Words in Single File

 
Words in Single File

(“They will be my people, and I will be their God.” Jeremiah 32:38)

Hungry and breathing on our own,
we played darts in the low-light bar.
We never saw the bullseye, never scored
a winning high. All our research had come to this:
The water was green as jade and the air puffing
like tobacco ash.

Walking and waiting in the sun,
we looked for frisbees on the browning meadow.
We never threw it into the brambles, though
we picked some black berries to share.
Nearly winter now and our thinking came this:
dogs are the perfect companions for Autumn
afternoons
when we saw winter looming high above the hills.

We adopted new languages we all could learn,
angelic saying and quotations of the sages.
We came out of the corners when we heard
the sun raise its head; just a single ray
piercing through the clouds.

Forgive my for being here before,
I don’t think I had learned the lesson.
But no one offered me a beer when my
thirst is all I could feel. Some stayed around
for a few more orbits, some jumped off at
the first stop of the sky wagons we flew.

We can be family; we can be sheltered.
We can withdraw the blame that rose from
the words of those helter-skelter ones who wore
gloves to sanitize the entire procedure.

All he wanted, (I should write in the first person)
All I wanted was words in single file,
inviting me to the party again. But, with their
enhanced theology I never stood a chance.
I am guilty, I’ve known that longer than the
accusers’ memory. But that does not exempt
(you or me) from covenants of siblings, of
celebrations of family.

The Stones Burned Patterns

 

The Stones Burned Patterns

(“You see, everyone will be salted with fire.” Mark 9:49)

I have stepped where the stones burned patterns on the soles of my feet.
When I walked where answers were easy the callouses fell off
and my mind went soft.

 

Some believe I built too good a throne
and at this point farther down the road
I am inclined to agree. Though I miss the descants
the minstrels used to sing.

 

From there it was a briny bog, brackish near the dusk
when people tried to eat the sun. All I wanted was a chance
to hear the songs again that pointed me back home.

I have wept over wounds I’ve inflicted,
would have amputated my hands, my feet, my eyes
to change the misdirection and spirals my aspirational
slipups caused.

I am wounded too, sometimes rubbed with salt
by ones who remember more than they know.

Who can blame them? Out of control, the fire burned
invisible welts from house to house, from soul to soul.

I have wept where the days turned scattered light into prism colors.
When I cried the colors bled. I am held by the blazing eyes
of the One who purifies all with a single gaze.

Times When Silence

 

Times When Silence

(“May your gracious love come to me, your salvation, just as you said.” Psalm 119:41)

There were times when following
looked like abandonment. The voices were
shapeless,
the promises faceless,
and the landscape so concrete you
could not help walking on the cracks.

Though the path predates me
I’m the one who has felt old lately.

Some days I hate the rain, other days the
storm is passion and promise, dotting my windows
and animating trees preparing for the slumber of winter.

Sweet dreams, they say,
and sometimes they are. When doves
pair up in your attic
you should not complain of loneliness.

There are times when silence
feels like applause, one moment when love
has drawn all existence into itself and landscapes
melt like wax. Below the windy earth
and above the laconic sky, mercy awakens,
a single syllable unworded.