Checking the Score

 
Checking the Score

(“For the Lord, the Holy One of Israel, has said: ‘You will be delivered by returning and resting; your strength will lie in quiet confidence.’” Isaiah 30:15)

I checked the score and no one was winning--
that is not true; I was losing.

My numbers did not add up,
my mind was numb with counting.
The walls turned on their foundations,
the windows were tinted and reflected
nothing back.
The room was filled with voices like lava,
everyone sat in the cheap seats while
the balcony was empty.

I checked the manuscript and no one was reading--
that is not true; I was writing.

Records show, if you are inclined to look,
that my ideas have been loose as rain tied into knots.
My grades were good, only my performance suffered.
The strain to forget was a night-full of mosquitoes,
the reminders, weeds untamed. They were housed
in my brain so long the attic was moldy.

I checked ratings and no one was watching--
that is not true; I had been recorded.

But I no longer care who sees or scores,
what unsavory secrets are stored in recent
and ancient files. They are hefty with my
under-deeds. They are filled with tales I
will not refute.

I checked with heaven; checked in.
All was quiet as the day before creation,
the day after resurrection.

On Keeping Score

 

On Keeping Score

(“Then Samson called to the Lord, ‘Almighty, please remember me! God, give me strength just one more time! Let me get even with the Philistines for at least one of my two eyes.’” Judges 16:28)

Tell me what I do not know,
show me what wells up like mud
from a storm drain. And we shall
call it
god.

More or less,
strength is not in hair or prayer,
thick arms or armaments,
ornaments or hurricanes,
certainty or artillery.
A thousand battlegrounds filled to the brim
cannot replace an eye or help you begin again.

 Because we have heard it said an eye for an eye,
we have seen it played so loud an ear for an ear,
we have forced the issue until everyone is dead.

Instead we are invited to offer the cheek,
to trudge an extra mile,
to take off our shirt
and give it to the thief who stole our coat
right off our backs.
Not exactly a winning strategy.

We should let our hair grow long again,
rehearse the vengeance prayer again
until god finally answers and the pillars
fall again
while the waters mourn with blood.

Or we can lose our taste for keeping score,
stop wasting our moments in violence and storms,
roll out the carpet for villains and ruffians,
set the table for democrats and republicans.

“Almighty Lord, please remember me,”
until I remember the newer words that replace
hotheaded folklore and
contested cold wars
with postwar restoration and
renewed adoration of the King
of kings
who opened the temple doors
to saints and sinners,
losers and winners,
Americans
and
Philistines.