The Road was Darker

The Road was Darker

(“My life is stuck in the dirt. Now make me live again according to your promise!” Psalm 119:25)

The road was darker than usual
and I was unsure about the corners that wound
through the hills. I had spent the day wishing the
sun would shine more brilliantly to drive the
sludge away from my mind.

I had sat in the middle of incomplete and
run-on sentences that wanted to be certain that
I served my time.

And so, I left that small circle that surrounded me
with more weight than I could carry.
The night had fallen and I only wanted to find
somewhere that felt like home.

They were made of dust and so was I. But
beyond the wall of rocks they built to teach me
who to exclude,
they were certain they were building a temple when
instead
it was armory always preparing for war.

My anxiety grew, my skin turned white,
my voice caught in the back of my throat.
Mark my words, I had no syllables to say that
would make a way out of the imprisoned improvisations
that used “no” in ways that nonsense never heard.

There was no one who knew everything about me
so I set out from there on an excursion through the
night that might land me somewhere that left my
humanity alone. I wanted to find a place where
I could close my eyes and know that no one stole
my story while I was not looking.

I found a place to fill my lungs and revive my
fainted heart. Just outside of town there were circles
within circles and tables laden with bread and honey.
I pulled up with my lights on and tested the ground
to see if it would hold the full weight of me.
I turned off the engine and took my time examining the
lightly designed coffee cups being filled for vagabonds like me.

Songs for the Road

 Songs for the Road

(“So the people believed. When they heard that the Lord cared about the people of Israel and had seen their suffering, they bowed to the ground and worshiped.” Exodus 4:31)

Listen, the story is coming. Give heed to the words that
contain the seeds of your liberation. There is an announcement that
is no longer fantasy. It is not vanity to think that the divine has
given you an avenue of escape.
Open the envelope, break the seal,
read the news that announces the days of sorrow are over.
See the signature, hear the voice, recognize the penmanship,
breathe the perfume. Let it remind you, let it make you dream
while you are still standing there in the sun. Let it transport you
to the next day that describes the reasons for your pain.

List the ways you have heard, catalog the moment you
understood that tomorrow, though the same as today,
will bring reminders that you have been understood. The
message
was timely.

The sweat had left trails of salt down our
brows and cheeks. We checked in on our children every
time we had a chance. We looked past the horizon in hopes
they would not suffer our hardship once they were grown.

We thought we might perish in the sun. We thought we might
grow extinct, but unsure of the exact moment in time.

We heard the words and fell on our faces. We listened
longer than we had before. We were seen; we had been noticed;
our silent soliloquys had stuck in the mud. We built an altar
and loaded it with every prayer we had ever uttered. We
grasped every syllable and molded them into shapes of
angels who had been following us all along. We kept
quiet, though, saving our songs for the road, saving our
songs for the road.

Waiting on Hold

Waiting on Hold

(“Then a dispute also arose among them about who should be considered the greatest.” Luke 22:24)

I called you up with my remaining time of the afternoon.
I waited on hold; I laid the phone on the desk while
scanned the internet until you picked up. It wasn’t
your fault
you were running late. The demands on your time
are endless,
and I called without an appointment.
So I waited on hold; patiently wondering how you had changed
since the last time we talked. I heard rumors
that you had traded your throne for
a camp chair in the middle of nowhere.
As soon as you were settled you looked in
on the children whose scrapes and bruises spoke
more of abuses than playful stumbles in the yard.
You touched their wounds delicately;
you understood their cries instinctively. You
interpreted their prayers silently and
slowly learned their names. You sat beneath
the sun with each one of them telling their stories.
You cradled the smallest ones who barely formed
a dozen words and had not yet found yours. You
always said your name was a mystery. But your
reputation preceded you. Even at your pinnacle you
mixed with the least of these, you decreased to
come down to their size.

