The End of the Story

The End of the Story

(“Then he said to them, ‘The Sabbath was made for people, not people for the Sabbath.’” Mark 2:27)

We were in such a rush that when we were cut off
we screeched to a halt and the paragraphs crashed
into the sentences, the sentences occupied new phrases,
the phrases smashed the words. Then the words careened
into the letters and the letters confused the spaces once
separating sense from incoherence.

The question mark ended the fable only feet from
the abyss and we went on our way blissfully ignoring the
end of the story.

Ribbons Without Rhyme

Ribbons Without Rhyme

(“Wake up, sleeper! Rise from death, and Christ will shine on you.” Ephesians 5:14b)

I’m not the same. Are you?
We look for a face that will match
the spirit we’ve always known.
But I’m not the same. Anyway,
I’ve lost the instructions that I followed
to play the games so perfectly. I knew the rules,
and so did you. And we masked everything that
didn’t line up or
kept leaking out from the margins of our mistakes.
If only someone had woken us earlier.
If only we took the sun to bed during the longest
night of our soul.

Here I am. There are you.
The air has lifted the notes that drifted
from our pens into the desert expanse.
Faintly we promise we’ll find them before
the day is over. Granted we won’t remember them;
sainted we’ll still search for them two years hence.
I spent some time looking for the words in ink
that once flowed like a midnight moon above the
hard-bed floor. I didn’t guess it. Did you?
And did we quote those before us,
or pretend we are the originals? Strings of
poetry, ribbons without rhyme, we wrapped up the
day, the shortest
day in the cold.

We could invite others to write,
we could open our circle. Couldn’t we?
Laughter has become so expensive, can we
afford to investigate all the reasons why?
Or shall we simply find another band of brothers
to walk along the riverbed, look into the sky,
smoke a cigarette or two and admit we never knew
why
anyone would understand the game we created
or the
words we weaved so seriously when

We walked further than we planned and discovered
more than the mixture of day-to-night. We would
tell the story decades from now.

Tap You on the Shoulder

 

Tap You on the Shoulder

(“Jesus told them a picture-story to show that men should always pray and not give up.” Luke 18:1)

It is love silently, eyes closed in an open field
letting the birdsongs carry every ache (the fullest love
feels the most pain.)
And when the sky is clouded with iron gates (like mining
ore from the shadows) that is when

I don’t know why I think I should
tap you on the shoulder when
you are already
looking at me.

I have so many habits I cannot explain.

Narrative and Neurons

“And we will tell (God’s teachings) to the next generation. We won’t keep secret the glorious deeds and the mighty miracles of the Lord.” Psalm 78:4

In their book, “The Humanizing Brain,” James B. Ashbrook and Carol Rausch point out that when we are born, our brains consist of billions of nerve cells, or neurons, but they are mostly unconnected to each other. Some connection are made naturally as we grow, like those that help us to walk. But many other pathways develop uniquely, reflecting the culture, family habits and beliefs we learn. As our experiences change, we actually grow new neural pathways.

Proof Texts

Proof Texts

(“The woman came close. Then she knelt down and begged, ‘Please help me, Lord!’” Matthew 15:25)

I was formerly fascinated by each teaching encapsulated
within the phrase; a word out of position, a proof positive
that the traditions always considered Deity the first
layer spoken by commoners coming to Christ who knew
no different. She knelt down and begged, and thus I proved
the worship she gave, a classical attribution of divinity.

I formerly picked past golden broth to stick my fork in
the one piece of chicken meat I thought soup’s justification
for existence.

I’m fonder of broth now, keener of the simple and earth,
layers and linger the flavors can conjure without a single
chew exerted.

Which leaves me to ponder less often the proof texts I
string along to show the kneel means king, the worship
defines god;

If I cannot see His divinity in the tale as it flows
from healing to whole and surprise to holy;
if I cannot posit from the leaf falling that a tree
reaches far above the narrative smiling,
then my pick and choose will be biting only dust,

If His story is not startling enough as it flows
through angel meetings, Mary’s magnificat,
a boy upsitting to end his own funeral,
words spoken to poke death in the ribs
when the little one arises,
calvary foretold, forgiveness unfolds
and a tomb vacated following a weekend stay;

If all that is served like a classic risotto
and still our taste buds will not dance,

How shall the parsing of one word or the next
turn one thought to a taste for the Divine.