Gifts of Consolation

Gifts of Consolation

I don’t have to wait until I hear your tears,
I don’t have to put it off one day to
console you with the gifts I have already
set aside. You don’t have to wait
to hear me say
that I would do anything to keep the
world from sneaking up on you like
careless serpents in the sand.

I would take your anxious shivers into
my own nervous system,
I would punctuate the fears with music
that sounds like a dozen madrigals singing
between the fine lines of loss and quantity.
I would remind you how laughter can
dry the raindrops that sheared the air overnight.
I would assign your name to the best
accomplices of mercy without an explanation.
You would breathe easier; you would see
the meteors cross the late night sky. The
falling stars would remind you that beauty can
pierce the darkness and bright eyes shine
best through the spectrum of tears.

I wish I could tell you I know how the dice will roll,
I wish I could predict the uncertainties of hikes down
uncharted canyons.
All I know is the water still flows after the
overnight fever dream,
I know the daylight will warm your hopes
like pearls adorning your face. I know, even
though it seems little is left, that the wine is
still in the cup,
the bread still on the hearth,
and children giggle while parents watch
their unambiguous play.

The Colors Are My Tears

The Colors Are My Tears

(“Speak up for the people who have no voice, for the rights of all the misfits.” Proverbs 31:8 [The Message])

You thought it was artwork,
stained glass and holy when
all the while the colors
were my tears.

Life is messy and my voice is muted,
all I want is someone to shout to the void
for me,
bring a bowl of overflow
to me.

My soul is shriveled,
a black hole full of lead.
My thoughts are desperate even though
I had a respite for a week or two.

But this battle is well-known,
I carry the arrows that pierce me in plain sight.
I want an invitation to drink without judgment.
I want your tears to replace my own.
I want to be hugged for weeks, not sent
thoughts from afar.
I want you to speak! I want you to speak
up for me.

And now that I write this,
anyone who reads will tell me again
to
get over it.
I would get over it if only it was
over.

Here are my hands, palms up.
Here are my eyes, dried up.
What did you expect from the shivers that
come from suffering?

I don’t want to ask for help. Everyone already knows
this battle. They can see the smoke rising daily from
the fire that burns my brain.

It’s been fifteen years. And still no one
knocks on my door.
It’s been fifteen years. And still I feel
forgotten and ignored.

So, I’ll pour it out today. I’ll send it up tonight
like a fiery flare into the sky.
If you look at the moon tonight
and see orange lights where they should not appear;
call me tomorrow and find your way to my door.

I weep with my friends whose pain is different than mine.
Pour some tears on my wounds this time.

The day was bright, the sky was clear,
but the sunshine felt intrusive, the silence shouted
between my ears.

I apologize. I will wait another year before I ask again.
Everyone talks over me.

My Secrets Slip Out

 

My Secrets Slip Out

(“You will see heaven open. You will see God's angels going up and down to the Son of Man.” John 1:51b)

I confess there is a vacancy,
a place where love should be found,
but I find no one there.
I’m not cut out for crowds anymore,
I have no more tricks up my sleeve.
but sometimes my secrets slip out
and I fear the few who have stayed will
finally leave.

I confess there is a jealousy,
a place that feels so empty
because I want to be what
everybody else really needs.
I’m just not cut out for rules anymore,
I have no more tears left to shed.
But sometimes I pour out my heart
and delete it because
I fear the few who have stayed will
finally leave.

I confess what I have confessed before,
a place that should sing your name
because I am just that broken
and weary of trying to change.
I’m really not cut out for much anymore,
I have no more advice to give,
but sometimes I fake a few lines
with the hope of hearing a voice
that tells me
why you would never leave.

Why Do These Tears Come Unbidden?

 

Why Do These Tears Come Unbidden?

(“Salt is good, but if the salt should lose its flavor, how can you season it? Have salt among yourselves, and be at peace with one another.” Mark 9:50)

Why do these tears come unbidden;
the day is full of quiet and life.
Both my sorrows and splinters ache to be heard,
while I keep silent, leaving the world to guess at the
unspeakable.
But my eyes know my secrets the best,
and speak only in water. The salt they shed
only leaves me thirsty
for something more than a mannequin,
someone clothed with blood-infused skin,
arms to float my whole self in
like the Caribbean
warmed and clear.

There is no hole in my heart
shaped like anything: god, friend,
success or smiles. It is too full,
overflowing and never empties itself before
the tides replace yesterday’s sorrows.

