You Had Little Choice

You Had Little Choice

(“For this is the word of promise, “At this time I will come, and Sarah shall have a son.” Romans 9:9)

This cannot make up for the promises I made;
I always hope to be better, to play the scales more carefully,
to walk the log across the stream more cautiously.
I probably should have stood up for myself when
seated in front of a dozen accusers trying to get to
the bottom of my offense.
I never defended the charges, never insisted I was
innocent.
But I lived with a crowd of people pushing my pedigree
like they were judges waiting for my next indecent apology.

There is no one to blame but myself. My only wish would
have been for a phone call now and then, not to catch me
in a verbal twist of fate, but to prove there was grace when
I was convinced there was none.

Sometimes babies are born by accident; sometimes they
come like blurry little hailstorm. Some come right on time
and some drag their feet when entering this world.

Sometimes children hide in plain sight, thinking they
are invisible. Sometimes adults shroud their intentions thinking
their privilege projects their intentional interrogation that
sucks all the faith from the room.

You cannot stop the coming nativity,
you cannot prevent the child that is to come.
There is preventing the birth that accompanies
the dawn.

After the pledges come the completion.
The acceptance following the words pregnant
with promises. There are no more words to surround
your preoccupation with squeezing the souls of miscreants
like sweltering lemons in the sun.

You had little choice; we all know that. You had fewer
options than we understood. And yet, and yet,
even the sinners can be cured by a word, or maybe two,
about babies that carry on the unfinished consequences
created by God’s partnership with mere humans who,
surprise or not, trip themselves up, stubbing their toes
like toddlers learning to walk.

When the Signboards

 

When the Signboards

(“Jonathan thought as much of David as he did of himself, so he asked David to promise once more that he would be a loyal friend.” 1 Samuel 20:17)

When the signboards are empty with letters
scattered on the ground
I wonder
how many words
we have forgotten.

If I mailed you my heart as a postcard,
a simple white bit of cardboard,
would you question my sanity or intentions?
Sadly it is me
whose nerves are shot.

I do not want to waste your time,
still I look for days when the sun shines
on the picnic tables by the riverbank
and dream of long conversations (you
remember: the teenage angst, unbroken faith,
the questions that came with age).

Will you help me turn the pages again
without asking why I am no better
than the last time we talked?

Besides, I have seen words and dates
inscribed on granite where George Washington
surveyed the rivers and valleys of Pennsylvania.

When signboards spread big lies with
their letters
I wonder
how may promises
we have forgotten.

Keep the Pace

Keep the Pace

(“For you have need of endurance, so that when you have done the will of God, you may receive what was promised.” Hebrews 10:36)

Today you marked the cycle,
three years since the trauma,
two years unremembered,
and one running for your life.

You see better than ever,
you grieve sooner and complete,
you believe truer and clear,
you feel deeper and trust
the elements of hope, the
clouds sliding down the slopes
of the hills surrounding
you only remind you of lively green
lately springing where sharply obsidian
nights obscured your view.

You woke today and you kept up the pace,
the pain cried, the past rang like a false alarm,
but, your feet on the ground, your eyes reaching
for the finish line,
you found your team cheering you on,
some have finished the race, and some beside you,
all you hear to keep you running
is the rhythm of uncounted feet still
reaching for more than they ever earned.

And, on the occasional glance, you spot the few,
joy their prize, waiting your grand finale,
breathing in unison as you round the final turn.

It is to love we are born, and joy the soundtrack
on our way home.

Unedited

"Unedited"

(“The sun of righteousness will dawn on those who honor my name, healing radiating from its wings. You will be bursting with energy, like colts frisky and frolicking.” Malachi 4:2 [The Message])

I felt the fog and saw the fresh lather
left overnight on the morning grass.
I sleep past sunrise and waste my worries
looking for swooping angels to snatch me away
from the dim displays painted within this chipped
and gilded
frame.

I don’t ask for more than the promise, although
I cry for lack of enough notice to plan ahead for the
spans ahead of silence, stumbles and hesitation.
I prefer thunderstorms to icy mornings.

I can blame more things than one,
and add to the list if forced by hand,
but the steps I’ve taken are my steps alone;
some simple half-steps slowed by fear, many
appear leaps until eyes have turned elsewhere.

I can write my melancholy on the sunniest day,
pen it, paper it, erase it, crumble it, resheet it
and write it the same all over again.
Why change what I write with the first thought
when the changes are my inner edits to
take the edge off.

I can write my melancholy on the giggling beach,
pen it and paper, like I’ve just stated. The afternoon beams
are the reason for my tears (why would anyone cry on
a day like this?). The afternoon wings me to slower dusk
when tears are hidden by the longer shadows of inattention.

Later than years and further than time I know
the damage is done. Deeper than seeing and
stiller than wings on the soft sky I know
the change will come.

You saw my tears, yesterday, didn’t you?
You had no idea what to say, and wondered
(as I do, my friend) why I would cry when
loved and laden with gifts.

You did not cause them, nor the slivers
from backyard growing up fences. I’m waiting
for the sunlight to take me from pretense to
senses of immense joy on the wings of Righteousness
written
once unedited.