The First Chords of a Folk Song

 The First Chords of a Folk Song

(“So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus.” Romans 8:1)

It was time to get serious again about all the subjects
that kept us in line. The law, the rules, the injunctions,
the tools, the courtrooms, the judges, the preachers so used
to fudging the tightest belt out of the most
ill-fitting passages they could find.
It was time to unwind the heresy that anyone
could be happy
simply tasting the rain on their tongue
or
dancing like a toddler with no one in particular.

For a while their lecture halls were full,
for some time the students took notes in bluebooks,
transferred them to laptops and cleaned up
the illegible handwriting that had made them miss lunch
dates
with too many friends.
For a while the pseudo-prophets prospered.
No one doubted their word. Not one. And those who did,
(we all knew who they were), those who did were treated
like outcasts and backsliders, though most of us believed they
never belonged in the first place.

After a while the acrid smoke blemished the best presentations,
after a while the manufactured scents caused women to cry,
after a while the flags that waved, the allegiances pledged,
lost their luster when everything was a battle,
and no one could escape the arrows’ gleaming light.
The doors were heavy as lead and the post trauma songs
only sent true believers home.

And then, like fireworks on New Year’s Eve,
a toddler spun at the edge of the campground,
a puppy danced in the campfire reflection,
a mother cried who had never cried before,
and hugged her baby who (she knew) had escaped
the death that had been peddled in pamphlets
passed out by preachers and their proteges. A mother
who had insisted the pamphlets were literal and inerrant,
a mother who had never missed a class before.

And then like nothing ever described,
the dawn broke; water, sun, and sky met at the east end
of the river. There had been baptisms, there had been ablutions;
but now it all was oceans that kept the dance going, that
kept showing the songs that opened like the first chords of
a folk song no one had ever heard and
that everyone knew.

I Have not Departed the Faith

 

I Have not Departed the Faith

(“Truly I tell you,” he said, “unless you turn and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 18:3)

I have not departed the faith;
the faith has departed me.
Once I was a fool and did not mind,
learned love this time, that time, all others love
excelling.

Eventually though I learned the ropes and pinned my
every hope
on ladders I thought were strung to the sky; a
rapture of sorts,
but disconnected from affection or creaturely objections
to environments where mud was excluded.
(Believe me, a little dirt never hurt anyone.)

And so I called this globe earthly and fleshly,
saw the human race erased from dignity and
mortally injured. The fences kept my senses
always suspect and my inclinations always setting
like the moon a hangnail away from nothing new.

I hated tomfoolery and simplicity, though I secretly
longed for play. All was serious those days, so many, many
days, that ringing roses served no purpose because
all fall down eventually.

Presidents would save us; legislation would drive the
grayness from our land. But one win led to another,
and before we could love to clown again,
we invented machinery that ate away every bit
of humanity of any who opposed.

I should have rewritten that. We were the opposition,
and proud of the fact. We stacked our accomplishments high
upon the vaulted ceilings of faulted preachings
and wore red caps to prove we had Made it All
Great again.

I have not departed the faith;
the faith has departed me.
And now I will live a fool again,
walk down the street with Christmas lights
strung from my head to my toes
and a tiny chihuahua who has let
this grandpa fall in love with childhood again.

In All Seriousness

In All Seriousness

(“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 5:3)

I had a notion long ago, like an ocean full of logic,
that God needed informants, sleuths to testify of
loose gears in the machinery to management. I dearly loved
the agency,
the sanity I thought was saintly. I never clicked my tongue
or filed a report but I plainly
explained every missed question on the test;
and wondered how they test-taker graduated with all the rest.

Some of them became teachers, these ones with private files
printed upside down upon my desk. I confess I read them, if
not to the rest, to myself. Some of them led millions,
these ones dressed with waterproof ties, shades over their eyes,
while I thought my casual garb was more naked than theirs,
covering less than theirs; showing more of my bleached ankles
and skinny wrists. My mind was insulated just as well,
buried deeper than the death knell. My tears distracted the
prying eyes.

When did I believe I was richer than I had begun? What piles
of treasure,
uncalled-for leisure on mountain slopes and summer isles
had I amassed? My balance is higher, square footage greater,
new car faster; while I’ve read more books, learned more tunes,
bought more songs, and composed my poetry better than
I’ve composed myself. Because,

In all seriousness,

The nightmares I walked off on high school nights
are the same dreams I hide because old men should be
over them by now.

Straight Home

Straight Home

(“Rebekah ran straight home and told her family everything.” Genesis 24:28)

Now I’d rather play than grouse all day about
far too many holes in the fabric, and how I never
knew the holes were there when I grew up
anyway.

Yes, I’d rather run and split the one meadow
in half today and more tomorrow, and never be
late to strategize the best use for
waterguns.

Low, I’d rather look up-sky than hook my hopes
in half today; simply, sincerely out of fear
I would fall more slippery than all I
undertook.

Pool, the waterfall steepens sharp; crawling fails
the anticipation that waits atop greasy rock
granite, the peak graffiti I had
hoped to scrawl.

This, seriously play than dream I pray about
all the unsewn holes in the old words, and how I always
wished the talk matched the fun of (timeless)
past bouquets.