Now We Are Us

Now We Are Us

(“But when you make a dinner, ask the people who are poor, hurt, lame, or blind.” Luke 14:13)

The places are set,
the invitations were sent weeks ago.
We once were clowns who only hung out
with the circus. But the sun came up like
no other months ago
and we canceled our subscription to the
magazines
that fashioned our disease. We only felt
comfortable with
people like us. We set the places
mindfully,
hoping for new conversations to open
the sky, new songs to answer why we never
thought of this before.

We were awkward at first, finding our words,
slaking our thirst, watching the door for the final
few to find their seats unrehearsed.

We hoped for inspiration, the kind you get when
you climb a mountain higher than the birds fly.
We hoped the air would clear our minds,
the breeze unfreeze our brains from ages of
sitting like mirrors around unstable tables.

We hoped they felt welcome.
We hoped to dispel some of our unconscious
biases lately starting to give us pain.
We hoped we knew their language,
we hoped we spoke of the face value
of beauty all around the plates set out for
anyone who would come.

We were them
once,
now we are us.

To Memorize Their Names

To Memorize Their Names

(“Whoever gives to the poor will never lack, but whoever shuts his eyes to their poverty will be cursed.” Proverbs 28:27)

After the doors closed, we
counted the coins
and divided them among
everyone assembled in the
backlit room. The odds were
less than even
that everyone received their full share.
We were nice to each other, but it was more
necessary that we remind ourselves there are
not races, no curses that keep us from poverty
when we need the food that will save our souls.

Even the Almighty cries for
the paucity that deprives a neighbor just
a door away from our prosperity.
I am another privileged one who figures
I’ve done good enough to deserve the amount
that has mounted up in my bank account.

After we drop off the canned goods, we expect
to be patted on the head like a good dog rescuing the
baby from the well. We didn’t even stay for dinner.
We didn’t even stay long enough to memorize their names.

How Multiplied

How Multiplied

(“For there will never cease to be poor people in the land; that is why I am commanding you, ‘Open your hand willingly to your poor and needy brother in your land.’” Deuteronomy 15:11)

There is not much but there is
more than I can carry. I could load it all on
my back, but how far could I go?
I could leave some behind, but who would
hijack my best intentions?
Come journey with me, we will share the load.
Come circle the sunset, come draw the morning rain.
Come as I follow the siren call, the angel’s refrain,
and we’ll split everything we find with anyone else
we meet on the trail. Why would we
keep more than they need? Why would we look the
other way?
I’ve pretended to be happy,
I’ve acted like I was not hungry.
But, truth be told, I still have unbidden tears and
my stomach craves an answer. Have you
felt the same way too? Am I the only one?
Do you wake up on days when everything is provided
and still feel like a pauper on the street?
Do you ever doubt the direction life has propelled
you, the trajectory of unnecessary missiles?
There is more poverty than simply lacking dollars,
there is more hunger than missing loaves of bread.
I’ll open my hand, I’ll help you up to the trail,
we can climb the waterfall we discovered as a couple of
adolescent boys when we were to afraid to ascend. We know
the rocks will be slippery,
but we need another adventure, a reason to sigh.
Or we’ll just walk in silence until it is time to eat again,
and we’ll claim our bread and wine, and we’ll
invite each passerby to share our meager provision
and we’ll see how multiplied we can be. We’ll
see how multiplied we all can be.

I Have a Few Leftovers

I Have a Few Leftovers

(“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” Luke 6:20)

Come let us sit together, it is nearly lunchtime.
I have a few leftovers; your choice, ham or tacos.
I’ll pour the wine if you will simply grace me with
your time.

It’s the stretch of the year when the sun awakens the sleeping earth,
when the clouds part for an hour at a time
pulling back the curtains of playful daylight.

My deck is in the sunshine now,
50 degrees feels like 70.
My conversations are softer now,
words come and go like the stellar jays
that light on the fence inspecting our faces
and the moss on the walnut tree.

I am too rich, I know I am.
And I have too much to carry.
I do not believe in poverty,
but I believe in you and the hidden
gems underneath your voice.