--Hello, it’s me. Do you remember? Thanks for answering
my call. I just wanted to say I’ve learned from your ways and
will not stall another day to jump off my high horse and walk with
the poorest on the dusty road.

I’ve Narrated the Road

I’ve Narrated the Road

(“Let us look only to Jesus. He is the one who began our faith, and he makes our faith perfect.” Hebrews 12:2a)

The story doesn’t end there, even though it felt like the final chapter.
The asteroids still circled obliquely.
Bring me another water please; my throat is dry and I have
such a long tale to tell.
We haven’t finished, though we needed a moment’s rest.
The pale yellow butterflies show it best, the way they
flit from flower to flower undisguised as the day lengthens.
The beginning has little thrills,
the middle is unexciting,
but the ending is unexpected and sometimes causes me to flinch.

When you have come this far already it is hard to
see clearly the beliefs that may be unsupported by the facts.
My story is full of pitfalls, my tale surrounded by struggles,
my ending unreliable, my addendum just a summation of facts.
But I suppose I’ll keep writing,
I might keep believing if there are no more suitors for my heart.
I could use a navigator,
a fellow traveler who knows the terrain well. Or someone
who doesn’t mind traveling blind. You take the wheel for a while
and I will nap until our next pitstop. We can write our bearings in
the journal I’m keeping, another chapter to a story I would never
have written if I hadn’t traveled so far. I could use a navigator,
I would love an illustrator to picture my ups and downs.

I’ve narrated the road from beginning to end, from “gentlemen
start your engines” to the checkered flag. I finished far back
in the pack, which explains why so few follow me.
But on further cogitation, I say, without qualification,
that the one who began the race still accompanies me and
has completed the story long before I’ve crossed the finish line.

I Could Listen All Day

I Could Listen All Day

(“When the king heard the words of the law scroll, he tore his clothes.” 2 Kings 22:11)

The flock of geese flew overhead sounding
like children on a playground. The fog had turned
to rain and
they felt closer than ever, flying under the
misty domed sky.

Don’t stop browsing these pages, they are never
exactly the same. Never assume you know the
answers because the question will be different each time.
The cattle lying in the rain-soaked field are
commentators of the scripts we read.

Once around the neighborhood,
skirting the road where new developments form,
there is a cemetery just north of the edge
of the mudded field where you can see the river from its
its gentle hill. There is little boredom when the
river punctuates the occasional verses testing the
waters,
testing the distance to the end of the day.

Though the sun is not shining there are rays
that pierce the heart even on the most clouded elevations.
There are voices reciting lyrics and faces leading
the band. I’ve heard them before, but today they
sound new, like a baby’s first words: colors, books,
up and down, mom and dad. I know thousands more
but the babble of babies is its own interpretation. I could
listen all day.

So The Colors Ran

So The Colors Ran

(“Examine yourselves to see if your faith is genuine. Test yourselves. Surely you know that Jesus Christ is among you; if not, you have failed the test of genuine faith.” 2 Corinthians 13:5

I ran out of time to paint so the
colors ran like the snow, landing between the
trim and the foundation,
while I took a break to search for my soul.
I hadn’t lost it,
it had not vanished,
I just had misplace it while
I listened to the barking jokers
who decided, with no input of my own,
exactly what design I should be applying to
the front wall of my own home.

If someone will fetch me a glass of ice water
I’ll tell you why this west-facing wall is so important.
The first thing you see from the street, this wall
needs to be (almost unconsciously) a true portrait of me.

I took everything to heart for so long that my mind
fell apart
when I repainted paisleys over yesterday’s diamonds.
I swear I used a dozen colors based on the latest
expert opinion about what would catch people’s eyes.

Every time I applied one coat to my liking and then
an overcoat
made in the likeness of others who had so much more
expertise than me. I questioned every time my brush
hit the can.

