I’ll Stop by Tomorrow

I’ll Stop by Tomorrow

(“I do not deserve to have you come into my house. Just give the order, and my servant will get well.” Matthew 8:8b)

There were no shadows in the house,
the shutters were closed and the drapes pulled against the sun.
I tried to divide my attempts to be seen from
my instincts to hide.
Slowly the scene shifted as the sun found the
cracks in my defenses.

I meant to mention, I’d like to sit alone on the porch,
wave at the children on their bikes and sit with men
of my age
thinking out loud about our past and painting the future
something brighter than gray. We all admitted it was easy
to embrace our halcyon days when we thought life could be
lived in layers we never completed. We lived from
playhouses and swings to pens and musical things we
hoped would help name us forever.
We pretended there would be reunions where we
remembered every spiral adventure and made plans
to get together only for time to steal our best ideas.

But now in the epicenter of my life I’m too shy to invite
new faces to my porch. And that leaves me friendless in space.
Locked away, my heart waits for the night lights to take over,
and wonder what I would say if I ever came out under the stars.

Exactly how long I’ve been this way, probably just long enough
to notice the damage. But I’ve been invited to the
grand opening of a friendly space but slept through it.
I’ll stop by tomorrow.

Stop Now. Sounds.

 

Stop Now. Sounds.

(“Or do you have so little regard for his rich kindness, his restraint, and his patience, that you ignore the fact that the purpose of God’s kindness is to lead you to repentance?” Romans 2:4)

Stop now.
Sound out the top of the silent suns
wrapping the grand, warming the sand
while the tides ebb unconsciously.

I can hear myself growing older,
years like wind, like sails, like friends
who streak across the night sky. Shooting
star
how I wonder who you are.

I would rather borrow your eyes than
rewrite our conversations. I would rather
drive by the coast as the cliffs twist by.
I would rather squint in the light than to
strain to see you appear in the dark night hallways.
I would rather let the questions go unanswered.

Stop now.
Sound surround us. I’m up for a night of repentance.
Nothing is wasted in this universe,
everything is borrowed. It was all here first.
But your story, your spiral, your skying face and
your carousel feet carry my mind to better places.

We can light the candles, break the bread,
sweep the sidewalks, plan ahead,
fasten the nails so the pictures don’t fall
on the floor.
We can feed the poor. We can read some more
until
our shells are broken, until every unspoken story
is written across the sky.

Until we all

Stop now.
While the sounds of undancing whistle like morning,
like handfuls of birdsong with lyrics hidden within
the center of everything.

Run Out of Road

 

Run Out of Road

(“How often I’ve longed to gather your children, gather your children like a hen, her brood safe under her wings—but you refused and turned away!” Luke 13:34b [The Message])

It seems certain now, after observing you from afar,
that you may have run out of road and are spinning your wheels
in the sand.
It is understandable,
knowing only the route you pursued,
but honestly, it escapes my reasoning and knowledge of
your surroundings why you don’t raise your eyes,
look around,
and notice the desert you drove yourself to.

It seems evident how, for how long and for deeper still,
you yearned for a badge of courage, a congressional medal,
an emblem earned to show your commitment to
machines that mowed down the opposition well,
and how certainly you remained true to a narrative
no better than a fairy tale.
What you failed to observe was
the magic kiss you wanted was just in front of you.

It seems ages ago, the first time around, your maiden journey
circling certainty. The snow swirled around the asphalt like
snakes before you found the tracks of previous drivers.
Safely you navigated icy patches with nothing but the taillights
of big rigs to guide you. You arrived. You sighed in relief.
You were safe. And you were lost. Waiting out the storm was
the only choice to make.

Though you did not know it, there was a course correction
waiting for you in that cold café with more space heaters
than tables. The dark wood paneling may have hidden the
wandering one from your view, or you may have been too
busy reading to see him. He longed to loan you his parka,
drive an extra mile with you, and to shield you from the coming
blizzard that would disguise the road back home.

But you finished your breakfast, nose in the best book,
sucked down the remnants of your coffee and walked past the
man in the corner who rose to meet you, who always rose
to meet you
in every rest stop along the way.

Would You Stop?

 

Would You Stop?

(“When the Lord saw her, He felt compassion for her and said to her, ‘Do not go on weeping.’” Luke 7:13)

Would you stop the world for just one moment,
would you look at me and see the scars
My clothes are worn, my heart is torn,
and my eyes cannot form the beauty I once knew.
No one sees me, no one notices,
no one watched me drenched in tears.

The gentle hands have become hammers
to
drive home points of disagreement. The voices
that once cracked with mutual grief
now shake in appalled increments like
the last line in obits where it tells who
was left behind.

Would you please pause time so they can see me,
would you place a parenthesis please so someone can drive
by and remind themselves why we were
friends in the first place?
Would you help them remember their promises of love,
would you help them see what has died inside?

There are no more discussions; even debates would revive
the barren patch that goes against the grain within.
They stay away while the pain twists my brain like a spigot.
They feign loyalty, while correcting me for the density
of death I express. If I lied about life, they would applaud me.

