On the Backside of the Day

On the Backside of the Day

(“God chose what is low and despised in the world, what is regarded as nothing, to set aside what is regarded as something,” 1 Corinthians 1:28)

We were pretty certain we would arrive before the night fell.
We were convinced everyone would meet us on the road.
We were busting out with words,
we were advertising our prophecies.
We were on our way past the obstructions that
we believed we had overcome.

We found our thrones were just we had left them,
we climbed up and surveyed our territory.
We were royal and carried our scepters with pride.
We were untested though we thought the speeches
were expected because we had so much we had
crafted in our houses of extravagance. We lacked
nothing that we knew of.

And the crowds did come, the cheers convinced us
we were fulfilling all we had dreamed. They left us
breathless as we captured their unsuppressed praises.
Would our dreams coalesce on the backbeat of a waning
afternoon? The permanent residences were
unmoved, though, by our front-functioning terms
of affection. We even sent them invitations to feed us,
to bring the feasts to us, but they did not hear,
it would appear,
and stayed home with children barely born that year.

We had not considered how at a loss we were with our
degrees and plaques and awards and directives. We
knew what everyone needed before they asked, and we
kept loading it upon them long after the day was done.
You’d think we would know by now that God
dissolved the thrones built to boost the earth up
closer to the moon. God burrowed deeply into our
muck to bring our mud-caked bodies close to his.

We were less certain at the end of the day, we
were less filled with convictions; but we learned
the breath we used for proclamation was needed
instead
for soiled reflections of silent servanthood written
down on the backside of the day.

A Pretty Good Day

A Pretty Good Day

(“Then he said, ‘I tell you the truth. You must change and become like little children. If you don’t do this, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.’” Matthew 18:3)

Splash is a sound that slaps the salty sidewalks on
summer afternoons. Children take the water seriously,
pointing the hose at the nearest victim. Giggles turn the
corners round the houses of everyone who has come out to see
the joy that fills the street.

They were mostly grandchildren dancing like fountains,
toddlers tasting the sunlight as they hugged the water
spraying over them. They had not learned

(Like so many adults do)

That it feels so much like earning the days that
are given for free. They invite us to misbehave for just
a triangle of time each day.

Children take what is offered, unabashed liberty.
They point the water hose at each other and the liquid
looks like diamonds bouncing off the sod.
The day turns late, the shadows grow long and parents
whistle for children to come home. One more slide down the
wetted grass, one more mouthful of water from the hose,
one more dousing of your crush, and one more towel to
dry everyone off

All in all, it was a pretty good day.
No of a certain age needs to be taught to play.

Whispers Home

Whispers Home

(pour une amie)

Never trust a mirror distorted by blood words;
by one-vowel epithets like sword-thrusts to the brain.
Your image is befogged by the hot breath
of boiling sentences cracking upon the lava dome
sealed over and over, (a blind eye’s slap on the hand,
a fuming heat, molten sand) so that scar and wound
explode too closely. The eyes

Once soft with love, the man you found to
take you (a piece here, a piece there), a man
you hoped would astound you; he saw the
finished work while you were still shattered;
shards on concrete and lawn.

But he churned instead; his eyes
crimson red and not staring. His gaze looked ahead,
behind, through and over, but never
at the beauty he could behold if only
he had not boiled over, scalding the love
that could have made his own debris a
creation of love, degree after degree.

You are love, and listen; you are loved.
You are beauty, and behold; you are pretty,
appealing; worth gold fired twice,
worth translucent jewels; a renewal that hears
the better Word, the truer Names that
princesses carry; that have taken everything the
hateful sounds could muster, and waited,

And prayed

And waited, and wore her beauty
like Spring’s first clear morning; the fog
dispersed overnight, the roses bedewed
at first light, and her eyes shining the way new
mothers do, at the first sight and sound of
the tiny life she will love with embraces and
protective glances;

The richest and deepest brown, her eyes were
beauty too, for each happy acquaintance who,
with lost bearings finds her the welcome that
whispers “home” over the ocean’s explosions.

She is beauty; and she will still be from day,
to year, to decade and again. Call her daughter,
sister, mate or friend; she is beauty, then and now
and to the end.