Sing the Silvery Song

Sing the Silvery Song

(“And now behold, we are in your hands; do to us as it seems good and right in your sight to do.” Joshua 9:25)

Oh no, not today. Not while we are doubling down on
the trouble we have avoided so far. You were far stronger than
we could imagine and bowed ourselves before you with our
hands quivering in the sun. There was a day

When we were all simply people on the sand. But you took your name,
we took our land,
and it all became the worst capture the flag game ever seen.

Your ancestors and ours roamed this dirt in different directions.
Some followed the river, some stayed close to the oasis of trees.
Some built huts while some built tall houses with gardens on the roof.
We all shared the plums and figs and dates and planted new fruit
trees when we wanted. We raised our sheep and goats and a few pigs.
We ate at tables spread for neighbors with enough for children and
elders.

Oh no, not today. Not another gridiron gladiator storming the gates.
Not another flock of locusts setting the air on fire. We’ve hidden
for far too long and now
ask for courtesy, a little sympathy, a new translation for an old
alteration we made up on the spot. Speak the old languages,
sing the silvery song, beat the drum slowly and wake us up with
pipes from the hills.

Let us gather now like we know it’s almost over,
let us share the table set among the sweet clover.
Let us listen for the bell that rings out freedom,
let us grasp hands, and shake them like we just succeeded
and will look for the ways the sunlight plays so late
in a summer evening.

Does it Show?

Does it Show?

(“Don’t worry—I am with you. Don’t be afraid—I am your God. I will make you strong and help you. I will support you with my right hand that brings victory.” Isaiah 41:10)

Does it show? Can you see the change on my face,
the brokenness of my gait? Do my steps seem slower today,
and can I point out all I’ve endured.
And have I paid for everything; am I completely cured?
Fear is the silence of a lion sneaking up without a roar.
Anxiety is the silence of songs that refuse to be sung.
I’ve sat through days I don’t want to describe,
I don’t want to hide. I stepped out yesterday and tried
out a little conversation. I never carried my half well,
letting the parentheses spill between questions and answers.
Do you believe? Can you see the rearrangements around my eyes;
can you hear the key change I no longer can sing?

I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I’m tired, no naps in my easy chair.
I read the side effects and lived out a few. I listened to the list
and hoped to sleep away the fatigue.

I’m pretty sure I am in no immediate danger, but my mind and
body
buzzes like a convict on his last walk around the grounds.
I’m pretty sure I am ok. I’m pretty sure the kingdoms are
not conspiring against me. I’m pretty sure I’ll lay me down
to sleep at the proper time.

I’m not sure how to celebrate; I’m unclear on the victory.
I’ve left some writing on the wall, but I may repaint soon.
I’ve read some ancient texts that decoded my younger aspirations.
I could tell you more, if only I had something weighty to say.
But I just play the radio and wish I would
play my guitar instead. I dedicated the room to music,
but there is nothing in my head. No notes, no lyrics,
no meaningful letter to trace between the lines of
manuscript pages.

Does it show? I’m slowly unwinding and willing to
play my songs if only I can find them. Can you loan me
an hour or two? I’ll play one song, but I don’t like how
I sing these days.
Does it show? Can you see what so much solo has done?

To Sing by Heart

To Sing by Heart

(“Jesus saw him lying there and knew the man had been sick a long time. Jesus said to him, ‘Would you like to be healed?’” John 5:6)

I’ve walked on a dozen sad oceans,
crossed every mountain before snow.
I’ve traveled seven brimming continents,
followed every desert before the thunder growls.

But I have never heard a song like this before,
never conceived a tune that would set me on the road again.
I rarely leave my chair these days,
save to walk with the dogs and children thirsting for summer.

I’ve met you in a score of buzzing cafes,
called you every evening after you have gone home.
I’ve shared a beer with a jovial patron who asked me to
follow them down the road for a spell; listen to their
story for another hour before the bars were all closed.

But somewhere along the way I lost you, didn’t I?
If I unfolded a vintage map, could I find the street where
we both once played? Could I persuade you to
sit outside and wait for the day to fall quietly across
the horizon?

I’ve listened to a decade of polyrhythms,
danced to a wailing mariachi band.
I’ve cried the blues played with the best of them,
listened to lofty hymns at my worst.

But I have never sung with you, have I?
I hate singing alone.
Let us write something to cross the chasms,
let us announce our concerted effort.
Let us abandon our reservations,
let us sing by heart the songs we both
already know.

Sunshine Perches

Sunshine Perches

(“You belong to God. He has done this for you so you can tell others how God has called you out of darkness into His great light. 1 Peter 2:9b)

Sunshine perches on 25 fenceposts along the road,
beside the field.
Laughter encircles the pines above the meadow,
below the clouds.
Grapes ripen on the vine on
days like these, blue jays define the sky.
Terriers and poodles, at least a decade old,
cross the double yellow lines to greet old men
who walk early in the afternoon.
Everything happens sooner or later.
Everything is soaked, everything dries on the line.

I thought a neighbor’s dog walked by the corner
of my office window,
but it was a young buck nodding at the apple leaves.
I thought a kitten was sitting in my driveway,
gray as the gravel,
but it was a rabbit scattering into the rhododendrons.

I knew I saw my grandson smile,
and take my finger,
and laugh at papa jokes so heartily the
whole neighborhood shook.
I knew he knew
what I know today:
There are surprise while we wait for

Everything to happen.

