One Word at a Time

One Word at a Time

(“When Jesus saw their faith, he told the paralyzed man, ‘Son, your sins are forgiven.’” Mark 2:5)

You felt like a bramble bush and a whirlwind within,
a storm on the horizon, darkness surrounding every
thought and you fought the demons that told you that
things would always be the same.

You used to talk like the thaw of April;
you used to listen like the Spring rains.
But somewhere everything stopped working and
elsewhere things spoke like you were the one to blame.

But this time there were voices more like goose down;
there were offers of hope like the rising sun. You had
no better choice so you entered their hope and
rode their words multiplied by time.

The road was dusty with spots of mud left
from the brief showers overnight. You hoped
you might get through the day without fearing
the gaze that unwrapped your soul.

You didn’t know when it began, or how it
happened
that paralysis had frozen you stiff. You only
knew that if someone looked into your eyes
they would see how dark it all was within.

You arrived together and they ushered you in;
the day was nearly spent and the hour was getting late.
The journey had worn us and we were weary,
yet the moment ushered us in, lowered into the crowd that
surrounded the words you had hoped would be spoken.

You had no idea, no point of reference to
unhear the words that dislodged the shame that
misplaced you at the edge of every crowd. You took
them in

One word at a time.
And you learned that walking was another way of
discovering grace.

The Lengthening of the Light

The Lengthening of the Light

(“He came near and touched the coffin, and the bearers stood still. He said, ‘Young man, I tell you, arise!’” Luke 7:14)

One day, or maybe two,
perhaps it will take a week. And now
I am pondering time as if I have more to spare
than I’ve been allotted.
But I’ve seen a baby smile and change the
conversations in a room.
I’ve seen a lover laugh and make the sun
keep shining for just a while longer.
I’ve seen the light lengthen late on a
pre-Spring evening.

But I’ve watched the rosebush I planted
die over winter with roots withered after snow.
I’ve cried as a pet died, my American Eskimo named
Halo.
I’ve held the hand of a saint until their last breath left
and we said the final Amen.

I’ve stood at the front of a hundred people waiting for
another song.
I’ve stood behind a hundred more and wondered what was
taking so long.
I’ve sat with five waiting for news from the surgeon,
I’ve stood with a dozen waiting in the rain, children
covered in mud and not running for cover.

What I’m waiting to observe is a resurgence like a river
following the cloudbursts that wash our scales away,
like new wind that freshens the doldrums of summer.
Here is what I’m hoping;
more.
Here is what I’m seeing;
seeds.
Here is what I’m hearing;
hymns.
Here is what I’m writing;
weeds

So beautiful we cultivate them and never
ignore
dandelions again.

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.

Even One

Even One

(“Don’t be too quick to get angry because anger lives in the fool’s heart” Ecclesiastes 7:9)

You would never know when his lid would blow
spilling the scant particles of mind in rapid fashion.
He was my friend, a sort of pretending that doubles up the masks
of deception and self-preservation. One never knew the true man,
even the cracks in his character were darker than
the serrated edges around his eyes. I must apologize, Mr. Cohen,
this one time, these exact tracks never did let the light get in.)

I still ache. I am not well. I have not healed. I still shake when
no one is watching,
and my eyes swell at night while the tick-tocking pounds me awake.

There are plaques on my wall to illustrate my goodness, but now that,
10 years after the double-barrel burst from the double-masked man
I know fewer and fewer people, the radius of friends is smaller and smaller.
And, if I could have my way, I would crawl into the groundhogs’ burrow,
a solitary rodent hoping to use less breath than yesterday.

Do not be dismayed, do not attempt to heal or fix me;
some have, with the warmest intent but with results as silly
as dropping a dozen groundhogs into a hole in the ground:
and, with one short command: “Play!” and expect them to stand and dance
and ask you for more.

“It has been 10 years, son”, I hear them say. “10 years you’re still hung up on.”
And they are right, my mind, my plight, my guts sprung far too tight,
my brain ache, my shaking skin and the nighttime rest that will not
let me in…still exist. And, just for the record, since you wondered, since
you asked,
You are right, but here is my question for you:
“In those same 10 years, sir”, please hear me say, “10 years I have never heard from…

….even one.”