You should be hosting me, for you
possess
more than my easy confessions.
But today, let me pretend to be poor.
(Though tomorrow I will turn up the heat again.)

Sometimes I see as through the darkest mirror,
sometimes I see nearly well.
Today I want to hear how
sounds of weighty compassion,
the pipe organs of pain,
lifted you like hymns on a high
Holy Day.

I’ll grab the refried beans, or the horseradish
for the ham. Come sit with me and
remind me who I am.

Untitled

Untitled

(“The rich and the poor are met together; the Lord is the Creator of them both.” Proverbs 22:2)

I.

He wandered the galleries
circa 1970
of the New Berkeley Art Museum.
The gray concrete Brutalist building
housed Warhol and Pollock,
and in a shaded enclave Richard Brautigan
read,
with easy inebriation,
his newest poetry. It was magical in the 70s;
He was 15 in 1970.

Brautigan paused. Or maybe he finished.
The students who drove through the Caldecott Tunnel
could not be sure.
Some of his poems were scratches on parchment,
some rambled the east bay hills. But, after he
put the last drop of whiskey to his lips and
sat down to light a cigar,
the curious teens wandered the galleries again.

He wondered at some of the installations,
walking around pop art and soup cans
and curious to their meaning,
looked at every label in the gallery.

Untitled.
There was more than one. Un
titled.
And questioned the creativity of
leaving off the name.
For him the title was a gateway to the meaning,
a miniature explanation of the dots and explosions
on canvas or melamine sculptures. There was no one
to ask
when the card read
un
Titled.

He vowed to write an anthology of poetry and,
right in the middle of his collection,
leave one page blank except for the title:

“Untitled”

II.

Half a century later, labels mean less.
Perhaps we come into the world as the perfect
artistic medium.
Perhaps we do not need the titles. They may not
be
gateways to meaning at all,
but a tin box lithograph with “sardines”
on the label.
The name tag was affixed so early
the artist’s name has been forgotten.

Silver Shimmer

Silver Shimmer

(“You cheat the poor and needy and rob widows and orphans.” Isaiah 10:2b)

Seduced by silver shimmer and
drawing the edges so close to home
you miss the earthen treasures and
annul the pleasures of the masses who,
with upturned faces only want their glasses filled
with new wine for this one day
of the year.

Your gold means nothing to them,
your stocks and bonds might as well be
broken shells dropped by seagulls on the pavement.
When will you come out of hiding,
when will your glimmering lights be turned down low
to let the lesser gleam of
oil lamps and candles

Pass through the streets, walk through the boulevards,
sing as the silent stars go by?

Your baubles and rings,
your gilded staircases,
your mansions compounded by
layers of fences will not change
the gravel roads just a half a mile
from your girders and concrete.

Exchange your breath for a moment with
the words of unrest from the homeless.
Barely living,
edging between darkness and darker,
they cannot eat your rubies and diamonds,
nor wish for decadent cakes at the tables they
cannot afford the rest of the year.

May the light that holds us all like silhouettes
scatter our presumptions, sweep away our privilege,
and help us see
through the eyes
of those whose hope is one sandwich or an extra
blanket for the bed.

Heroes Offer Bread

Heroes Offer Bread

(The Lord does not let the righteous go hungry, but he thwarts the craving of the wicked. Proverbs 10:3)

And so we set another shooter free who
thought he could thin the ranks of looters
in another state.

And we lionize the baby-face vigilante,
we call him hero and put his silhouette
on t-shirts to promote the next angry citizen
to take aim.

And we forget how to pray.

Heroes offer bread when cities blaze,
heroes bring a cold cup of water to reduce the heat,
heroes find the reason anger took to its feet,
heroes march the Via Dolorosa,
walk closer to the cross the more
the violence burns. Peace finds the ways
to become new heroes of the age.

Don’t shout so loud over your gun-toting victories,
don’t push verdicts like they are divine exoneration.
There is a Kingdom above all kings,
a government that lies upon the shoulders of the wise.
There is a campground where all are welcome,
there is a neighborhood where children are fed love
instead of anger.

Rioters may pay, but I don’t get to decide the verdict.
Looters may pay, but I do not get to perform the execution.
The streets of Jerusalem were filled with
mobs and moral judges
that both sent the Prince of Peace
to the cross.