This time the voices are muted. I swear they still ring
in my mind 50 years later and a thousand miles away.
This time I will paint what I see,
I will circle the windows like springtime cocoons,
and trim the door to appear open all the time.
This time I will paint what I know,
even though it may not grow the way I intended.
This time I may meander outside the lines, I may
hide the Name beneath the sill, just small enough to
read up close,
but not from the road.

Atop the Ancient Peaks

 Atop the Ancient Peaks

(“My command from God was to bless these people, and there's nothing I can do to change what he has done.” Numbers 23:20)

Stand atop the ancient peaks,
turn your eyes toward the borderline.
What do you see, what do you know,
what do you give to all of those on the other side?
Did you find a better place;
do you live where no terror can touch you?
Then hand it down from the mountain,
send the safety you have boasted of,
find the few who speak your language
and invite them higher to sit with you.

Take their stories deep within,
hear their ballads of uncertainty.
Add their name to your banners,
fly their flag along with your own.
Find the beat of their drums inside
your own pulse. Take the steep path
down along the cliffs and meet them
at the end of the road.

Tear down the fences,
obliterate the walls.
Speak their language, I know they will teach you.
Your day starts at quarter to nine
and theirs a half hour before. You have the time
to share the daylight,
you have the rhymes that connect families
to the windy faucets of your excursion;
you have accomplished more than you expected,
and you have more to offer than your shambled objections.

Sit across from their newly camped grounds,
stoke the fires that keep us warm. Lead them to
the place
you created, the safety of your offering.
They are fathers and brothers, daughters and mothers,
they thirst for protection too.
Be the blessing they already own,
be accountable for their welfare and well-being.

Jokers see nothing past their own noses,
thieves see everything they do not own.

But you can see, if you scan the horizon,
more and more dialects you need to learn.
Open the gate and let the floods wash their
crinkling skin, offer the food you prepared for
undiscovered orphans. Take their hands and
learn their pulse that palpitates the same as your own.

Tired of Wandering

Tired of Wandering

(Some of the redeemed had wandered into the desert, into the wasteland. They couldn’t find their way to a city or town.” Psalm 107:4)

I’ve walked this pathway so well it
opens to me like the gates to a castle I’ve never visited.
Glassy in the fog,
messy while I slog through the day like mud.
So afraid of wasting my time,
so afraid of running out of time,
I still walk my appointed route without deviation.
I have no excess, no minutes to spare.
I have no travel, no destination. I walk the
circle
hoping someone new will stop me,
will hold me with their attention,
will have every intention of helping me fly
between vague intentions and dreams
of people I thought would walk the road
with me
like we did ages ago. Do you remember
the way the snow fell in late November on
the Pennsylvania slopes? We ate hamburgers
and imagined reserved seating for all of our future friends.
I never imagined I would lose the seat
at your table soon.
But the song rolled in like a wagon wheel
crossing the jagged field where the hay bales stood.

Seems the music makes the hours pass more quickly
these days. I just miss the friends who listened to
it with me so many miles ago. So little time left
to
recreate days in the park, nights on the stage,
listening to crickets in the dark, hiding our age.
Would you, by happenstance, be going my way?
Let’s try singing again and guess at the lyrics for
the verses we’ve forgotten.
I’m tired of wandering, tired of missing the unencrypted
poetry we once shared. Read me yours, I’ll read you mine,
and we’ll sit on Persian carpets frayed from the sun.

At The End of The Road

 At The End of The Road

(“Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost!” Luke 15:6b)

Why do we build the wall,
can you tell me the story again?
Why do we keep our gold inside
and everyone out
and at what cost?
Why do we lock our gates,
can you recite the code again?
Why do we twist our iron into
so many shapes
and chain them with locks?

Look down, look down the road,
the dust is stirred by the feet of returning.
The light is blurred by the whisps of
bleating songs. Live sounds. Flying sounds.
From grey to white, from infra to ultra sounds.

Wait down, wait at the end of the road,
the sun will soothe your churning eyes.
The tiny strays, (the best of days) have found
their way home. Long travels. Footprint travels.
From lost to found, sound to song travels.

