One Moment to Breathe Free

One Moment to Breathe Free

 

I know the rhythm of life you yearned for;
I know how you longed to hear the voice that
allowed you to begin again. Apart from
the notions of unity there was the constant motion
that pulled you apart from life as you chose it.

I know how you wish it all would evaporate;
I know how your brain runs backwards from night
until day. Every situation feels like an uncrossable ocean;
every moment like sand dunes void of life.

A single day goes by that allows you to breathe and
you think it is over, that the hours could be sunny
and alive. But it lasts only a moment until
the abusive memories enter like arrows
through your heart.

You wish there were hugs that lasted forever,
but you wince at the thought of the touch of a hand.
You wish you could speak the deepest part of you;
you wish you could be heard for all that you are worth.

Years of pain have eroded your joy. Laughter
feels so uncommon that you question anything that
makes you smile. Convinced you do not deserve
even the simplest pleasure,
you go about trying to please everyone else with
tongue-tied fervor. There came a point where
every thought was called an illness, every need
a mental weakness until you were convinced
you walked unworthy of the things you needed the most.

How can I listen better; how can I gently hold this
place where you can safely say what you have not
said in ages. You do not need to be appropriate with me;
you don’t have to guard your words or your wants.

I would stand beside you, hold you, give you all the
time you need
to open those scary thoughts that make you feel unloved.
I would kiss away the pain, embrace your quivering heart
and tell you, until you can repeat it from memory,
that you deserve love, you deserve affection, you
deserve the gentle touch that only wants to
bring a smile or dry the tears you sometimes hide
so no one will know.

I feel your days go by; I know your fluttering
memories. I would give you a sky clear of clouds
and full of love. I would remind you the
moment you forget that
you deserve it all.
You deserve it all.
And the color of love might just fill your
face again. Here now,
let me kiss away the doubts and warm
you like a summer day even though
midwinter stays. I would give you anything,
I would offer you everything to give you
just one moment to breathe free and hopeful.
You deserve it all.
You deserve it all.

Please Look at Me (a reworking of Psalm 13)

Please Look at Me
a reworking of Psalm 13

(“But I have trusted in Your faithful love; my heart will rejoice in Your deliverance.” Psalm 13:5)

I sent a letter, I tweeted a tweet, I posted it and messaged it and
none remembered? How long? Forever? No faces show up to
share a smile. And all the while, You, the One who says you are
crazy in love with me,
never show up!
So I’ve stored up all the junk in my life. The padlock is broken,
the rent is unpaid. And every day my anxiety fills the dusty corners
behind the cardboard boxes and ashy picture albums.
How long, damn it! How long? My mind is being wrung like
a dishcloth, then run under hot water and wrung again. And
my friend, (I thought) has all the cards. They have the weapons,
I have my tears.

So, will you please look at me.
NOW
god? My eyes are grey around the edges, red from the crying
that has emptied all their defenses. I would rather sleep,
no, rather sleep and die. Then I’ll no longer fight for the love
of friends
or companions. And they can say they won the big round this time.
My shakiness only confirms their assumptions. I cannot stop the
shaking.

Don’t tell me I’ve been wrong by relying on your love Divine one, I need
joy
so deliver me from the harsh looks, the mental crooks, the shivering
hooks that keep pulling me back into doubt and deep cavern darkness.
I am still alive, so I suppose you have treated me generously. But today,
I just don’t feel like singing.
I just don’t feel like dancing.
I just feel like a call from a friend would

Open my sky again.

Please Take the Lead

Please Take the Lead

(“We must keep our eyes on Jesus…” Hebrews 12:2)

Please take the lead,
my steps have lost the time
and I cannot find the cadence again.

These days (no, most of my days, most of my

Years)

My first moment is pathetic,
then becomes septic,
while the tears take time to build
and shed later in the day.

Please take the lead,
I do not follow well anymore.
I am silent the whole day through,
not out of some imposed vow,
but because there is no one to talk to.
I cannot find the radiance again.

I’ve been told you inhabit everything,
so you would think I could see you
no matter which way I look.
That’s a fine thought. But my heart
is still a stone that crumbles too easily.

I am weak, everything about me deteriorates
in my depression and mistakes.
But I used to think I was good. Now I am
no longer sure.

I talk a good game,
but honestly, again and again,
I stub my toe, or worse,
run head-on into an unsuspecting passerby.
One more person I should explain myself to.

