is desperate
to stay awake.
God composes the next morning like
a dolphin’s skin
breaking the surface of the water.

I Shall See You

I Shall See You

(“Now you are going through pain, but I shall see you again and your hearts will thrill with joy—the joy that no one can take away from you.” John 16:22 [J. B. Phillips])

Another night and another dream where somehow everything I attempt
goes partly wrong somehow.
Letters of intent that scare me out of my wits,
a plow that pulls me through the backcountry fences
onto private property where every eye can see.

Another morning when the pain wakes me early,
keeps me prone till noon and will not let go. A violent
season
that my brain invented, and no other brain can diagnose.

Some questions are impaled, some answers are so veiled
they mock the slightest turn of the mouth. Every phone call
used to send me
into broken twig apprehension,
and now that the phone doesn’t ring the
dreams
supply the same intentions, driving sleep from the cells
that need duplication. But the tiny thoughts that
still find expression
are turning like neutrinos undiscovered until
the atoms were sliced like cheese.

I will not talk of my faith, as if I possessed it like real estate;
I will not answer as if I owned anything at all.
I will not speak of circles unbroken when every chain link
seems to come apart at the seams.
(Like the disciples, I can huddle behind locked doors
as long as is needed.)

I do not see You well, and my search is even weaker;
but You see me, the weary and broken seeker.
I do not comprehend, I can barely compose a tune;
but You show up, broken and risen from the tomb

With wounds so visible there is no mistaking Your identity.
The room shakes at the intensity of fire that carries the ash
into rivers that run beneath our senses.

We will sleep again, dream again, and certainly
go wrong again and again.
But You-Who-See-Us again take our trembling letters
of resignation
and rewrite us again and again.

Nighttime Offered no Applause

Nighttime Offered no Applause

(“They tested God again and again, and provoked the Holy One of Israel.” Psalm 78:41)

We stomped out conflagrations on the desert side of the mountains,
we were watchers, we were the vigilant, we spotted the first flumes
from our high towers. In a season so dry we watched unblinking.
We did not cower before the hundredth call to choke the flames
that flapped crisply, giant wings threatening to engulf our diligence.

But then the fires raged exponentially, rained heated ash and glowing embers
behind every advance of its sinister army. Barely with breath sufficient
for one skirmish, the fires sucked all the oxygen from the ground,
from the sky, from the know world we had searched, and surely
well beyond. This giant non-breathing dragging inhaled everything;
left us less respirations than a walk after summer’s lunch.

No one gave up; hope was shouted from line to line. No one
went home; photos in our wallets folded tight kept us reminded.

I remembered leaving home, out the front door, down the street,
merging with others along the East Bay Corridor, through the
Caldecott, over the Bay Bridge, paying for parking heart-center
of the financial district. Alone. Here was my territory, here were
my clients. Though the clients were future to this cold-call artist.

The street is rarely sunny, until you reach the pier. Any season
other than summer
you may find the sun in patches for a two o’ clock sack lunch. But.

I was unreimbursed; though I had rehearsed every word, my worries
and anxiety pushed me forward. I could only lose if I refused.

I lost something then; the fire and finance district. There was more
than I could do; less than I could discover. In my early wonder,
before cash and college and marriage and children. It was archaeology
that knew my name; where digging gave me plenty of reasons for
the dirt under my knuckles. Yet, I am sure, I would have tested
and tested

God’s good faith just the same; caused Him pain because
I cried so easily when the curtains closed, the day was over,
and the nighttime offered no applause.

At Night

At Night

(“He came to Jesus at night and said, ‘Teacher, we know You have come from God to teach us. No one can do these powerful works You do unless God is with Him.’” John 3:2)

We search beneath the curtained sky, moonless nights,
shortened “whys”. We ask with whispered lips, shaky limbs,
tripping tongues.

We sat up straight from morning till noon,
took a lunch, and loped through the afternoon.
The phones rang and we answered. The questions lobbed

and we prepared our quotations. Our pace was certain,
though we misread the destination.

The mud was still warm, the tree limbs exhaled their
humid breath, and we found the steps to the ancient well
where we did our best thinking. The leftovers of the day
radiated from the darkening stones to our face wrinkled
more by inquisitive lines than age.

On the right day of the month we pick up our checks,
a reward for hours or completed projects, and yet,
it never fairly represents our work. We wish for more,
we deserve less. Nevertheless digits measure our worth
for better or worse.

The aquifer has fed the well for more generations than
present habitants can count. The water absorbs the
workday heat from our brow as we lean into the black
circle and smell life and moss; distant frogs and songs.

The place we do our best thinking is a puzzle of creation,
a mystery, a rebus that quenches our thirst for grace.

We wake in the morning to earn our living again,
sun up, doors creak, cashiers call; buy, trade, sell,
alone, afraid, a bonus, a pink slip, time spent without
knowing names.

The well remains.

Like Opening

Like Opening

(“If My covenant with day and my covenant with night ever fell apart so that day and night became haphazard…then and only then would my covenant with my servant David fall apart.” Jeremiah 33:20, 21 [The Message])

Opening the morning, like opening a door,
closing the windows, the night falls like each night before;
sleep invites safety,
morning circles rainy or daisy but always arrives
just outside the open door.

Whether we spin or careen, cast our nets or line,
wander wet alone or dry our wit with friends,
undertone or cyclone, Friday or February,
Sunday or moon-defined; we rarely sweat a bead of time
over which side of the bed the sun might rise again.

Though it captured every homestead, outlined shadows,
alley or farm, I like the way it shone on your day some times
more than my own.

While I toiled unnoticed, just across town, quartets and
folk bands sang songs I hoped to write, but I had promised
the seven or eight my full year, no less…too late to join
the train regrouped the same day I signed up for the little work
just across town.

Opening the window, like opening the day,
the nights fall like each night present, each night passed,
each promise given, each role cast.
Find me cautious, see me serene, sun lights not-quites
the same as what might have been.