Strengthening

Strengthening

(“He went from place to place…strengthening all the disciples.” Acts 18:23b)

I just dropped by to say I heard the clouds
talking this morning in a colloquy with the sun. They agreed
gladly
to break by noon and flood the day with glass-blue
rays on the afternoon. I
only mention this because I know how much you
have longed for the beginning of wakefulness
to rouse you from the doldrums. You once knew
the lift of renewed songs and friendships grounded
in conversations that lasted past the sunsets of summer.
I came to remind you that the stars can be seen
from this side of the world as well.
I came to remember, right next to you,
the way the air felt holy when we first heard the story
that the conclave of heaven with earth foretold.
And we decided, this time, that time, to believe it
like every other story that invaded our disquieted minds.
Do you remember? Will you remind me while I
walk beside you on this late sunshine afternoon?

Between the Stars and Planets

Between the Stars and Planets

(“I’m now eighty years old. Can I discern what is pleasant and what is not? Can your servant taste what he eats or drinks? Can I still hear the voice of male and female singers?” 2 Samuel 19:35a)

Late into the day the light dims and the sounds around us
are interpreted by the rattling cages of hopeful listening.
We once heard the frogs calling by the pond,
the owls hooting above the trees,
the folksongs sung by young lovers in the meadow.
We remembered that though our children thrive,
our footsteps have become more halting and we
wish we could twirl like them in playful squeals.

We had spent the prime of our days like castles built
above canyon walls. We had armed ourselves with word
after
word, and forgot most of them by the end of the day.
We explored food and the music that accompanied it.
We recited memorized planets from first to last and
all the asteroids dancing between them. We had a way
to look at the sky that discerned between the stars and the
planets and could see well past the end of space, at least
in our minds.

We stayed up late with the best of friends, played music
like it was a carousel. We were serious about our joy;
we played the homemade cassette over and over, two
sisters harmonizing to simple guitar accompaniment.
They sang of oil anointing the head, of sheep imitating
the shepherd and all of it so simple we dove into the songs
like angels swooping the skies.

Today the voices are crackling, the fingers are swollen and
the lyrics escape me. But I remember the people, the warm
smiles
we could wait all day to see, the voices that calmed our
unnecessary anxiety, our uncanny laughter at the silliest of jokes.
Today we would wait even longer because we are spread
across the miles like dots on a map spread across the floor.
And our days are warmer for the joy of our youth.
Some days the evening claims too many of our memories,
but sometimes, unexpectedly, a friend calls to say,
“I miss you.” And you can hear the music one more time.

I Tried to Count the Stars

I Tried to Count the Stars

(“Jesus answered, ‘The foxes have holes to live in. The birds have nests to live in. But the Son of Man has no place to rest his head.’” Luke 9:58)

I tried to count the stars last night and
thought of you.
How naïve to believe they were
just lanterns swinging from an overhead dome.
I tried to measure the miles from them
to where I stood
and fell asleep as the earth turned toward morning.
I tried to count the years in our days and
wondered how we mourn a friend’s passing one morning,
and attend a christening the next.
Light and dark fight it out for our
attention. We are membranes with ears,
eyes diffusing summer leaves in sharp relief.

I assume I have passed you on the street a thousand times,
or met you on an overpass while chrome machines roar
underneath.

I tried to think my way through the last two decades,
pray my way into unconscious flights of ecstasy.
I have missed every face I’ve known,
have remembered la anciana begging on a sidewalk
in Cancun.
I’ve trimmed my roses before the snow fell and waited
until May to watch them bloom.
I’ve seen the rain spit up dust on a Texas afternoon.
I have swallowed my song too long
fearing the tune would elude me.

But I’ve watched, though I rarely see,
your way through the galaxy and your
face that dropped tears on the cheeks of a child,
on the forehead of a child,
on the first blue tulip, the first daffodil.
And I wonder how many abodes we count looking
for home.

Stars Pouring Milk

Stars Pouring Milk

 

I want to see it the way you are seeing it.
I want to hear the sounds of your hidden scars.
I want the silence of a corner booth,
a glass of wine and piano music playing
songs we do not know.
I know it is not the way you planned it.
I know it seldom is.

