The Eyes We First Loved

The Eyes We First Loved

(“Stand in the ways and see, and ask for the old paths, ‘Where is the good way?’ and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls.” Jeremiah 6:16)

Faintly the sounds of the vinyl spun
as we believed we knew all there was to know
of love.
We danced longer so our parents wouldn’t call
us home too soon.
We loved sandalwood, we wore paisley,
we adopted patios on summer nights
as our own.

But we have forgotten the names of those
whose eyes we first loved. We have traveled far
beyond the five-cent coffee and
newspaper kites we learned to fashion after
school.

But we remember the faces,
we remember the spaces, barely inches between us,
as we navigated parks with sloping hills,
as we wondered if holding hands was a portent
of something more.

Some of us cry as much now as we
did then,
some of us more.
Some of us try to call the same number that
we remember. Was it 415 or 213? The area codes
have changed.

Our houses were built so closely that
we talked through the windows to the girl-next-
door. Our houses were larger than life,
our flower beds were planted by someone before
we were born.

Did you ever ride your bike to visit the girl
who lived just far enough that your calls were
long-distance? Did you remind the night that some
names
are never to be forgotten?

We marry, have children, raise them to be better
than we thought we had been. But maybe
we lost
our way when we gave our first pet dog,
the one who danced around our two-year-old grinning;
when we gave our first dog Princess away
to a farmer so she would have more fun
chasing rabbits in the fields.

We should have kept her. We should have found a way
to acquaint a gray merle Australian Shepherd
with houses that were now smaller than we remembered.

What All the Writing Was For

What All the Writing Was For

(“Stand up! Shine brightly! Now your light has come! The Lord's glory has risen to shine on you.” Isaiah 60:1)

It wasn’t the suffocating clouds that stopped him from breathing,
nor the ice wind that circled his feet.
He could not quite place it, perhaps the solitude had become
his undoing. Perhaps it was not the retreat he needed.
He saw as many stars as
the men in the next valley.
Though hidden, the same sun would crack the sky
occasionally, a hint that things moved the same
direction as they had from the beginning.
But the winter captured every hope and,
reversing course,
froze his loneliness in place.

He loved to see the eagles atop the douglas firs,
the cows and calves nuzzling in the fields. But
the threads
that ran from friend to friend were
too fragile to bind much together these days.
He feared they had broken, and loosened,
had floated with the northern breeze. He
feared they had been dropped into the river.
And he was too weary to weave new tapestries,
too late, too far, too distant, too afraid
to see them unravel again.

So he wrote. He would send it to every pair of eyes
that had ever seen him truly. But they would think him
far more needy
than the man they knew before.
So he wrote. And sent it like paper boats on
the river to
the ocean to
the continent next door.

And he would not be disappointed that
no one answered. How could they know what
all the writing was for?

It Is Lonely, You Know

 

It Is Lonely, You Know

(“Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in. I will eat with that person, and they will eat with me. Revelation 3:20)

It is lonely, you know,
taking breakfast by yourself.
It is solitude for an hour, the sun upon the back porch,
but then the quiet invades and screams there must be more
than waiting.
(I’ve left the front door unlocked for ages.)

I would go into town, meet the gang for lunch,
but my cat has run away, and most of my friends
live state-lines beyond my reach. My feet ache
from starting my walk south and turning around.

I’ve heard the songs you sing, hands sometimes raised in the air;
I’ve seen the prayers you pray, sometimes kneeling on the ground.
Where does all that seeking leave you?
Which direction does your face turn,
what concerns you most after your encounter with
holy moments better than the building around the corner?

It remains lonely, you know,
after lunch by myself.
The sky is sun, the air is roses, the grass is fully awakened.
My eyes are rain, my breath half a prayer, my mind slowly mourning
the silence that makes all my thoughts shout even louder
that happiness is still far beyond my reach.

I’ve sat at tables before full of bread and bounty;
I’ve heard the thrum surround the forks and knives
while stereo conversations fill the kitchen counters with
more than just casseroles. Laughter is the echo that remains

After everyone has gone home.

We All Stand

We All Stand

(“God is our shelter and our strength. When troubles seem near, God is nearer, and He’s ready to help.” Psalm 46:1)

The clouds hung like sheets in the wind,
while we craved what we never won;
oceans spin out of control while the earth bucks and bends
gravitation its way and then,
someone discovers the exception to the rule

And we all stand up and declare him the fool.

Lately the rain has colored the pages,
secretly the chords made us young;
celestas ring like handheld bells while chimes draw and call
crowds aloud and pedestrians crawl,someone composes a score upon cluttered rhythms and tones

And we all stand up to answer the phone.

The gentle are strong, sun or gloom,
while the cruel waste their breath and tongue;
lectures lock us imprisoned and letters turn the key
from the outside, to keep us in:
somewhere one voice ends the wrath; “forgive” trumpets grace first to last

And we still stand up to measure the past.