Some Roads Need to be Straightened

Some Roads Need to be Straightened

(“He told me, “Son of man, eat what you see. Eat this book. Then go and speak…” Ezekiel 3:1 [The Message])

I can’t blame you for the gray blanket that
quilted the hills. Like worn fringes of its border,
like unsuspecting fingers, the clouds reached down
from their peaks to meet the recent and average snow
just above the lumber roads.

I’ve had shadows cover my visions on the sunniest of days.
I’ve seen question marks with unrelenting fervor.
I’ve heard too much. I’ve read until my eyes bled.
I’ve spoken up at every chance and rarely come to
a satisfactory conclusion.

I can’t argue with your observations. I’ve seen the same
darkness myself. I won’t suggest we take another route,
some days need to be shaken. Some roads need to be
straightened. And some moments last longer than the
drive we take home.

With shadows cast over us we search for the light
that covers us from the other side of the walls we lean against.
One day the friends I’ve know forever will
stay
until the end of the day
and, with pizza and cheap wine,
rewind every memory late into the night.

Have I told you how much I miss your laugh?
Do you remember the week we painted a neighbor’s house
for beer and a few dollars to spend?
Do you see that night we looked for water, listened to birds,
went to Denny’s, tried to wake the director of the Y?
Near midnight we saw his bike; he was asleep on his couch.
We tapped the window and could not rouse him.
So we found water where you always find water,
and we baptized each other in a duck pond green with slime.

Our heads popped above surface tension as the
sun rose.
And we went home to put our underwear in the dryer.

I can’t even blame myself, longing half a century later
for hikes in the hills or tunneling through snow.

His Favorite People are Pilgrims

His Favorite People are Pilgrims

His favorite people are pilgrims,
some solitary, others in twos and threes.
His favorite roads are dusty, just outside
Jerusalem or
Oklahoma City.
He knows they have been plundered,
he has seen their limps and empty pockets.
But he would walk with no one else,
hold his tongue with no one else,
unveil the shadows with no one else,
than those
who journey five or ten or a hundred miles
in a day.
Rocks are their pillows,
stray dogs and cats their fellows,
and they shop for food at farmstands along the way.

Sometimes the rain feels like sloppy snowflakes,
sometimes it quenches like a cold draught of beer.
Sometimes the rain nourishes the roses and onions,
sometimes the rain is steam rising from an asphalt highway.

They talk slowly, their numbers are in flux.
Companions at heart, but known for only hours,
some dance like puppies, some shrink like soldiers
who still cannot hear the symphony’s percussion without
holding their ears.

One (or maybe all) find their inner chamber filled with
specters, unruly guests of the past. The same one (or maybe
everyone) fears what lies behind the
locked door at the farthest reaches of their heart. They
know what abides there,
they fear it is still alive there,
and tremble to think of turning the key.

Are we locked outside? Or imprisoned within?
Can it open from in and out? Does the combination work
on both sides of the door?

His favorite people are pilgrims,
some lonely, others solitary and free.
Their feet stir up the same dust, their journeys
wind between street signs and churches,
up to caverns of quiet, down to valleys where rivers
sing with question marks left open.

Sometimes the conversation is revealing,
sometimes it is more human than healing.
Sometimes the silence nourishes the love and vision,
sometimes the trek is a memory

And shame is finally
a place to unlock hidden closets emptied
long ago.