I Am Not Strong

I Am Not Strong

(“To end my letter I tell you, be strong in the Lord and in his great power.” Ephesians 6:10)

I wanted to meet you well before the end of the road.
The stones are sharp, the sun watches my every move,
the winds have vanished and everywhere I look
I see the absence.

I am not strong. This journey has taken its toll and
I’ve run out of change for the next payment to cross a bridge.
I don’t mind saying, I’ve heard trolls are ready to catch the last breath
of travelers who went too far in their search for faith.

I’ve heard the trip is worth it, the travel is the holiday.
But I’ve hit another dead-end, a skip in the record that keeps playing
a lyric half-spoken over and over again.

I hear nothing, feel less. The air even presses upon me like
an anvil from the sky. The friends who once listened are hiding
or have traveled the opposite trail from me. My afflictions

Are self-inflected

They would say.

If strength is shaking when I’m backed into a corner,
then I’m as strong as you’ll ever see. Even a piece of cheese
from an unexpected raven would be enough for me.

Dearest Father, let one of my own speak in a language I’ll understand;
send words that will fill the stillness before the storm;
hail a cab for me, rid me of all misapprehensions
and send me to a long afternoon of merriment simply because
I’ve made it this far.

I’m stalled, I’m stuck, my wheels spin in the rut as I
await a new name now that I exist halfway between one tribe
and the other.

I am not strong, the friends are further than sound can travel.
And when I write this honestly I fear they wonder what’s wrong with me,
dearest Father. This is it, this is me. Weak and dependent,
hoping I have not expended the final words that finally write me off.

Dearest Father, it is true, I will not refuse your power. Yet you must know,
more than that, my strength is lagging for a lack of travelers
who simply know me. Who simply see me. Who simply love to walk
even when the strength has fled from our words.

With His Own Scars (An Easter Hymn, of Sorts)

With His Own Scars
(An Easter Hymn, of Sorts)

(“If I must boast, I will boast about the things that show how weak I am.” 2 Corinthians 11:30)

Why the strong-arm when the powers have been broken?
Why the military parade when the victory is spoken?
Power has entered through the dusty sound of love;
Rusty swords and shields are piled to be burned, demons drowned,
soldiers bowed, and laughter from heaven plowed the ashes of
war under the door of a tomb left open; wide open for
round-eyed Sunday drive wonder that peace could be won in
such humiliation.

Power is empty. Weakness is null. Art and love
are etched on eternity’s walls. Empires are vanquished,
poverty canceled. Grace and hymns echo from throats
satisfied after all.

What boasting remains once the King’s refrain is the same
sorrowful tune we’ve sung since invention? What army conquers
when its best proffer is easier ways to make people dead? Instead

The King sang it for us; took the needle, hung by the rope,
enveloped the sword, inhaled the gas, and took the last bite of the apple
every witch ever offered in fairy tales from before time. And so He
won by losing, lived by dying, rules by serving

And dances from sad to pain, from depressed to fame,
the love so unframed it bleeds off the edges of the canvas.
And runs in colors from crimson to snow,
and bandages the trauma of a world in shock
having owned the mocking of immigrants and strangers;
he binds the wounds with his own scars so visible there can
be no mistake;

Boasting is not forbidden; it has simply been forsaken.

No Power But Surrender

No Power but Surrender

("So you, my son, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus." 2 Timothy 2:1)

Once the pain encircles my day all advice sinks beneath the waves
while the crowds shout from the shore how nice the water is today.
I would float on the crystal Caribbean,
soak in August's alpine lakes
just to view the light from my old point of view.

There are huddles so small that electrons cannot pass through,
moments so long the birds and deer leave only their scent behind;
eyes have focused on silence overridden by bass notes never in the score.
The phone rings; another robocall selling me ways to pay for
an attorney. I would answer, but I've memorized his spiel.
Nights are too short, though syncopated with ghosts who
know everything.

Some of the specters are soothing and drink tea or enjoy my
abstract jazz; my bluegrass grooves.
While others are buckets of words, hot soup on a sweltering day,
undoing the therapy poured out in every lyric.

There are expanses so vast, though I have 2,000 friends,
I cannot see a soul or tree or the horizon where the day should end.
The sun sweats. A high growl lassos the sky and declaims the regrets
that time relentlessly reminds each pulse of my brain.

I would sleep in the shade on a day like this in an East Bay meadow
found only by weaving past the eucalyptus, descending to the stream
and crossing the fallen log waxed with frogs and water and time.

But yesterday no longer exists, though each stab of pain urges
the better days when friends had no answers; only hugs and
chowder and
grilled cheese.

There is no power but surrender left. And surrender may be the
most dangerous power that exists. All this brain can do with its
body of bones is fall back in the ocean, the lake, the meadow;
fall back to a time when, eternity past, all is reassigned.