I’ll tell you the truth now, I did not want to write today.
It is dark at noon. The air is heavy as untuned pianos
masquerading as sandy beaches. And I know that
image makes no sense,
but neither does this burden I can never lay down,
that haunts me forever,
that drowns every sound of a simple chorus of joy
away.

I would curl around anyone who didn’t care
about my shame. I would talk endlessly.
(no I would not. my talk has been my undoing)

Please take the lead, I cannot see beyond this fog.
I’m tired. I’m alone. I’m foolish. I’m a failure.
I make a mess of the best summer days and
cry on all the rest.

These fears, these anxieties, are only paper-thin.
And just beyond them is where beauty begins.

(yes, I wrote that earlier today. but I am still stitched,
and taped, and stapled, and wrapped in butcher paper
someone left on the shelf.)

I Wasn't Bluffing

 

I Wasn’t Bluffing

(“But when he saw many Pharisees and Sadducees coming to watch him baptize, he denounced them…’Prove by the way you live that you have repented of your sins and turned to God.’” Matthew 3:7a,8)

I wasn’t bluffing, I meant what I said;
so you’ve seen my soul, you’ve seen the hole in it.
If my scars were human (I suspect they are)
then blades of time and space intersected in the
place my elbow connected with the foam pillow afire
from sitting on the floor furnace vent. Did you see me shake
the flames out and the way the plastic flew like wildfire
and landed on the inside of my arm to char and boil a
silver dollar size burn on my arm. I was 13 and the scar
turned purple every time I went swimming for five years after.

So, I overheard the backstage talk that reasoned away the
unachievable mandates (we won’t wear a mask, but we’ll make you
change your gender), and wrestled with the water that never
washed me clean of
the demeaning stain of
deserving the pain of
the everlasting flames of
hell or god’s gory torture.

I would repent if only you will.
I will fall on my knees if you will once
beg pretty please the way that I did.
I will follow you into the river if you will
trade in your rolling eyes
take back your pious lies
and simply ask in words more sackcloth than satin,
“How did we offend?” Because you were the ones that had us
gathered around tables,
bemoaning the porn addiction among the faithful.
But I knew you had not spoken truth,
and had set traps to get confessions that, many times,
had already freely been given.

I wasn’t bluffing, I meant what I said;
you never saw my soul, and you invented its abyss.
My scars were human and I was left to find deserts
in the ocean.
I still am adrift in lonely, so alone I am
weightless.

 

I would repent, but will never give my confession again. 

Morning Glories and Poppies

 

Morning Glories and Poppies

(For every friend who never gave up on me.)

(“I myself will see him. My own eyes will see him, and not as a stranger. My emotions are in turmoil within me.” Job 19:27)

Please don’t turn away,
my health depends on it.
Talk runs circles and sometimes out of bounds
but I promise the campfire in the center holds
both the secrets and the potion
that makes friends nod at the silly jokes
and laugh at unpleasant memories.

I’ve been a joke, I know it. I’ve smoked the place out
with my long-winded stories and half-witted heart.
But starts are better than endings; noon is still long enough
to walk among morning glories and poppies.

I do not care to win; and do not want to lose,
I only wish to erase the words that made you cringe.
I only wish to hear the voice that makes me smile,
that asks for more music when it’s been a while since
I’ve sent a mandolin lullaby. It’s this friendship that,
like others,
makes me feel I have met with God.
Met together, and left the day lighter, for laughter,
tears, nods and empathetic cries
are the best prayers I have ever uttered.

And I shall ever laugh or cry or keep my silence
for you were sent by God
when I felt I did not have a prayer.

The Keys Please

The Keys Please

(“Meanwhile the earth fills up with awareness of God’s glory as the waters cover the sea.” Habakkuk 2:14 [The Message])

Don’t laugh, but it is time to turn in your keys.
Your rent is due, the lease is undone.
You argue your points with derision,
you settle your scores with scorn.
The owner is knocking, answer the door,
and face the eyes you thought you knew
while you squandered the minutes parading
the poor as your trophies,
scaping the land to the bone,
and intoning your personal freedom as if
your life was yours and yours alone.

