So Rural and Plain

 

So Rural and Plain

(“How many times I yearned to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, but you were unwilling!” Luke 13:34b)

The day was
fog and grainy photos.
There may have been a storm outside,
there may have been a crowd.
There may have been wheat in the fields,
there may have been a few who
drove on past without reviewing the
scent of new-mown grass.

The day spoke
hush and silent movies.
There may have been a flock of geese,
there may have been an eagle.
There may have been sparrows on the lawn,
there may have been rabbits
who mindfully paired up just inside
the neighbor’s fence.

The day slowed
climb and crescendo.
There may have been too much to listen to,
there may have been a marching band.
There may have been loaded picnic tables,
there may have been families
thinking the old ways were so much better
than all this fuss and nonsense.

The day stopped
clear and motionless.

While waiting for the next breath
something swept across the frequencies
of time and sound, of light and relativity--
a day to fill all days, a diorama,
a shadow-box hung on the walls of our
consciousness.
It was an invitation so rural and plain
we mostly ignored it. We went back to
our everyday, convinced that deity would
be above metaphors of poultry and feathers.

The day was…

The Whispers are Fainter

 

The Whispers are Fainter

(“’I am the Lord's servant,’ said Mary; ‘may it happen to me as you have said.’ And the angel left her.” Luke 1:38)

The whispers are fainter now than they ever have been,
the attraction to divining the exact instructions for my
next move
has waned so only the mud remains to be seen,
mucking up everything I once believed.

I wanted to be the Lord’s servant too, and blew every
opportunity until
I was set adrift so far beyond the crowds
that the only voices I ever heard
were the voices I always fought with
in my head.

It is likely my ears will go numb from
disuse
and all I’ll hear are the digital hums
that dig their way past the defenses (happy
images
of palm trees and beaches as sleep washes over
me.)

Transparency is all I ever wanted you to see,
but now I am embarrassed to say I do not
perceive my own inner workings. I once had
a toy,
the visible man,
a clear plastic body assembled with everything
from skeleton to skin. Blue veins, red arteries,
white bones and all the organs including a perfectly
dormant brain. His liver and lungs sometimes smelled
of airplane glue. It’s likely he died on my dresser somewhere
between the Monkees and Iron Butterfly.

And now I am stagnant and feel as lifeless as my boyhood model;
my soul has shrunk or is shrouded by decades of ash while
onlookers applaud my survival after the crash.

And still I ask, “how has it all happened, and what was it
you said that set me on this motionless moment?”

And perhaps another time I would have signed it;
your loyal servant. And scratched my signature in
plain view.