Bee Sweet

Bee Sweet

(“May my meditation be pleasing to him, for I rejoice in the Lord.” Psalm 104:34)

Bees see in the ultraviolet spectrum, humans see,
well, what we can see.
A bee sees the world, the same world we see,
but given human eyes, the world becomes disguised
from its apian landscapes. Given a pair of
bee-sunglasses
I would swear the world was no longer the world,
and earth a misplaced chapter from Lewis Carroll.

I post my pain, maybe too often for your particular taste;
but, capture the radio waves that dance inside; outside, somewhere;
everywhere; within; without you…for a moment grasp the crackling
orb
and let the buzz from my own brain overtake your singular view;
your front window on most day. So, before you sneak an unwelcome
peek
into my head,
next time,
think ahead and consider how sweetly apologies
clear the air from the damage we do in each others’ gardens:
bees or human, the world itself yet is one.

Family Business

Family Business

(“Men made it very hard for Him and caused Him to suffer, yet He did not open His mouth. He was taken like a lamb to be put to death. A sheep does not make a sound while its wool is cut and He did not open His mouth.” Isaiah 53:7)

You who call for the end of all things,
nuclear conflagrations and conspiratorial
elections,
how smart you have become in your invested opinions,
claiming blue jays are hawks without reservation,
decrying marriage as just another contract with paper and ink.

How great our brains have grown to act as if what we know now
we have already known and leave God out of the question,
or question whether knowing Him is part of the question at all.

And you who call for Christ to return,
as if your aches and pains are the scheme behind all things,
though we all sympathize, (who wouldn't want a home where
eyes never go bad, the paper is on the porch, and health insurance
is affordable). But my limp falls far short of filling up the lack

in Christ's sufferings, if there is any lack at all.

And you who ache for the first wake of the final seven years
that the book series insisted would Leave Behind mostly the left
because they don't go to church, or when they do, the inhabit those
demonic denominations
who sometimes actually find an open mouth to feed. Do you want
the end
simply because your favorites are out of power?

I do not exaggerate, look not for hyperbole, I shudder when I
sense the Silent Lamb so mistreated, the Unblushing Love of
all
leaving word and protest on the floor like the greasy cleanup
of a short-order store. I weep that I do not see it well enough.
I shiver at stone churches, big screen projections, tight harmonies,
bright fantasies that stir up dust but stare at the the ones who
traipsed the mud into their house with their unfashionable boots.
Is it too late for anyone to remember?
Are we too far, too american, too rich, too accepted,
so high and holy that no one can see the vague resemblance
we once had to our Elder Quiet Brother?

Don't say He was harsh with the fakeries, unless you,
fakery of His family, agree you need His words strictly
for your own unfinished family business.