I would add your pain to mine,
I would join you in the cloudy thoughts
that seep in so unexpectedly. I would
sing you the lyrics we both forget so well.

I want to hear your hurts, though it may be
I have heard them one thousand times before.
It never matters if you repeat them,
it never weighs on my mind.

Your story is my story. And I guard it
in the archives of my heart. Your sadness
is my sadness. And I see it like stars
pouring milk across the midnight sky.

We will sit until your hands warm up,
we will talk until our hearts beat to
the same rhythm, the one the universe
gives in ebbs and flow of seasons, tides
and ocean waves. We will weave our stories
together,
a quilt of crazy choices, and someday laugh
at everyone who never showed up
when our faces were red, and we bled
in front of them all. We, you and I,
will stay far later than last call.

I want to sit back and sigh. I want to
never
say
goodbye.
I want to defrost the fear and
find the few who do not care
that our stories have such sad chapters as these.

I want to know that, between every slowly pronounced
word,
lives a prayer and a love that is always heard

In the silences we wish other people had seen.

Silver Shimmer

Silver Shimmer

(“You cheat the poor and needy and rob widows and orphans.” Isaiah 10:2b)

Seduced by silver shimmer and
drawing the edges so close to home
you miss the earthen treasures and
annul the pleasures of the masses who,
with upturned faces only want their glasses filled
with new wine for this one day
of the year.

Your gold means nothing to them,
your stocks and bonds might as well be
broken shells dropped by seagulls on the pavement.
When will you come out of hiding,
when will your glimmering lights be turned down low
to let the lesser gleam of
oil lamps and candles

Pass through the streets, walk through the boulevards,
sing as the silent stars go by?

Your baubles and rings,
your gilded staircases,
your mansions compounded by
layers of fences will not change
the gravel roads just a half a mile
from your girders and concrete.

Exchange your breath for a moment with
the words of unrest from the homeless.
Barely living,
edging between darkness and darker,
they cannot eat your rubies and diamonds,
nor wish for decadent cakes at the tables they
cannot afford the rest of the year.

May the light that holds us all like silhouettes
scatter our presumptions, sweep away our privilege,
and help us see
through the eyes
of those whose hope is one sandwich or an extra
blanket for the bed.

I Do Not Dance Enough

 I Do Not Dance Enough

(“Then the men asked, ‘Why are you looking among the dead for someone who is alive?’” Luke 24:5b)

I see the stars and I want to keep them company;
I see my protection above and within it all.
(I committed the crime; I was not framed.)

A chihuahua barks while a fat stellar jay perches
in the tree outside my window. Hummingbirds sweep
by the feeder
on my redwood deck and speed to the walnut tree
branches for refuge.
(Someone once told me I do not dance enough.)

I visited the San Gabriel Mission more than once as a child,
and created a model of cardboard and green tempura for
a school project. I was 10, and, even then, knew my art
would never hang on a wall. I wanted my mom’s opinion,
and after stalling for the longest two seconds I ever knew,
she said,
“It’s unique.”
I knew what she meant and never made a model again.
(She did like my writing, though.)

The air is light today with a full July sun. The leaves wave
at one another vivified by the river breeze. Shadows on
the siding hint that the afternoon is waning. I may walk along
the marina later
or spend time finding celluloid reels for a future viewing.
(I ought to ban “ought” from my daily life.)

So, vocabulary fails the description. My words are
unvarnished models of a universe I have met. No longer
the center,
life spills from light-years and babies’ mouths, from
empty tombs and full moons, from synapses and
the way light dances in signals to the brain where
we process everything.
(No one deserves life or earns it. We are born in the minute
we breathe the Spirit.)

Until No One

Until No One

(“The sacred vestments of Aaron shall be passed on to his sons after him; they shall be anointed in them and ordained in them.” Exodus 29:29)

I know you want the title,
I heard you’ve been renamed.
You’re the prophet who can change
any ashes that have remained from
the fire we burned last night in the hearth
where we stare at the flames till midnight.
No one blames them for going cold after so long.

But the positions we inherit, the ranks we desire
do not fit us in our longings for something deeper,
something higher, something wiser than the mere headdress
of a priest at his duties,
or the half-Windsor knot of an executive’s silk tie,
we lie to other who know the truth,
we lie to ourselves and remain unmoved.