When our meals are anger overcooked and burned to the edges
we will starve, we will bloat, we will boast about every alleged
grievance,

While the few leave their fields unharvested for the poor.

It Has Been a Slow Death

 
It Has Been a Slow Death

(“…as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, yet possessing everything.” 2 Corinthians 6:10)

It has been a slow death I know,

From

Circles on a carpeted floor,
sharing cups of 7up and
crumbs of sourdough in makeshift
remembrance

To

The names I have heard you call
good men and women
who were once the all
you proclaimed to love.

And now I feel the death all around me,
the demons of power arcing above the towers
that once called us to joy (the soul’s sorrow,
the spirit’s release),
that once called us to mercy (the word’s story,
the gospel’s free speech),
that once called us to believe (the child’s trust,
the riches unleashed).

And now I see the black figures swinging swords
and aiming nooses, surrendering the peace for
a withered podium of power. And now I hear
the funeral song and I cannot endure

The divorce

Of the ancient faith from its ineffable source,
the crucified one, the suffering Son,
the one acquainted with grief.

I have died today as well
and do not know which world to enter.
The worst abuse, like stripes on a weary body and mind
has found its endgame in the final clod of dirt
tossed upon the casket of my once
vibrant faith.

From the ground up, from deep within the earth,
poor again, having nothing but the me, the seed,
the pleading for life beneath it all,
something still breathes that was smothered.
Something still reaches that was buried.
Something still sees that was blinded
by the shuttered standstill of sight trained
in only one direction.

Something breathes…

But today is one gasp away from
diving beneath the mud and blankets
and never venturing out again.

One Breath

One Breath

(“The Spirit of the Lord is in me. This is because God chose me to tell the Good News to the poor. God sent me to tell the prisoners of sin that they are free, and to tell the blind that they can see again. God sent me to free those who have been treated unfairly, and to announce the time when the Lord will show kindness to his people.” Luke 4:18-19)

One breath is the same as the next breath,
oxygen and CO₂. Babies and prisoners,
muslims and christians,
immigrants and presidents,
technicians and politicians,
beggars and moguls,
capitalists and socialists,
pilots and pedestrians,
teachers and pupils,
travelers and tour guides,
dying and birthing,
sinners and saints,
the Messiah and myriads,
foolish and serious.

So if the Spirit leads you,
she will lead you to the ones whose breath is just a little more
labored than your own.

and the time when our God will punish evil people.

Pop the Words

Pop the Words

(“How can you believe, when you receive glory from one another and do not seek the glory that comes from the only God?” John 5:44)

You pop the right words, “God gave me”,
and “Christ told me”, and “I’m led to”,

But why I cannot find you when
the poor need another week of bread,

Why you are not running
to open the bus doors for the
children who smell just like you did
when you were a child that smelled;
did you stay home to avoid another buffet line?

You’ve changed your words, but still shoot daggers
at the same people as before. Now you quote Scripture
to prove how right your intolerance has become.

Come now, sing the tune, the words, the Spirit,
the same as we have sung for centuries on end. Why?
Do you?

You set your timer to go off at exactly the moment
you notice
no one notices
your commitment; your words last only
as long
as they are easy to speak. Hard to keep and
the alarm rings

And the Pastor is preaching suspect passages,
the doctors are only practicing, not healing,
the teachers don’t know their curriculum
and the banjo player gets his fingers stuck in
the strings.

Or so it seems to hear your report.

You met Jesus, and all he did was give you a new vocabulary
to tear up and shred every decent person who ever tried

To help you a decent person. And “Christ”, as you call Him,
is not Christ at all if You have forgotten the blessing of doing
what nobody ever notices.

Dignity Unsatisfied

Dignity Unsatisfied

(“The one who gives to the poor will not lack, but whoever shuts his eyes to them will receive many curses.” Proverbs 28:27)

There was one adult I always respected,
and shared my adolescent poetry,
and played my untidy chords;
there was one I took every girlfriend to meet,
and played the Airplane’s newest release,
and shared my latest role upon the stage.