Why not tear down the wall,
that is the story older than time?
Why not share our wealth
with the dizzy children
without cost?
Why not open the gates,
so princes on donkeys can enter?
Why don’t we straighten our steel eyes
toward the horizon
and wait

At the end of the road?

The Road Had Deceived Him

 

The Road Had Deceived Him

(“You keep completely safe the people who maintain their faith, for they trust in you.” Isaiah 25:4)

He was happy where he landed, but
did not like the way he got there. He
wasn’t sure if anyone had noticed or
left him any chores to do. He
backed into the driveway carefully,
maneuvering the rented trailer
behind him.
The road had deceived him.
The trailer was gone.

He was tempted to retrace his steps,
find his lost belongings. He wanted it
all back.

Perhaps it was the roadside attraction
that distracted him from noticing the trailer
was gone.
Nearly home, though unsure when or how,
he had spotted a simple sign on the boulevard,
“Help Wanted” it said. And he vaguely remembered
“pastor” scrawled at the bottom.
He followed the arrow around the corner
and saw the fieldstone building rising.
It was modern architecture with a nod to
gothic cathedrals. There were
months between him and the last time
he entered a worship space this early.
Pulling the darkwood doors open, he
breathed the oil and candles deeply.
Two men sat at a folding table, one with a
clipboard, the other saying nothing. They asked
his name,
he explained why he came. Did they need the
services of clergy today?

They would have let him sign the application,
they looked glad that someone wanted to fill the
spaces within. But then he remembered why
he had left the last pulpit early. The pain returned
as he gave them back the pen.

He was happy where he landed,
but did not like the way he got there.
He removed the empty hitch from the
bumper of his worn-out car. He left
so much behind and little before him.
The days were deceptively silent.

Today he gave a neighbor a ride home.

The Diner Up the Road

 

The Diner Up the Road

(“I am a debtor both to Greeks and to barbarians, both to the wise and to the foolish.” Romans 1:14)

The times have dictated their letters to me and
left me on my own to affix the signature.
Rolling over snow drifts melting in the warming rain
I move from yesterday to noon,
from leftward to soon,
from literature to mixology,
from my wicker chair to the indented couch.

I would thrust my hand through the dimensions if
I could.
I would reach behind me before you died and ask
for one more time at Denny’s or a ride on the back of your
Honda.

I would read the books again, in the same edition,
of my favorite authors. I would smell the chalk and
greasepaint
in the rehearsal space where we used to eat our lunches,
run our lines, rehearse our plays, and make dates for
the weekend; mud football or a day wandering the
basement shops in Berkely. I discovered Tom Rush
that way.

The days are much too quiet while I am still alive,
and you, and them, and cousins, and friends, and parents,
and sisters, have flown from this orb while I lose track
of the living.

I would adjust the tuner if I could, ensure a better reception.
I would place my heart in your ears, not my words,
for you to hear the aching inflection. We made mistakes
nearly every minute in those days, but friendships never swayed.
How could they, and where would we go?

Now the same, the beloved, the laughter, the root beer mugs in the freezer,
are forgotten joys since we’ve learned to play with adulting toys.
And yet, you; the circle of prayer cross-legged on the floor,
the study group I skipped too often,
the gang of three that always included me
when we met for lunch in the quad just to see
if the pie-eating contest was still going ahead as scheduled.

And I am sandpaper, and I am silk. And I am crepe paper,
and I am cardboard. And I would sit at this table,
the diner up the road, ordering hash and eggs
and setting out a second cup of coffee in the hopes
that you would take the seat next to me
and discover that

My tears and my laughter are both still the same.