A hug full of sweat might replace
the tears that have watered the sad
and sunny years. From all appearances
there is nothing troubling to be seen.
But if my mouth spoke of the errors and
regrets
that have boarded my windows and
buried my assets so deeply below the
foundation of everything ever offered,
the day would sink even darker and my pain
would never cease.

Sometimes boasting and begging aligned like
an eternal eclipse. Sometimes the aching was
the blackest hole, the bottom of the abyss.

If there were one or two; no, there needs to be three,
so my bets are not hedged, I would tell them everything,
write it out, let them read it, then burn it on the fire of
a snowy day.

If those three would remember, more than scores of years
from now,
not to mention what only the eyes can speak, and
give attention to the day when

All things being equal

I spilled the contents of memory before I
finished my quest.

Of Reflections, Tears and Treasures

 

Of Reflections, Tears and Treasures

I never see my own heart well. Mirrors seem useless,
reflecting my previous view of darkness.
And though I’m told that mirrors never lie
I question the reflection that saddens the image I see.

Though I am troubled by what I view, yours shines
perfectly and brightly to me. (do the photons that ricochet
off silvered glass change shape as they pass our perception?)

It must feel like a carousel minus circus horses,
or like the icy bite of winter. Yet,
all I’ve ever seen is a fawn and innocent beauty
frightened by the slamming doors of the city.
I know the sort of tears you cry, and they are
priceless, purified.

I do not overrate it, the light in your eyes.
I hope you’ll celebrate it, even when the morning cries.

I’ve been lonely just like you
(well, not just like)
you are purer than me.

I have devised my own dark madness;
yours has been forced upon you. And still
you love
while the sounds of war whir round your days.

As I lay praying that my dreams would not feature
the meanness I have known (some I rented, some I owned)
I thought of you and wondered
if you see your reflection as clearly
as I see you.

The hours can be giants, the shadows crouching lions,
but they defy the glow and fire
in the heart of one
whose pain rearranges the mirrored perception. So plainly
I will say,
I see the pain, the tears, the rain that seems unending.

But clearer than that I see a soul who wears a pendant
hidden from the storm (a jewel, a treasure, the color constant
against the crashing thunder). Believe my eyes
if you cannot believe your own;
the image I see often comforts me
for I also rarely believe my own.

You Withdrew

 You Withdrew

(“Jesus said to Peter the third time, ‘Simon, son of John, do you love Me?’ Peter felt bad because Jesus asked him the third time, ‘Do you love Me?’” John 21:17a)

Do not fear these tears, these tears,
do not fear
these tears.

You knew I would cry them. You knew, you knew.
You knew the moment you saw me
crumble on the gravel,
scrape my knees on the gravel,
bloody my face with red anguish
on the pavement of your sorrows,
bloody my face like a drunken boxer
taken down for the third and last time.

No! I do not want to sing.
I’ve forgotten how to pray.
I would write my words again
but no matter what I say
guilt and fear mix with undeniable affection
until they become lost, a distorted reflection
of the language of my heart.

You withdrew, appearing once to my delight.
You withdrew and my tears raced to the edges of my chin
fearing never to hear from you again.
It would only be right,
surely be right,
I had proved my self a traitor three
too many times.

I would call you once, I would call you twice,
but I fear you would not answer.
I would call you three times, but my love
(I would call) has become rancid.
I am sure you will block me, unfriend me, never invite me
to follow or sit at your feet again.
Just a simple breakfast on the beach would do.

“[Peter] answered Jesus, ‘Lord, You know everything. You know I love You.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Feed My sheep.’” John 21:17b

But my love is incorrigible as uncertain as summer dew.
But my love, who would I follow, so lazy with my follow-through.
(But my love) is the only answer (to my love) who three times soothes
me to his side again.

If I was Cold

If I was Cold

(“…that is, that we may be mutually comforted by one another’s faith, both yours and mine.” Romans 1:12)

If I was cold, would you give  me your blanket;
If I was alone, would you send me a card?
If I was homeless, would you give me a bed;
Or just offer a comb to brush my balding head?

If I was far, would you pay for my airfare;
If my sister died, would you send me roses?
If I was destitute, would you raise the funds;
Or put your phone on mute while worship music hums?

Pouring, a pitcher of sweet sangria,
weren’t your throats assuaged;
Painting, a portrait of peaceful solace,
weren’t your tears wiped away?
Sitting, a hospice of slow departure,
weren’t your breaths sanctified;
Praying, a moment of candle and incense,
weren’t your pleas respected?