Would you please lift me off the carousel, the horses have
run their course. Would you revise this edition of me?
I want no thrill rides, just a quiet meal with anyone who
once pledged their love
and is still unafraid to
give it.

Would you look at me? Would you stop the calliope and
hear me closely? Would you (not tomorrow) attend to this
compressed sorrow? Would you see how the years and hours
have piled up on me? Would you stop and start
with me again?

Not a Bookmark

Not a Bookmark

(“But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.” Hebrews 11:16)

This is no bus stop,
waiting for the next ride out of town.
This is no train station,
hoping to ride the rails further underground.
This is no turnstile,
counting your head as you pay for your playland.
This is no country club,
where drinks are served to the exclusive male and
other perfect genders.

This is ground zero, baby.
This is where the work gets done.
This is bone marrow, honey.
This is where our lives get born.
This is the opening curtain,
This is where we play for keeps,
This is first night on the boards,
No time for taking bows.

Who said this was the time to improvise,
to replace words of truth and love with lies?
Where did you learn to see darkness in the sunrise
And whiteness in the anthem you sing?

There is a better union, if only we will keep on walking,
there is a brighter day, if only we will circle the halting,
There are deeper rivers, if only we will keep on hoping,
There is a new downtown, if only we will keep on holding
the cigarette man
and the $20 girl
and the shivering boy
and the ignored woman
in the sphere that makes all things equal
and all things beloved.

This ain’t an Uber stop,
it’s not a bookmark or placeholder.
This is the essence of days, eternity past,
and, to be bolder, the garden we are called to tend
till kingdom and heaven come.

Nothing to See Here

Nothing to See Here

(“Therefore, stop judging prematurely, before the Lord comes, for he will bring to light what is now hidden in darkness and reveal the motives of our hearts.” 1 Corinthians 4:5a)

There is no longer anything here
for you to see. You have already read
the things he has written
and make them into defections in your head.
You knew him decades ago
and suppose
you know everything behind his heart
and throw your arrows at him
rather than his ideas.

You like the man you knew years ago,
and did not factor in the changes of the years.
You want him to be just like you; unchanged, rigid,
granite and unmoved.
You want him to deny what he has become and
then you will like
him again.

But until then you pass your aggressions on with
public humiliation. You are the spokesperson,
the one whose mocking sounds like hymns to the
chosen. Did you “amen” your comments to a man

You have not looked up in thirty years?
Did you ask him why the hurt?
Did you know why people do not get over
the dart games families play with you as the target?
Do you care about brothers? Or do you bother to
ask why the sister cries herself to sleep? Weeps.

When damaged, the heart needs healing;
not a whipping and then the statement: “Don’t be a
victim, get over it."

Did you learn this from your savior? I trust not.
Did you whip out your pen too quickly? I pray so.
I dare you to look deeply into the eyes of one
whose heart has been damaged
and still extends it wider than he ever has.

Jesus walks among us. When your friend sees him
everywhere,
don’t be offended when he
defends those who the chosen
have rejected with their policies,
their legislation, their self-righteous votes,

And then accuse him of being too
political.

Stretching

Stretching

(“He (Jesus) said this to stretch Philip’s faith. He already knew what he was going to do.” John 6:6)

Everyone thought they knew, and they threw their opinions down like
challenges into the sand. The Messiah One has spoken to me, it seems,
so clearly,
that nearly everyone else should have heard to too.
The Master’s Plan is easy to understand, consult me first, I make it
clear to you.
My answers are quick, shooting off my tongue like bottle rockets
on Independence shortly after dawn. I’ll tell you who to vote for,
I’ll even take a photo of my ballot in the booth
and
splash on my social pages with comments neatly deleted.
Follow my lead, because I always follow His, and quickly,
no time at all, it’s true, we’ll turn back to the 60s when
everyone carried guns in the trucks to school. (Did I forget the
rules about separate drinking fountains and seats on buses?)
Listen to me as I listen to Him, we’ll dial it back to the 50s then,
“Father Knew Best” and everything got left to Beaver. (Did I
overlook McCarthy’s great day, when playwrights, artists,
comedians and misfits were painted so red they overshadowed
the Midwestern sunsets?)

I’m sweating on the inside, I only admit it to the so few who see these words;
the farther back I go, 100 years? The more terror I behold. Japanese internment,
females barred from voting, and it took more than two Native Americans to equal
one single immigrant. You would think they could make a Native equal two
after half had died in wars, raids, and death marches marking their way with tears.

Jesus make me see what I hear so poorly. Paint the impossible clearly
so I cannot be glib with good stories that can suck the tears straight out of
unsuspecting eyes,
but have little truth, little hope, and no facts at all behind them.

Jesus make me feel the burning in the throats of those who have cried
far too long over judgment days come far too early.
Jesus make me feel the rumbling doubling over inside the guts of
the tiny ones whose food comes and goes like autumn’s cold wind.
Jesus make me stop…

Make me stop.