Barely Hesitation

Barely Hesitation

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.” Matthew 7:7

Continue rapping, three sharp blows
where the door and the siding echoes;
then listen.

Continue knocking, pound three times
on the hollow front door, no whine,
just linger.

They are home, they are somewhere in the back,
splashing in the pool, playing the music loud.
Don’t leave just yet, don’t step down, don’t step back;
they know you well within and, should they know it was
you
knocking
they would instantly grin.

Keep on searching, take down notes
of every street you have pursued it;
then silent.

Keep on seeking, write it down,
town and country, dream and waking; just
watch lightly.

They are found, they are jewels, they are crowns;
beneath the loam, underneath the rockabye waves.
Don’t give up now, don’t lose heart, don’t lose faith;
Today is well known, tomorrow the wonder;
you
seeking
still, and yet gems and sweat.

Raise the questions, windmill wide,
while others hide doubt behind duty;
then pencil.

Keep no asking, heaven high,
no agenda, and no theorem; just
open ears.

They are answered, foreign or familiar;
from the deepest sigh, beyond sun and starlight high.
Listen is best; from Father’s openness;
our ears well-trained, silence is invitation;
you
asking,
barely hesitation.

The Smallest Timbre

The Smallest Timbre

(“And without faith it is impossible to please God, for whoever would approach him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him.” Hebrews 11:6)

I spot the impossible in memories and mind,
but miss it on the sod I’ve planted my feet upon.
The clouds increase my resistance,
my willingness lumbers under pretentious imagination
precisely where I left it time ago and
time again.

I have not done with seeking, it is finding that frustrates me,
and I wish the next bush would hold a bird or two with
a welcome song from the home where I know the view
has washed all the grey hues away. The music,
the lyric,
the lilt of fiddle tunes that echo from smokey mountains
to splintered front porches. The work is hard but the
play is better.

I love every word Jesus spoke, and need no others.
But I would like them front and centered,
above the late night memories and happy home rooms
I’ve entered so long ago they’ve come around and
masquerade as my future.

Let the morning carry the words I adore through
the cracks in the shutters, into the spirals that utter
dark expectations about the smallest timbre
and attach meanings to the absence I feel
of every love I’ve made or imagined. I
do not want to feel loved to rid my stomach
of its shivers
nor
my eyes of their tears.

I am nearing the end, and no longer needing proof,
I simply want to hear an answer to help me seek
just a little bit longer.