Spilling Over the Hills

Spilling Over the Hills

(“They will not hunger or thirst, the scorching heat or sun will not strike them; for their compassionate One will guide them, and lead them to springs of water.” Isaiah 49:10)

Waving from the back of the parade
the children filled in the line at the end of the queue
following the music like spinning tops on a slow and
green Spring day.

Light never deceives; darkness beckons hopeless
moments canceling the stream of thoughts that walked
through the forest in the middle of the day.
Wait until the light shines again, look for the invitation
to traverse the amber swaying of afternoon sky.

We were told over and often that provision would
follow no matter the turns we took. But we were frightened
enough to staple our feet to the floor and waste our energy
trying to catch the rain in our hands.

But once we tasted the effervescent spring waters
on our tongue how could we sit still again, how could we
plaster ourselves to the inertia that kept us motionless? We
were hungry as children begging for another orange slice
as they were heading to bed. It seems we waited forever
to savor the moments that made us feel alive.

So, this time we joined the parade from the beginning,
singing songs of resistance, walking steps of resurrection,
and inviting every lonely observer to join us on the lookout
for new ways to celebrate the carnival days of joy when
we followed the promises like faith spilling over the hills.

Soft Parade of Lightning Bugs

 Soft Parade of Lightning Bugs

(“When he was accused by the chief priests and the elders, he gave no answer.” Matthew 27:12)

Silence speaks as clearly and surely
as the first rays of dawn through the kitchen window.
Believe me, I’ve tried shouting. Drowned out
by iron doors. Muted by theories. Smothered by theologians.
The yelling takes its toll and privilege prevails over
justice and reason.

Fireworks keep me up at night,
firearms puncture the morning,
but a soft parade of lightning bugs
invites prophetic words in miniscule motion.

The silence of a friend who stays till noon is
more welcome
than the clamor who meet to decide what elixir
I need
this time
to be a better example to the gods.
I drank their potions nearly every decade till now
and spoke in tongues so they would quit offering me
the bitter concoction.

I found silence the best therapy,
presence the best tonic. I no longer
need
someone to defend me (I wasted that energy
a long time ago.)
All I request, if the court will allow,
is one or two who, knowing my wound is incurable,
will befriend me (I needed that energy
from then until now.)

But my heart was in my mouth when I heard them
question you.
My face burned when they accused, pious and politic,
the meekest of men to walk this planet. But perhaps
I am more like
Peter,
because I don’t think I would have taken the chance,
put my life on the line,
to speak up for you. (I know now you did not need
me to.)

I’ve been questioned too, and I was guilty as sin.
(That’s where all guilt begins in the gang I used to run with.)
I wanted to be like you, silent. I had far more to defend;
you had the cards stacked against you, they thought you were
going to bomb the Temple once and for all.

Cut short, you never said a mumbling word. My life,
long enough now to know what the right stuff is now,
I say less than I once did.

Love, to be love, sometimes speaks only

In silence.

Coronation Day

 

Coronation Day

(“How terrible it will be for you legal experts and Pharisees! Hypocrites! You shut people out of the kingdom of heaven. You don’t enter yourselves, and you won’t allow those who want to enter to do so.” Matthew 23:13)

So, you be queen, and I’ll be your king
because we need more heroes and fewer
novitiates.
I cannot remember the last person I saw
kneeling before a peasant in the street.
But we’ll take it all back when we come to power;
we’ll storm the gates on our coronation day.
I’ve heard them say the day will not be long enough,
the forces against us are weaker than the principalities for us.
We can break a few windows, steal a few chairs,
set up our thrones at the top of  the stairs
where everyone can see our benevolence.
(Imagine the arrogance of those who only kneel
at ball games.)
So, parade with me; we will walk together past
the old frame churches to show our allegiance
to script and verses we cannot repeat but
have rehearsed for this day only. March
with banners of war, that’s what we are here
for. Doing battle against the enemy you have hated
with me all along. Slay the satan, demolish the devils,
and create more dragons in the minds than ever existed
in fables or rhymes.
You know we have the votes, you know we have the defenses,
you know we have kept out the vagrants with our fairy-tale fences,
unscalable except for the quiet mob we invited
to ignite the flames within our sacred chamber with
wood from the lecterns and ancient documents declaring
independent witnesses are so last year.
In God we trust (since 2015), no matter our obscene
rants. Chances are our subjects will love every word
from our mouths and erect us monuments and fill
their churches with songs about our anointing day.

So, you be queen, and I’ll be your king
because I cannot think of anything more
that God and Country could need.

Without Reservation

Without Reservation

(“And those the Lord has rescued will return. They will enter Zion with singing; everlasting joy will crown their heads. Gladness and joy will overtake them, and sorrow and sighing will flee away.” Isaiah 35:10)

There was no parade today nor
a quiet place for candlelit contemplation.
There was no circus, no clowns and no elephant,
nor a canvas tent in the middle of the woods.

There were regrets (I am old now)
that I did not start things younger.
There was head pain (I am worn now)
that I did not ever ask for.

There were clouds; I didn’t see them.
There was blue sky; I didn’t breathe it.
(That does not mean I don’t believe it.)

This spoke in my eyes is not a temporary situation;
and promises of a painless heaven do not impress me much.
My faith is shaken, but not greatly stirred;
indeed it appears slurred to those who read me.
Many have endured longer,
many have endured more,
many have been happy just to
suffer for the Lord.

But me, I’d just like a phone call. Or a letter.
Maybe not. Maybe I’ll take a walk. But the circus

is not in town today, and the café is too far for my
feet to find. I’m always behind the curve.

I’m praying each breath is received in the way I mean it,
I’m hoping returning is in my future.
I’m not going to sell many books with this sort
of quarter-faith writing. Crying is the only act of faith
I practice today.

I have returned, and where are you?
You cancelled the bread and wine we had planned.
I keep turning, to see what you see.
But burning has consumed more than just the chaff in me.

I am demi, I am a fraction. There is no action left for
me to take.
I will not be fake; I will not pretend. If that means
I’ve lost my faith (at least to my friends)
then I’ll still wake up tomorrow with a spear in my eye,
a billion memories that wind themselves around me,
a skin that has thinned, a heart that has sinned
(without reservation)
and a hope that believes there is more to living
than just a life after resurrection.

The First Place

The First Place

I heard the first place we went was undiscoverable,
they were caverns I had never seen, fissures in the granite
where glaciers had retreated. But now we stood
halfway up the slope like the spine of a giant whale
and we whispered the world between the breaths we took.

I would go farther, see the summit, but the damage done
over years of abuse
and self-styled announcements
has left me panting far below the treeline.
New wounds only irritate old wounds
and now I doubt all will be smoothed over
by the time I’m asked to deliver my final address
on the state of the world
and my place in it.

If you could supply, by grant or by inheritance,
I would comply without counting the dangers.
You know how sad I’ve become, you know my fingers
are crooked and my throat is bare. You know best,
besides the one sweet harbor of my years,
how far the crest of the stars has fallen from me.

I wanted the first place I went was out to sea,
they were trenches deeper than mountains, the wounds in the planet
darker than soldiers’ tears. Now I want to last, please,
at least until
I see the fire fall just once more. Until hose crying for aid,
lie on the ground and watch stars dance like before.

I want to know You have walked through the door
in your humblest theophany (you are the poor, the sick,
the aging, the abused) and we have gladly welcomed
the glad parade from here to home.