The Days Are Short

The Days Are Short

(“He turned the wilderness into pools of water and the desert into flowing springs.” Psalm 107:35)

I wanted to get a head start and send you
the pre-snow breath of autumn. The days are short
for bare feet and wine in the sun.
And though my own hours are divided in
half,
I would share them with you as if we had
a hundred years to spend
listening to streams and frogs playing on the banks.
I would walk the levees, even though my legs give
out so much quicker in this slant-lighted season.
I meet my limit far too soon,
or start far too late in the day. Please
don’t feel you must arrange your schedule around me.
But the sparrows were bathing in
a puddle earlier, the leaves hanging lightly to
their branches as they blush before winter.
I wonder if last year’s leaves are happy as loam,
if the rose petals feed next year’s blooms.

Though pain commands my hours, tells my
bones there are fewer miles I can travel in a day, the
dawn peeks in anyway.
Complaint is not a language that settles well on my tongue.

There is time to build a new earth, though my time fades.
There are reservoirs of mercy though the sun sets early.
The deer eat the remains of the apples in my yard,
the guns half a world away disturb the mountain’s flow.
There are babies fighting for breath, there are elders
forced underground.

The day is punctuated. The percussion becomes harsh.
The rivers flow but are dammed by territorial possession.

And we wait for rain that will wash us clean,
we hope the river will soon drown our sorrows
and
cleanse our inhuman intentions.

Come, let us walk together, holding hands across the
hostile borders.

The Simplest Dances

The Simplest Dances

(“Now these three remain: faith, hope, and love—but the greatest of these is love.” 1 Corinthians 13:13)

I did not do it brilliantly,
not even just short of perfectly,
but initially and everly I yearned for the
greatest to evidently be
the trajectory of my life.

I’ve seen Jesus in the eyes of my drunken friend at Taco Bell,
I’ve heard Jesus’ cry from the man who yelled, “fuck you” when
I had no more to give.
I’ve seen Jesus beg me when the unbathed teen knocked on my door
and asked for a ride home
for the thirteenth time in a month.
And his mom rarely answered the door.
I know the ache of Jesus when a husband and wife take two
weeks to cool down; one stubborn, the other a steel trap, but
both want something to unleash the love that lies beneath
their lifelong scabs.

And the lonely one who everyone thinks is unsocial,
and instead
cannot speak for all the judgments in her head.
And the bellicose who thinks he’ll save the world
and instead
drives people away with the angry hues of red
that swirl around his face. They replace the words
that should adorn the air with grace.

I’ve seen the wounds on Jesus’ face when a wife
who should be a princess is cut with wounds so deep
that even relief feels like another reason to wither in the sun.
I’ve walked with Jesus on solitary roads, wondering why he
traveled alone. And he told me, (I only surmise, and do not know)
that as we traveled, he was not alone.

I’ve watched the hands of Jesus as a man, my better, my elder,
knelt in a simpler way that I had seen, and washed my feet with
apologies for the obscene cruelties of super-apostles
who had laid my heart open for the world to see.

I’ve heard the voice of Jesus in the mentor who knew me best,
an Oklahoman, a gentleman, a father of fathers who I would rather
have never let down once; but did more than twice. And every time
he called me all I could hear was liquid love that filled the empty
room my heart had become. Long gone, a score of years ago,
I still hope for his phone call when I am shopping or crying
or talking to another one

That needs to hear the same voice that keeps me connected
to Jesus in every act of love ever given, ever received;
that keeps us entranced (if we’ll only give it the chance)
and invites us to the simplest dances. Choreography be damned.

I Never Counted

I Never Counted

(“Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.” 2 Corinthians 3:17)

How long will you try to control my trajectory,
keep my like a kite on a line, telling me I cannot fly unless
held back by your length of twine.

How short is your far. How near is your goodbye?
You feign interest in helping, and turn backwards speaking
in unholy tongues
to the same ones and said I was troubled in the head while
handing me your own letter and unforged signature to introduce me
as a capable candidate for any who might inquire.

How long are your lies, and how short is your memory?
How broad are your definitions, and how narrow your expectations?
How long will you torment me, with such a velocity that while you lie to me
the opposite words flee to tidy the mess within moments of breaking
it in pieces? My own words were chards at your feet. My friends’ words
are probably burned while the enemies’ preserved for posterity.

These ten times, and seven years, you reproach and not once
would you allow
a single confrontation with the cows of Bashan.
And finally, I wonder why they call gentleman, one who
takes my precious one, the innocent one, the one with more Grace
than Boldness; when they take her and throw darts at her simple words
and make her the newest target of their quackery.

What I never counted on was freedom for every step I had fallen upon.
What is stranger yet, it seems, they still are redeemed, though my breath
gets caught at the back of my tongue to consider it.

Oh liberty, Oh freedom, misery that dies where sins are crucified,
and life wider than the reaches of noon-day eyes is the constant surprise
for those who do not trip over the Rock of redemption just because they
pursued perfection too impeccably.

A New Routine

A New Routine

(“Fill us with your love every morning.  Then we will sing and rejoice all our lives.” Psalm 90:14)

How do you begin your day? We all have routines, and they can be as varied as our different personalities. Those routines can change at different points throughout our life as well. A high school student’s morning may be far more hurried than a retired couple. The student swills a quick bowl of cereal and rushes out the door to catch the bus in time, while the retirees my enjoy the leisure of a quiet morning, slowly sipping morning coffee and reading a favorite book. The executive takes time to think through an important meeting and a stay-at-home parent checks the calendar for each child’s activities. For most of us, the routine is a well-worn path every morning.