Like an Astounded Sunrise

 Like an Astounded Sunrise

(Those who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the sky…” Daniel 12:3a)

They are hanging on to air for dear life,
grasping the shadows that have hidden their humanity.
What we cannot see, what we dare not compare,
are the forces that buried them there.
Promised rooms at
Hotel Manna,
they wish time had cleaner lines.
They wish for music in their voice,
in their key,
in joyous solemnity.

Did you think the only light are
pinholes in a purple sky?
Did you pause to collect enough
for orphans, mothers,
breadlines and the living
who are breathing
full-size?

They are speaking, their throats are not closed;
we only hear the syllables we have chosen to be
correct and decent,
arise and descent,
descants for hymns in grandstand buildings.
In sight of the shore they paddle;
we sit on the hill and tell them to move upriver
farther from the privilege we have inherited.

Insight sounds like tremors underground,
justice looks like an astounded sunrise leaking
over the hills.

I’m sorry you were sent away,
I’m grieving you must hide away,
I’m standing still and looking where your
tears have spilled
while power preachers tighten the circles
on raised platform ascended by only the chosen.

Come drink my wine, sing our song,
face the eternal sun,

Let us share the feast of the forgotten
while orange sky envelops us all.

A Monday Following a Certain Sunday

A Monday Following a Certain Sunday

(“The Lord has done it on this day. Let us be joyful and glad in it.” Psalm 118:24)

Inviting the stories of a million days, the morning dried the dew
beaded upon blades rich and thick as heaven’s carpet. One or two
halves of plastic easter eggs fool the eye with manmade purple
and synthetic shine. No one minds.

Life’s carousel rounds the days; from the unseen side, the observer
watches the turn of sun fade behind treelines on the left
and, as time compresses its waves and particles,
the same observer sees the return above hills on the right.

Yet the rider on the sun sees all, even while earth’s observer is blind.

Outside the morning is full of play, and the light displays it invisibility
on tiny prisms dotting the green leaves, the leftover mist two hours
dawn. In another month the rainbows will dance in spray as
neighbors up the street water their lawns. The light reveals
its unity in couture of diversity. The music of heaven
answers in kind.

We know the life today will find its way, in weeks, or months,
years, yes centuries, depending upon its species, to a final decay.
Yet, observant as we are, it takes the panoramic scan or
volcanic interruption to remind us for certain of this long crawl
of life to dying. Man observes, green underfoot and
warm breath on the chill breeze; and believes against belief
that this day is wider than horizon to horizon.

Like Sundays when, against all hope and following the
hill of nailed crucifixion, it is not the expected death,
but startling life we find.