Now I am thirsty where the rivers do not run,
I am weeping in the rain, for the sun.
I am dying, though not like everyone,
I am praying for an invitation that more
than mouths a prayer, but raises a hand,
a letter, a paragraph, a long note that sounds
across the continent; that calls us home.

I am isolated, would you help me come home;
I am grieving, would you cover me with your wings?
I am boxed in, would you offer me a great river to swim;
I am confused; where are the friends, the fellows,
the brothers and sisters,

Who all know where I am.

Call it Jazz

Call it Jazz

(“I tell you the truth, whoever accepts anyone I send also accepts me. And whoever accepts me also accepts the One who sent me.” John 13:20)

Please accept me,
and by accept I do not mean
tolerate me.

I mean all that I am, my frightened thoughts,
my unsteady frame,
my journey through the wilderness,
my nightmares, my anxiety,
my sins and the irony of a follower full
of doubts,
a flower dusted with thorns,
a friend who needs human touch more than
scripture quotes or attempts to diagnose my condition.

Let me come to your house, lay upon your couch,
shed the tears I will not shed unless I know you’ll not turn away.
And if I do not get better, let me cry myself to sleep.
Let me sit at your table with only coffee and memory,
let me stop pretending for just an hour.

The fingertips of a friend equal the hand of God.

I promise I’ll send you a card, a thank you note,
a gift or a poem. I’ll write on lined paper every
word that describes what taking me into your heart
has meant.

But please accept me,
and by accept I do not mean
put up with me.

Because I cannot become anything other than
what I am today. And I am longing for
the eyes of a friend, the tears of a fellow traveler,
the silent comfort for weeks at a time, the storyteller
who does not care if my poems rhyme. I long,
far and short,
for anyone who will accept this arrhythmic heart
and just call it jazz.

So Talk to Me

So Talk to Me

(“Are not five sparrows sold for two small coins? Yet not one of them has escaped the notice of God. Even the hairs of your head have all been counted. Do not be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows.” Luke 12:6-7)

And so I suppose, against all odds,
despite swamps and tears,
I must be in my Father’s care.

Fastened to this turning ball by
the weakest force,
the fridge is stocked,
my clothes are washed,
my hair is combed,
but the weak force is too strong
to escape to the place where
my heart would be full.

I’d call someone, but tears would flow,
or I’d compose myself and report “I’m fair”
though I’m caught in the doldrums with
the slow carousel of days turning ‘round me
while I wait for a sign of His affection.

Here I am, this hour of this day,
and, though I’ve sat among friends
with my feet in the ocean,
I confess, tears would flow whether
warming on crowded beaches
or stuck in the suburbs watching
strangers walk by.

My heart has always ached; I wish there was a remedy.
My hand has always shaken; I wish no one could see.
So talk to me, speak the words that will take me home.
Write me poetry, sing to me, hold my hand until it sleeps
silently.

I read of love and wait for the Father to meet me at the mailbox,
to call my on my smartphone,
to knock on my door and
just one time more,
fill my heart as full as

Everyone else’s seems to be.

Of Freckles and Favor

Of Freckles and Favor

"There is no one holy like the Lord. There is no one but you, O Lord. There is no Rock like our God.” 1 Samuel 2:2

Can you imagine being harassed over something you had no control over? And, worse than that, can you imagine living in a world that viewed you as cursed by God for the same reasons? What if the world saw freckles as a sign of God’s disfavor? You were born with DNA that handed out those speckles that dot your face, and you had no say in the matter. (Just for the record, I sort of like freckles.)

And it wasn’t just a fringe religious group that thought freckles were a curse, it was your entire culture. You never knew a moment in your life where a freckled friend was held up as an example for others. Even worse, your spotted friends were the subject of torment and harass ment without consequence.

That is the place Hannah found herself in the story of the Bible. She was one Elkanah’s two wives. Hannah had borne no children while Penninah, the other wife, had children. To Elkanah’s credit, he treated Hannah well because he loved her. When he offered sacrifices, he gave portions of meat to Penninah and to each of her sons and daughters. This left Hannah only receiving a single portion. Most likely her husband doubled that, and yet, she would still receive less. Her place in the home and society was threatened because she had no children.

To add to the social ostracism she experienced, Penninah constantly taunted her because “the Lord had kept Hannah from conceiving.” (1 Samuel 1:6). Penninah taunted her this way every year at during the annual sacrifice causing Hannah so much anxiety she would weep and be unable to eat.