So you will be surprised that she, who I knew
cared for people like cats, and cats like people;
you my blink your eyes upon reading that,
at my daring hope

To somehow help the poor,

My mother would quote Jesus and say,
“We shall have the poor always among us”,
and feel she was satisfied my
pre-frontal cortex, not yet fully shaped,
would take that authoritative word as
an answer full-measure and complete.

(I never thought she
had justified)

I only thought she simplified the complicated,
and authorized ignorance among those who hated
the time it takes to too understand the coin-laundry of the less
against the dry-cleaning of the more.

Perhaps she was right; even now, I cannot find the
perfect way
to scribble a few lines of poetry that
(I had hoped)
would help or dignify the poor.

In All Seriousness

In All Seriousness

(“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 5:3)

I had a notion long ago, like an ocean full of logic,
that God needed informants, sleuths to testify of
loose gears in the machinery to management. I dearly loved
the agency,
the sanity I thought was saintly. I never clicked my tongue
or filed a report but I plainly
explained every missed question on the test;
and wondered how they test-taker graduated with all the rest.

Some of them became teachers, these ones with private files
printed upside down upon my desk. I confess I read them, if
not to the rest, to myself. Some of them led millions,
these ones dressed with waterproof ties, shades over their eyes,
while I thought my casual garb was more naked than theirs,
covering less than theirs; showing more of my bleached ankles
and skinny wrists. My mind was insulated just as well,
buried deeper than the death knell. My tears distracted the
prying eyes.

When did I believe I was richer than I had begun? What piles
of treasure,
uncalled-for leisure on mountain slopes and summer isles
had I amassed? My balance is higher, square footage greater,
new car faster; while I’ve read more books, learned more tunes,
bought more songs, and composed my poetry better than
I’ve composed myself. Because,

In all seriousness,

The nightmares I walked off on high school nights
are the same dreams I hide because old men should be
over them by now.

Half the Supply

Half the Supply

(“Here’s what believers who are in low positions in life should be proud of. They should be proud that God has given them a high position in the kingdom.” James 1:9)

The days are dry without end, the summer light
grills the ground, the constant beige baked into every
rock and stone. And hours since the light is gone
the rugged desert floor radiates the same heat
toward the stars. Stingy with its release, the air only
becomes breathable
a pair of hours before dawn, before
the sharp light and arid sky provide
only half the supply life needs for thickets
and underbrush other ecozones display
with less effort than a butterfly gliding
bloom to bloom.

We walk soon after dawn, before noon and the
straight-line blaze from the sun and its rays overheat
every possible path. Flat as a billiard’s slate, no shade
breaks the invisible beams; no respite for earth and its
captive passenger to take a breath, wipe the sweat,
and hope new rain will fall swallowed by washes
and sent to start the seeds awaiting the second half
of verdant genesis.

And while the wait, and during the walk, some
30 feet distant on the dusty floor, a color far outside
the decorator’s wheel; a bright, a sheen, a damp magenta
and intense yellow;
the solo desert flower caught the eye. The parched earth
below a gasping sky had offered more than the forests
of coastal mountain ranges.

In its poverty the desert offered an isolated endowment;
the smallest of flowers from the poorest supply
greeted the eye with more reflection
than a thousand on a rainforest floor.

River Sweep

River Sweep

(“The rich and the poor meet together; the Lord is the Creator of them both.” Proverbs 22:2)

Wherever I be, straight line or crooked tree,
the rivers birth winter snow down the early May gorge
toward
the ocean full of swimming and floating,
diving and quoting the songs of Him
who made it all.

From midnight Marianas Trench to
luminous sandbars overrun by fleas and hermit crabs,
every stretch of imagination feeds our fascination
with the circle bouquets; life and breath,
gills or lungs,
eyes or tentacles,
fins or fingers;
we mostly blush at our preconceptions.

But let the unwashed bump me on the
crowded aisle of Wal-Mart AutoParts
and I lose interest in the theme of things,
the string of things that attach us all,
charms on a young girl’s bracelet.

Let the unknown language invade my
English comprehension and I might replace
my love of time and space with a catchphrase of
alienation; stepping beyond the border from outside
in,
we argue the space invasion. We bought this air,
this two foot square occupied by my intonations.

