Standing Alone in the Rain

Standing Alone in the Rain

(“No one has ever seen God. The only Son, who is truly God and is closest to the Father, has shown us what God is like.” John 1:18)

I’ve seen you staring back at me,
I’ve heard you whispering with my own voice.
I’ve deduced all there is left to deduce of
who you actually are.
But nothing changes with me,
nothing shines more brightly.
For an hour I laugh and come home
and cry
and forget what I was laughing about.
I never was much good at praying anyway.

Everything feels just slightly out of reach,
everything is cloudy while my friends enjoy the sun.
I’d change my colors, but they are all greyscale,
they are all dots on a screen waiting to be seen.

My guitar sits untouched.
I thought I would be writing music by now.
My words are pedantic,
my happiness a chest of moldy memories,
faint joy for a second of hesitation. Today,
if I must speak honestly,
reminds me why I cannot trust myself,
why I always rush myself to imbibe a spirit
that will get me through the night.

But it is the day that burdens me. The sun,
even when it is bright, is heavy, is gravity,
is elusive. My heart lies inside with the shades pulled tight.
Can anyone imagine what it’s like to have
nearly
everything you want and be squeezed into a box
full of unfulfilled promises?

Before they turn the lights out, I should tell you
I don’t mind standing alone in the rain.

Loneliness Begins

 Loneliness Begins

(“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, sure and steadfast, which reaches inside behind the curtain.” Hebrews 6:19)

Loneliness begins like bees in your head
while you long for one friendly word
to mute their buzzing. The longer the day,
the more the noise, and the sickness grows to
an ache that weighs

Like lead in your chest. You would fall over with
the sickness, faint front first, if not for the last time
you broke your nose that way. A phone call would
be the alchemy that turned the weight around. And then,
into the night the illness fills
your legs’ hollowed

Bones. And now standing has locked the door behind itself.
The couch does not speak, but it knows your form. You beg
for sleep, and when you waken, you beg for sleep again,

Except your dreams leave you feeling you’ll never please those
half a dozen friends that haunt you nights. And then you
beg in postcards, texts, emails and anonymous social posts,
for one who used to hear your words
and sing them back to you

To return and heal this sickness before the bees’ stings
remind you that you caught your loneliness

From failing far too often.

Today I wait for one, maybe two, who know me
in, out, through, trash, and unholy scan
and simply want to keep me company, dry
my tears,
and remind me they have anchored me (sickened
by the sea) and that
I sometimes was less than lonesome,
and often more than dead.

Standing Right in Front of You

 

Standing Right in Front of You

(“Jesus said this because the people were saying that he had an evil spirit in him.” Mark 3:30)

You have him standing right in front of you,
the one without the loaded gun,
(No, I do not have a gun).
the one who eschewed the sword,
(Lord of peace, king imbued with grace).
You have him kneeling right in front of you,
the one with the washcloth in his hand.
(No, I do not boast of loss).
the one who disdained the crown,
(Prince of the found and lost).

And still we ignore you, too quiet for our own tastes.
And still we mistake you, too subversive to be a saint.
And still we see demons where healing is measured
in bushels of liberation to the underserving back alleys
and sad mistakes
and perpetual retakes
and weighted heartaches
without ever entering the high stakes
steeples we have erected to point far above
the places you selected to dwell.

We will learn to dissolve our high-minded walls
when we lay down our calls for doctrines to referee
every notion encapsulated minds have formed.
(if they said demons inhabited You,
what prevents us from saying worse about the
least of these?)

Meanwhile we load our rifles, grab our clubs,
march into a garden where a man has been praying
all night long (far after the last refrain of the last psalm)
and demand proof of his identity.

We see demons everywhere when demons have circled our
unrequited thoughts and pulled them tightly around us like
a hat band squeezing our brain. Little room remains to see
the world, the divine,
the image, the new wine,
the healed, the holy
in the feet of one who walks the backroads
slowly, ambling through our souls, one at a time,
and healing those we have left behind.

We Shall Play Again

We Shall Play Again

(“The peace of God is much greater than the human mind can understand. This peace will keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:7)

For Laurie

There is a swirling of conversation that can connect
two people more closely than
another one thousand miles closer.
And still, in the whirlwind of the mind,
there are only spoken words, inflections heard
and occasional nuggets of gold in the bottom of the pan.

If I write that I am going to write stream-of-consciousness,
do you still understand and have I accomplished my mission?
There was a time I did not care, and it did not scare me either,
to combine images of spaceships and a pretty girl’s hair. Now,
though I’m not all that proper,
still I want people to go “hmm” before they go “ohh.”

Sometimes one talk takes the place of a dozen therapy sessions,
(do you know how hard it is to find a therapist you can trust?)
I must confess, that’s why I see a therapist and not a priest.
I want to talk about myself, not our thoughts about God,
or your thoughts about how I’m doing with God. (How would you
know, child of clay and sand, sparks and spit?)
But my unconscious knows something I had yet to admit:
“I don’t believe in God anymore.”

I knew you wouldn’t shrink, which expanded my words.
The background was gray and green, a shadow scene with
my body stuck between standing and tottering. And then I said,
to everyone who was listening: “I don’t believe in God anymore.”
Oh, did I tell you it was a dream?

But that is why I called you, to bring you into a space that
stunned me; a waking gasp at “anymore.” And everyone heard
every word, every firm statement of final disbelief.

I was not relieved.

I once thought words, phrases and questions were sent by
strong concentration, fasting and sweating prayer. I also knew
they could come from nowhere.
So, days later, my disbelief haunted the days and I read a book,
(perhaps on civil rights in the 60s, perhaps a bio of Socrates)
and an arrow pierced my mind right behind the word “anymore.”

“What if now, God believes in me?”

II.

The crazy trumpets broke the night like the saxophones laughing;
but it was never the song, it was how I heard it.

So I take up the mandolin again, fingers swollen from aging,
and release the expectations of virtuosity. Sometimes it’s better
just to play.

Remember how I said the piano is my soulmate? Remember how
I said I did not have to think? The place for peace is the place that
belief has recused itself from me. An opening, not a void, for
the quiet voice that never said much to me. And now doubt,
(that devilish and scattered word) has become the very earth in which
a new trust has begun.

We shall play again, fiddle, guitar or melodion.