Please. The keys. Now.
Or else meet the gaze that has risen
to greet you before the sun lit the skies.
Meet the first cause, not simply the effects that
you screened through your own wrinkle in time.
You moan there is no more preaching about
fiery hell and judgment,
while you know for sure you have escaped with
rapturous pleasure. You have forgotten to measure
the dimensions that extend beyond the
plot which you have rented.
You cry, “liberty”, as if it is a call to prayer.
You pray as if it is your civic duty to call out the
worst of these when you were formed to
help the least of these.

So, the keys. They are in your front pocket and
the lease is clear...unless
you are willing to hear the voice
that invited you to stay here in the first place.

Look at the window, shattered by the hurled limb
powered by the gale. It was sent to awaken your
perception that a miniscule world conforms
to your expectations.
The window is not your responsibility, but what
you see now is up to you.
Look through the jagged remains, feel the wind
stroke your face. Touch the shards with your finger
and let the capillaries bleed only enough to remind you
what you are made of.

Then answer the door because the lease is overdue.
See the face that is in every face; hear the voice
that gave the storm its name. You are not being evicted;
but the keys please. The window shall remain shattered
and the door never locked again.

Tell Us How Good We Are

Tell Us How Good We Are

(“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring glad tidings to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, and to proclaim the favorable year of the Lord." Luke 4:18-19)

Yes, please tell us how good we are, how deserving,
we've been observing your rules for decades now.
We've put down uprisings,
scolded the protestors;
Lord knows, we even prayed before we did.

Yes, please tell us about the new good news, how others refused,
but we who dust the pews in your house are you muses,
how we inspire your love and how you dote on us.
Look, we even brought the national flag into your house,
we sanctify, almost deify, the man in the big house who
most of us voted for.
(The others, finally, have walked out the door to some other
place they call church but which I'm sure you haven't frequented
in ages.)

Yes, we know your words are wonderful. They fill us with expectation.
We can't wait to tell more and more about this chosen generation,
this nation you saved, the country you chose above all others.

What? we have gone too far? Yes, it is true, some of our fathers
and mothers
crossed the invisible border. What? were they less blessed because
of it?

Yes, now I hear you questioning us, our standing, our unquestioned
place in prophecy? What? You do not feel welcome here where
the stars and stripes sit next to the communion table?

"I tell you, no prophet is accepted in his own native place. Do you remember the famine,
when Elijah was sent only to Mexico? Do you remember the lepers
during Elisha's time, yet only a leper from Iran was healed?"

Yes, now we hear your message. We hear it clearly. Leave now,
out the door. We nearly believed you were the Christ, but
now we know you are an imposter, for you love those who we hate,
and have spoken the harder words to us.

Yes, leave if you please. You have disrupted my angry religion,
you try to replace it with universal acceptance, and our God would
never put up with it.

You may think this word is apropos,
You may wish to have it disposed,
all I know
God helps those
who
need His help the most.

See Us More Clearly

See Us More Clearly

"For the sake of your name, don’t despise us. Don’t dishonor your glorious throne. Remember your promise to us; don’t break it." Jeremiah 14:21)

Please see us more clearly than we see

ourselves,

here we bring our votives and underlying motives

wondering why our turns of left and right and our

circles of up and down

leave us just as grounded as before.

We would fly if we could, (some pretend that we do),

we would beat back the momentum of our own

dishonesty, except our own family tell us

all we believe is true.

Please see the red in our eyes, (anger or crying,

sometimes a mere disguise). We give no excuses,

though we choose to sometimes blame it on the way

we have been created. (Me, not you. The yous abuse

every freedom they are given. The theys are tireless and

wicked without reason.) But we confess, and confess, and

confess, and it sounds like all the rest who cannot find a

place to admit, we vote for ugly then never regret what we get.

Please send your grace just now, and open our hearts to receive it.

We have lived so long as if we are right, we have forgotten how to admit

a journey filled with center-vision that refuses to see the

abused, the crying, the unwell, the dying,

the never-church, the basement pray-er, the mudcake poems

fascinated with grubs and ants and slugs. Earth is too dirty

to allow on the carpet between our pews.

Please send your Spirit; this time we will not refuse her friends

that always accompany her presence. She brings lilies of the day,

but dandelions too. She shares the scent of love that fills every room

and edits every ungodly no-love forward from Youtube or

presidential campaigns. She brings pain, she brings hope,

she brings tears, she brings old jokes we used to tell.

Please send her and we will never pretend

again,

that it was our singing, or our shouting, or our goodness
that brought her here within.