Run Out of Road

 

Run Out of Road

(“How often I’ve longed to gather your children, gather your children like a hen, her brood safe under her wings—but you refused and turned away!” Luke 13:34b [The Message])

It seems certain now, after observing you from afar,
that you may have run out of road and are spinning your wheels
in the sand.
It is understandable,
knowing only the route you pursued,
but honestly, it escapes my reasoning and knowledge of
your surroundings why you don’t raise your eyes,
look around,
and notice the desert you drove yourself to.

It seems evident how, for how long and for deeper still,
you yearned for a badge of courage, a congressional medal,
an emblem earned to show your commitment to
machines that mowed down the opposition well,
and how certainly you remained true to a narrative
no better than a fairy tale.
What you failed to observe was
the magic kiss you wanted was just in front of you.

It seems ages ago, the first time around, your maiden journey
circling certainty. The snow swirled around the asphalt like
snakes before you found the tracks of previous drivers.
Safely you navigated icy patches with nothing but the taillights
of big rigs to guide you. You arrived. You sighed in relief.
You were safe. And you were lost. Waiting out the storm was
the only choice to make.

Though you did not know it, there was a course correction
waiting for you in that cold café with more space heaters
than tables. The dark wood paneling may have hidden the
wandering one from your view, or you may have been too
busy reading to see him. He longed to loan you his parka,
drive an extra mile with you, and to shield you from the coming
blizzard that would disguise the road back home.

But you finished your breakfast, nose in the best book,
sucked down the remnants of your coffee and walked past the
man in the corner who rose to meet you, who always rose
to meet you
in every rest stop along the way.

I Slowed Down Enough

 

I Slowed Down Enough

I slowed enough for you to catch me,
I slowed down to a crawl,
I slowed enough for you to find me,
I slowed to no movement at all.

I radioed ahead that I was coming,
I radioed so you would show,
I radioed ahead while I was driving,
I radioed so you would know.

But you kept up your breakneck pace,
You kept up your distractions,
But you kept up your blinded race,
You kept up your hollow fractions.

I stood in the road far too long,
I stood across from you,
I stood in the road with my old coat on,
I stood right in front of you.

I slowed down once I had hit town,
I slowed down at this address,
I slowed down so I could be found,
I slowed down to emptiness.

But you would only blaze past me,
You would ignore my telegrams,
But you would not simply replace me,
You would treat me like I was banned.

I slowed down enough for you to welcome
me home.

 

I Wish I Had a River Road

 

I Wish I Had a River Road

I wish I had a river road to walk upon,
a lazy trail behind the trees to lead me
to your home.
Our faces once glowed in moonlight like
decorated pines. No snow,
just eyes that saw everything.

I wish the days did not separate the years
from each other. Though our tracks convened
in mud and asphalt decades ago,
the world still speaks in syllables of love,
the poetry of patience that embraces everything.

I weep how the roads have degraded over miles,
over time,
and the navigation is more challenging from
your house to mine. I can see it,
I can hear the music wafting from the windows
like a country apple pie. I can hear your heartbeat,
see the frost in the air as you exhale the same
atmosphere as me. Yet we get tagged, we get named,
we get classified and remain no different than
when we both agreed.

But what if birds were no longer birds,
were verbs like stretch or pinch or slobber
or cringe? What if language meant nothing and
facts are farce; no longer simple opinions
and their interpretations? It you call it pie
while others insist it is an automobile, how do
we communicate at all?

That is why I hesitate at your door. If you ask me
to sit on the couch, I do not know if I should fly
or buy a ticket to the stockyards downtown.
And further, if you tell me you have dreamed,
I may presume it is real; the ghosts, the pale riders,
the dark forces you believe have embattled me.

That is why I say so little. The more I speak the
more brittle my words fall upon the kitchen floor
where the pet dog licks up the remains.

And yet one thing never changes: the syllabus of mercy,
the portrait of long skies that undisguises everything.

An Enforced Silence

 

An Enforced Silence

(“…they were prevented by the Holy Spirit from speaking the word in the province of Asia.” Acts 16:6)

Full of sentences, a pen dragging ink across scratchy parchment.
Will anyone read? A paper balloon floating free
until
the candle burns out. Will anyone find it in the
washed-out wadis a mile from the road?