Barely a week into life, and he knows my name.
That is what I tell people when I pick up a coffee
to take to his mom and dad,
so weary, so beaming, so bright they make the
stars sit up and wonder. Conquered by love,
they cradle him next to the sunshine

That perches on their railing; the deck where stellar jays play.

Sing Me Closer

 Sing Me Closer

(“I have spoken once, and I will not reply; or twice, and I will add nothing more.” Job 40:5)

There was once a man, a preacher, a laborer,
a well suited-and-tied man. He could pray beyond
the boundaries of time that ticked away at the end of meetings.
No flowers, little elegance, simply words strung together that, more
than
once,
made me wish I could pray exactly the same.

There was once a man, another, a hopeful, a bull,
an untailored man. He could tell you what God had said
right in the middle of the first man’s prayer.

I often wondered why either of them were there.

I do not fault them; I nearly envied one. My prayers were
drops of tears when alone,
perfect informal eloquence when presiding. But never so long
that anyone suspected I had learned a holy language. And
never so specific
that my words could be mistaken
for palm-reading, fortune-telling, or guidance from the
Almighty
who (I hoped) could speak quite well on Her own.

Today I go through a week of days with no live conversation
for hours at a time. I have spoken once, then not at all until
the night begins to fall.

I would give this gift.

But no one knocks on the door to accept it.

I despise spiritual language. I do not have the mystic’s vocabulary.
The only dialect that has ever moved me,
the only accent I’ve learned that removes the pain
are the words that wrap around your heart so hard
you feel like you might die,
and you might as well,
in the love that feels more divine
than pews and prophecy,
pomposity and prayers
combined.
Sing me closer so I can breathe,
touch my hands, warm, and I may, once more,
believe.

Just a Pencil

Just a Pencil

(“But I will sing of your power and in the morning I will shout for joy about your gracious love. For you have been a fortress for me; and a refuge when I am distressed.” Psalm 59:16)

The Santa Monica pier is just a pencil
drawing dots and dashes before the swells sweep in.
The first time I saw the ocean I wondered where it would end,
how the graphite waves inked the beach like slate
and why the sand stayed attached just beyond the ribbons
of asphalt.

The planet Venus is just a candid song
mimicking madrigals and goddesses before the show begins.
The first time I saw the green star I wondered why it blinked,
how it hovered and caught my eye so far from my reach
and why it moved in winter skies from house to house
before it dove into the fields of snow.

The Whirlpool Galaxy is just an artist’s rendition
echoing the smaller circles and spirals spun by ballerinas.
The first time I saw the ageless coil I gasped at its audacity,
how toy-like, how yoyo, how hula-hoop it plays
and why it invites my eyes to see further than light
exists above the tiny steps of earth.

The wide mouth words are just bullets
that explode inside the soul of the drowsy.
The first time I heard, crash or whisper, I wondered where it would end,
how the expelled breath became gray arrows
and why they stuck so deep and so long before
the stingy world swung round the sun again.

And we are shot up, shot down, filed away and
underground
until
a voice sounds, rewound, wild arrays of
love unbound
by time or space,
pencils or bullets,
and gently pulls us deeper in
to the Center of song, the Tower of morning
and dance.

Say the Intimacies

Say the Intimacies

(“You must pray at all times as the Holy Spirit leads you to pray. Pray for the things that are needed. You must watch and keep on praying. Remember to pray for all Christians.” Ephesians 6:18)

Once a thought in the mind of God,S
then a word and command, the world began.
There is no mud nor air contributed by man,
no angel or demon made the seas meet the sand.

Once infinitesimally small with all the weight and fury
the entire universe would carry; expanding beyond imagination,
words eclipsed by eternity, music hindered by hearable scales.
The stars, like glitter and powder, sing sacred songs unknown
within the trails of swarming galaxies. A mere Painter’s
flick and colors spun from the Center of all being to the
edges of Not Known.

The Scholar and Artist who still conceives a day on this planet,
a year on the next, is not deaf to the whispers or agony
of a single creature upon the universal canvas. One cry
to His ear is all.

Turn over the contents of your heart, pour out the tears stored
in hidden jars and all will stop as the Father hears.

Dawn delays, dusk slow its rosy dark while
eye to eye, heart to heart, every word, every thought
is heard and repeated. One appeal does not deplete
the constant supply of wildfire love, nor any whisper
too soft to merit the gentlest reply.

Sing if you pray, or chant new rhymes, keep matins
or vespers, shout or whisper, knees, feet or prone,
crowded or alone; seek and say the intimacies
that have crowded you too late and early, too
recently.

A Rainful of Thunder

A Rainful of Thunder

Sing the longing, the refrain of spiral clouds after
chorus one, two and three. Rehearse the verses you’ve heard
from improvised warblers giving dawn its due revolution.

You’ve heard the mourning dove, seen them nest,
and return next year, the next, and left the nest waiting
outside upon the balcony. Was it their young who returned,
or the chance landing upon the previous pairs address?
It did not matter, their coos accompanied the rhythm and hum
of the slow meter of everyday drums.

Echo the wind. You’ve watched it since beginning to see
what the invisible leaves behind and the visible steps aside
just as you wished for an unobstructed view. Were the
clouds lost ghost ships and did the earth slip from under
your feet as they teetered across the sky? Were leaves spinning
timbrels the trees used to join the dance? Was this the time
when all stands still,

Breath is imperceptible,
time does not pass but waits like a diamond web
to catch certain memories and give them back
once dreams and wonder have followed
our popsicle sticks down the gutter on a hot
and sticky summer
just after the shout of a rainful of thunder.