The River Kept Flowing

The River Kept Flowing

(“John answered, ‘Anyone who has two shirts should share with the one who has none, and anyone who has food should do the same.’” Luke 3:11)

Fascinated by the reflections of still life
in the pools around the banks of the river,
people gathered to watch who might wash themselves.
Undeterred, some were ready to wade into the deep
to their waists,
wanting the germs cleansed from their ravenous thoughts.

Are you asked to give before your feet hit the water,
are you asked to share what your last morsel of bread?
Did you consider how short the span between birth and death,
did you contemplate the thinnest slice of your life?

What prerequisite did you ask to precede your
turning point? Why would water alone be enough
to baptize your fears and intentions? Did your tears
mean anything as you heard the answer to your questions?

After you heard the answer did your courage fade?
After you left your jacket on the bank did you wish
you had an extra?
After the water flowed over your head did you find
new ways to share your daily bread?

The river kept flowing, didn’t it? Your tunic ballooned
like a parachute. The same sun shone as bright as it always
had been. The same eyes stole into your soul. You
and
everyone else
hoped the changes would last.

Of Reflections, Tears and Treasures

 

Of Reflections, Tears and Treasures

I never see my own heart well. Mirrors seem useless,
reflecting my previous view of darkness.
And though I’m told that mirrors never lie
I question the reflection that saddens the image I see.

Though I am troubled by what I view, yours shines
perfectly and brightly to me. (do the photons that ricochet
off silvered glass change shape as they pass our perception?)

It must feel like a carousel minus circus horses,
or like the icy bite of winter. Yet,
all I’ve ever seen is a fawn and innocent beauty
frightened by the slamming doors of the city.
I know the sort of tears you cry, and they are
priceless, purified.

I do not overrate it, the light in your eyes.
I hope you’ll celebrate it, even when the morning cries.

I’ve been lonely just like you
(well, not just like)
you are purer than me.

I have devised my own dark madness;
yours has been forced upon you. And still
you love
while the sounds of war whir round your days.

As I lay praying that my dreams would not feature
the meanness I have known (some I rented, some I owned)
I thought of you and wondered
if you see your reflection as clearly
as I see you.

The hours can be giants, the shadows crouching lions,
but they defy the glow and fire
in the heart of one
whose pain rearranges the mirrored perception. So plainly
I will say,
I see the pain, the tears, the rain that seems unending.

But clearer than that I see a soul who wears a pendant
hidden from the storm (a jewel, a treasure, the color constant
against the crashing thunder). Believe my eyes
if you cannot believe your own;
the image I see often comforts me
for I also rarely believe my own.

Who Should and Shouldn't

Who Should and Shouldn’t

(“If your whole body is full of light and not darkness, it will be as bright as a lamp shining on you.” Luke 11:36)

Do you know how to see reflections in the water,
Do you know how to hear the voice of God in the wind?
Have you seen the faces, the hands, the portraits,

The lands occupied over and over again; and then
the present generation claims them as their own.

Do you think you invented the Mississippi,
Did you create the Rio Grande?
Did you spin the earth, grind its soil,
transplant the seeds, while drawing lines
in the middle of rivers, across ancient boundaries,
separating the kingdoms you conquered
and declaring them your own?

Did you do it with a cross before you,
with a bible in your hands?
Did you pretend god was on-your-side
because your guns were better,
your powder drier,
your faces whiter,
your boats bigger,
your English the sure language of god?

The badlands glowed with spectral beauty
before your eyes every beheld them.
The rivers swelled at the moon’s invitation
before you ever knew their motion.
The plains swayed, the grains waved like the ocean,
the Rockies reached toward the sun before
you ever named them.

Who are you to say to the millions whose tongue
does not match your own,

“here, and no further, we have drawn our lines in the sand.”?

Your light is failing, your eyes too narrow,
your sight is blindness, your night you call day
will soon give way to
the glory of the One who

Spoke it all into being before the first strand
of DNA was woven into all that is living.
Dare the One who hovers over creation,
speak with impunity if you think you know so well
who should and shouldn’t cross the river,
who should and shouldn’t share your town.

But do not speak of Christ while you
sing about boundaries of greatness,
foundries of weapons,
sainthood of hatred and
western culture as if it was the
brainchild of god.

Sink a while in your darkness and
let the light that is love divine
(All Loves Excelling)
open your dry eyes to
the idols you’ve adopted. Let
them come crashing down so
the shadows they’ve cast can
become light in the face of the
Perfection of compassion.