Full of journeys, the dead end surprised the minstrel with
too many miles on the road. Will anyone hear? A few strings of gut
vibrate against the golden gourd until the melody comes full circle.
Will anyone see the choirs in the trees?

Full of months and years, a wanderer
stops. Fully stops. And is quiet when the
words would break out like squalls in the desert.

And the seeds are sown in the enforced silence.

More Miles of Bad Road

More Miles of Bad Road

(“Therefore, I hated life because the work that was done under the sun was distressing to me. For everything is futile and a pursuit of the wind.” Ecclesiastes 2:17)

Winter roads are the worst; first it rains, then it freezes,
then the asphalt is a plate glass coffee table; nothing visible
except the bent fists of wind that throw dirty dust and snow
across the sliding surface. And we knew there were more miles
of bad road ahead.

And so, in a hurry, we slowed to a crawl. Life was frozen.
Once a river of life for swimming and picnics,
baptisms and reunions,
now as solid as a strong box. There was no
breaking in.

And so we did not stop for the view; what was there to see?
The snow turned to fog, blind as a ghost,
and the most we could do was stop two nights sooner,
brought to a halt by nothing more than vapor in the air.

We wouldn’t have cared,
but we were nearer and nearer the journey’s end
with time running out,
with pain the traffic could not see
(we would have done better to puncture a tire
and hope for a hand along the road).

But with pain higher than the clouds that dropped
winter ice,
and time slower than a glacier
we moved (or did not move) it depends on
your perspective.

It’s easier to wait near the beginning of a journey,
but near the end home is in view,
family waits for you,
friends are looking for you,
and with every hour the trip is slowed
are fewer moments and less joy with the beloved
who you hold in your heart while
you grip, knuckle-white, the steering wheel
meant to take you to a new start
at the old place
where the bed fits your frame
and the voices engrained in your mind
are the very first sounds of the morning.

Crumbs Become

Crumbs Become

(“The two then explained to them what had happened on the road, and how they had recognized the Lord when he broke the bread.” Luke 24:35)

The crust shines amber, simple, steaming, sensual;
the bread once grains, once wheat, once seeds, once wheat again,
awaits the gathered few who have talked the whole road trip long.

The conversations are doubt and wonder,
and long pauses where only the breeze spoke and
opened their hearts.

Sometimes traveling is holy, sometimes it is pilgrimage,
sometimes it is communion, and sometimes it starts as
grief and ends with astonishment. And other times it is
merely the morning commute.

But, recognize it or not, the spaces between us are occupied
by the God who suffers and lives among us. Walking beside
us, stopping between us, days after we thought he was gone
for good.

For our good he suffers, for our hope he slays the monster of death
by his own forbidden way; dying to win. Within the tectonic plates
below our feet and the pulsars exploding above us, outside our perceptions
but closer than the pores on our faces, earth is tied to heaven
in the breaking of the bread.

The day ends slowly, dusk is golden, acquaintances become friends
and extend the invitation to share a meal before separating.
Then the stranger takes the bread like the host of the house,
the weight of dough kneaded by daily labor rests in his hands.
The sun, the earth, the seed, the grain, the ox, the millstone,
the fire and the baker have all conspired to meet at this small table;
an altar in the world.

Breaking it; the aroma fills the room. All is bread once the bread is broken;
salivating, the mouth prepares for ordinary provision.
Blessing it; the necessary response of earth-dwellers who
depend upon heaven.

And in the breaking, the blessing, benediction; in the simple meal
on the earth so full of soil and mud,
we see Christ, our eyes are opened, and crumbs become a
cathedral for those who have seen.