River run past the shanties,
river sweep past the cliff dwelling mansions,
river sweep the sweet sands and firewood to the sea,
to the sea,
and river bring back the wonder of living,
and breathing, and the Creator’s design
signed on each low and high with the same
name, Emanuel, for each. For all. For me,
for me.

But You Don't Know My Neighbor!

“It is wrong to say bad things about your neighbors. Be kind to the poor, and you will be blessed.” Proverbs 14:21

Most people, when asked, “Would you like to receive a blessing,” would certainly reply, “Yes!” Even if they weren’t exactly sure what a blessing is, it sounds positive. And so, like children who want Santa to leave them something special on Christmas Eve, we respond as well. “If I get to choose between being blessed or…hmmm…what is the opposite? Cursed? Simply not blessed, like living in a world of random events? No matter. It doesn’t matter much what the opposite is, I like the idea of being blessed. Bring it on!”

Out of the Ashes

He lifts the poor from the dust. He lifts the needy from a garbage heap.” Psalm 113:7

I love Rags to Riches stories. My dad loved to root for the underdog. Stories of the hopeless rising up out of their despair and into a renewed life inspire us all. It may be a story like Abraham Lincoln, rising from the humble beginnings of a log cabin, reading book after book by the faint flame of the fireplace, ascending to arguably the greatest Presidency of our nation. I love to watch unheralded sport figures, perhaps a quarterback picked far down in the draft, going on to Super Bowl achievements.

God Will Listen

God Will Listen

“God will listen to the prayers of those in poverty. He will not ignore them.” Psalm 102:17

It appears that our nation may be slowly pulling out of one of the longest recessions in its history. In the wake of financial distress people have lost jobs and homes. Many have had to file for government assistance for the first time in their lives. For some, their benefits ran out before they were able to find new employment or other aid.

Defense

Defense

(“Be fair to the poor and to orphans. Defend the helpless and everyone in need.” Psalm 82:3)

I heard another story, a friend and a bully;
the bully may win, she wants to exit, stage west,
to another town she knows better than stay
where she must dress to avoid attraction,
find the right friends to get the right reaction,
and refrain from ever being herself best,
herself first, herself created to

Light the places that bullies walk
in the dark.

I took my wife to a show, and my daughter,
and her friend; $50 a seat for orchestra seats
underneath the balcony. “Wicked!” entertained,
richly entertaining a night when we felt, for
two or three hours
that at last we owned the world.

Walking, lightly, chattering and comparing
songs and acting, twists and pairings;
I think I got my bearings just two blocks down:
homeless he sat and barely met my eye. I saw him,
considered his clothing, and walked on. Not without caring,
but what could I do, having my car-full of company and
nothing left after a wellspent birthday out of town.

I heard another story, maybe the same bully, maybe the same girl;
and I would make it safe, a shelter, a red carpet with cameras popping,
interviews stopping her procession while bullies were not allowed to enter
without an invitation. She, and students like her, need to receive their
awards up front with stage lights blaring. This time, after
penciling a mental notation..I would rise

And she would receive, what I know she would earn…

A standing ovation.

Humble and Meek

“But I will leave among you a humbled and poor people, who shall take refuge in the name of the Lord.” Zephaniah 3:12

Humility and meekness (the intent behind the word “poor” in this passage) have rarely been seen as desirable character qualities, and understandably so. If a person’s world-view includes getting the most out of life, making the most money, advancing yourself to the highest possible pinnacle, humility simply isn’t the way to get there. Qualities that appear much more active are required; such as perseverance, courage or confidence. But meekness? No, that is for monks and nuns. Humility? Forget marrying it with a career in big business.

On the Bus

“…and you pay attention to the one well-dressed and say, ‘Have a good seat here!’ and to the poor one you say, ‘You stand there’ or, ‘Sit down on the floor by my feet.’” James 2:3

Did you ever ride a bus to school or an event when you were a teenager? I’m not sure what the appeal was, but the seats of choice were the two in the very back of the bus. (I’m being fake naïve, by the way, I know very well what the allure was.) You could just about chart the pecking order of any group by observing where they sat on the bus.