From the stars whose light fascinates our eyes,
from nebulae and galaxies we pretend to be our playgrounds,
the deepest call, (a Servant’s appellation), lands within our ears
quicker than light from iron-cold stars.

Fasten the nametag now, do not hesitate, serve the meal
with the wine
and take your place among
those who have heard you were once a criminal
or worse.

Today is your choice, today is the final verse of an Amen
louder than the last sound from the first black hole; listen now
to the level ground, the Father’s Son laid everything down

And kicked up the dust he first created so some would
lay down their crowns
to follow, thirsty, through the desert, until no one
knows our name.

The Light of the World

“The city has no need of the sun or the moon to shine on it, because the glory of God shines on it, and the Lamb is its lamp.” Revelation 21:3

I have a lamp in our home office I use when I am practicing my mandolin. I turn it on by simply touching the base. Touching it twice more increases the illumination and, with one more, tap, turns it off. It took me awhile to get used to it. I would tap it; “on”! I would tap two times; “brightest!” But, then I would reposition it for better light, and the moment it touched it; “OFF!” I finally have the hang of things, though.

Stars Inside

Stars Inside

(“Yet when [the mustard seed] is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.” Mark 4:32)

There are stars inside us preheated before explosion,
preparing for expansion, spinning toward constellations
no eyes have perceived. Souls do have their dreams.

There is a universe within the smallest frame;
tiny fingers, bony toes, skinny necks, legs like sticks,
that contains the molecules and recipe for the masterpiece
hung on heaven’s wall; the melody played down heaven’s hallways.

We are not and yet, we are full and void, we shout the echoes,
whisper the amperage, and walk so small it is a wonder
we are noticed at all.

We are tall and flat, we are poets and pedants, we laugh whimsy,
scowl about rumors, and crawl so huge we peek above the clouds
dragging our feet through the deluge.

There are demons inside us where we seldom lodge,
uneasy, we quote their excuses as if it reduces our
personal contribution to the thin layers of global harming.

There are sinners and angels, God’s image and Adam’s,
the conflagration of destruction, the inferno of purification.
We are creation’s wonder, and the source of mourning for
all our humility and hubris.

There is a Morning Star poised just below the horizon,
a speck of light in minute degrees sometimes seen between
the firs and cedars. There is a Daylight Name within each
layer of fascination. The voice to uneasy space, the full
to emptied disgrace; pulling all toward itself; the Gravity

Of a Humble King who is found among impossible things.

A Frontier Star

A Frontier Star

(“I am always singing about the wonderful things you do.” Psalm 71:8)

No matter when the day starts, the beginning is behind me
somewhere else along the highway;
shadows fall, short or long, oriented from east to west,
as long as the sun follows the past traced for it long ago.

We, as tiny children, wander around it and yet, the cosmic wind
hardly ever
blows our hair up over our faces. The day is never longer
than the circles we make across the black expanse.

We do not shine; from space our cat’s-eye marble is hardly
visible
to the frontier’s nearest star. Train your scopes toward
the milky way’s center, from beyond belts of asteroids,
past the ninth and tenth planets, into the leftovers of creation
where darkness inhales and vacuity shines until
full-tilt gravity swallows it all in a single bite.

Is there laughter beyond the planets, the rampant dance
of puppies and babies who can’t act but only play?
Are there tears above beneath, the unleashed emotion
of hot tears on frozen cheeks from pain or fear
or nervous tics?

But here we are, at home on this blue and green
like children alone without a safety gate at the top of the stairs.
We see smaller and think larger than we are. And yet,
some days start with the perfect realization that we are dots
and the dots are stars, and the sky is fathomless, and the sea
is a teaspoon on a spinning ball mostly unobserved.

And some days begin, and begin again, as if time
has wandered into the wilderness as we scratch our heads
awaking
to dreams of school days
and
a morning of shaving white stubble from our faces.

And all days end with the expanse still expanding,
and all nights begin with the Unseen minding
every waterfall and sleepy fawn,
super nova and future dawn,
and above belowness, closer than continuous,

We are well-loved from now and before,
cared-for better than then and well-after,
so that

All days, no matter when they start,
begin with the end softly and safely in view.