I Am Not Strong

I Am Not Strong

(“To end my letter I tell you, be strong in the Lord and in his great power.” Ephesians 6:10)

I wanted to meet you well before the end of the road.
The stones are sharp, the sun watches my every move,
the winds have vanished and everywhere I look
I see the absence.

I am not strong. This journey has taken its toll and
I’ve run out of change for the next payment to cross a bridge.
I don’t mind saying, I’ve heard trolls are ready to catch the last breath
of travelers who went too far in their search for faith.

I’ve heard the trip is worth it, the travel is the holiday.
But I’ve hit another dead-end, a skip in the record that keeps playing
a lyric half-spoken over and over again.

I hear nothing, feel less. The air even presses upon me like
an anvil from the sky. The friends who once listened are hiding
or have traveled the opposite trail from me. My afflictions

Are self-inflected

They would say.

If strength is shaking when I’m backed into a corner,
then I’m as strong as you’ll ever see. Even a piece of cheese
from an unexpected raven would be enough for me.

Dearest Father, let one of my own speak in a language I’ll understand;
send words that will fill the stillness before the storm;
hail a cab for me, rid me of all misapprehensions
and send me to a long afternoon of merriment simply because
I’ve made it this far.

I’m stalled, I’m stuck, my wheels spin in the rut as I
await a new name now that I exist halfway between one tribe
and the other.

I am not strong, the friends are further than sound can travel.
And when I write this honestly I fear they wonder what’s wrong with me,
dearest Father. This is it, this is me. Weak and dependent,
hoping I have not expended the final words that finally write me off.

Dearest Father, it is true, I will not refuse your power. Yet you must know,
more than that, my strength is lagging for a lack of travelers
who simply know me. Who simply see me. Who simply love to walk
even when the strength has fled from our words.

Excuses and Abstractions

Excuses and Abstractions

(“David said to the Lord, “I have sinned greatly by doing this! Now, O Lord, please remove the guilt of your servant, for I have acted very foolishly.’” 2 Samuel 24:10b)

Call me foolish; but not like David. I have forgotten the numbers
and so, for now, write unabated.

The ink has not dried; the smoke still circles
the inkwell where the last shootout transpired.
We hoped emerging sounds, cries of the stricken,
prayers of the dying and pistols whipping up the air
like last year’s carousels would

Once

And over

Wake the lazy thinker snoozing in the clover
and turn his mask around to see, eyes properly adjusted,
that freedom is busted when everyone locks their doors and
electrifies their opinions. Let us be clear, the numbers are stronger
than Saturn’s rings; the answer clearer than Dylan sings:

The excuses were buried in the mud and come up
when the tide rises. Now Abel’s blood recites the latest
chorus to add the next verse to the blindman’s dirge.

We could offer freedom, if we were free;
we could save the water, if we would see
the blood on the streets, the blood upon the walls,
the blood upon the white tees, the blood upon the laws
and order, the hoarders and the spenders; if the next time

We see the menders binding wounds, owning slurs,
and spending dimes on candles to guide surgeon’s
hands; all
we ask, all we seek, today, this minute, not tomorrow and
next week;

Black Lives Matter (how many eyes does it
take to be opened, before we despise our own jealousies).

I am far too quiet, too far removed. I will not count
the numbers, fear the decaffeinated mood of anyone
(thus far in this bit of writing I’d say)
I will not steer clear of mental paradoxes used by
proper instructor meant to
steal younger minds from thinking if

Jesus appreciates our excuses and abstractions
to miss the opportunity in

The middle of the road.

Another Road

“Later they were warned in a dream not to return to Herod, and they went back home by another road.” Matthew 2:12

Thirty-nine years ago, the summer between my junior and senior year in high school, my family took a camping vacation. This wasn’t unusual, we usually camped. Dad was a pastor, we had four kids, and we rarely stayed in motel rooms. Fortunately, living in Southern California, Disneyland, Hollywood and the beach were all day trips. We didn’t lose much by not sleeping at the most convenient C’mon Inn.