Deeply hurt, Hannah goes to the tabernacle and prays to the Lord, weeping as the tears fall in a continual stream from her eyes. She begs God to see her affliction and give her a son. As she continues to cry out to God her speech become unintelligible. Her grief is so great that “though her lips were moving, her voice could not be heard.” (1:13). Eli, the priest, thought she was drunk!

Eli encourages her to go in peace and says, “May the God of Israel grant your petition.” Before she even knows how God will respond to her grief, she went home, “ate and no longer looked despondent.” Eventually she does bear a child, Samuel, who she offers to the Lord’s service.

Hopefully we no longer tell people they are cursed or blessed based upon their pregnancy rate! But I know there are many other issues that can make us think we are either God’s chosen or His rejected. Financial status, race, gender, intelligence, immigrant or citizen; these have all been used to rank people’s worth. And, just like Hannah, the targets of this sort of judgment can also feel tormented and harassed.

Those who follow Christ must learn that in Him there is “there is no Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” (Galatians 3:28). As His people, we have come out of the “worldly” classifications and become simply the beloved of God! It is this beloved state we learn to heal and be healers of those who have been judged by society.

In fact, I would rather hang out with followers of Jesus who admit to sometimes feeling lost, than ones who never acknowledge any doubts. He is perfect...we are not. I personally gain more reassurance hearing the stories of fellow travelers who, though smitten to the heart by Christ, know the ebb and flow between certainty and question-marks. With Hannah, we take our questions to the One like no other.

Our fragile hearts are no indication of the strength of our love for Him, nor the perfection of His for us. That is why "fellowship" is so deeply important. But "fellowship" means real sharing, transparent honesty--not propping ourselves up as mighty warriors of faith. I am more at ease with a Christian who says, "I doubt sometimes" than one that says, "Never had a doubt."

There is a place where you can take the deepest doubts or wounds and pour them without fear of reproach. Father God allowed His own Son to become a curse for us that we should never, ever be called cursed again! Find fellowship with those whose deepest desire is reveal their true self before the Healer of hearts, and where each person is the Beloved of the Lord. There is no Rock like Him!

Counted Only

Counted Only

(“Only the person involved can know his own bitterness or joy—no one else can really share it.” Proverbs 14:10)

The bathtub sat clawfooted upon the ground
filled with rain water after the storms of hail and sun
crossed the sky like yellowed venetian blinds.

The man’s geography was no more than shed-sized that day,
moving across the weathered rug for a drink or modest lunch
and back to the lounge chair where the pain had remained,
an unwelcome houseguest,
erasing memories, extinguishing joy, and this day

With no one home

His words were zero and his tears

were

Counted only by God.

He Begged God

“God had the power to save Jesus from death. And while Jesus was on earth, he begged God with loud crying and tears to save him. He truly worshiped God, and God listened to his prayers.” Hebrews 5:7

People have countless images of Jesus. We view Him as the Super-Human miracle-worker slashing demons with a single word. Or, we see Him as the compassionate Healer, touching the sick and restoring them to health. He is the Good Shepherd, tenderly leading His sheep to safety. He is the fearless Master of Creation, stilling the storm with His voice.

My Quiet is White

My Quiet is White

(“The Lord your God is with you.  He is mighty enough to save you. He will take great delight in you.  The quietness of his love will calm you down.  He will sing with joy because of you.” Zephaniah 3:17)

I shout from the wilderness of the invisible illnesses; pain and
psychic refrains which repeat the black hole madness that it is only
air that keeps me alive. My pillow remains tearstained long after I
rise and feel the explosive tears like lava ready to flow hot again by noon.
Each one that falls asks, “Where are you?”

It was fine for a time, when friends were just a block away. Dale
in his garage, rebuilding his 66 VW bug engine, or riding up my driveway
on his Honda 450. There is no one closer than a day’s drive. And,
since You are all-knowing, I know you will answer, “and you were lonely
back then too, weren’t you?” That’s my argument, my pain, my agony,
and my plea: If you are mighty enough, why haven’t you saved me yet
from me?

I’ve told you about all this before, how many who once made my heart
bounce like a spring picnic with the few faces who never gave away
the accidentally spilled secrets and wine. I’ve told you before that,
among the dearest of them also were lying faces who lie from top
to bottom with lips that once kissed my cheek in welcome. I am
finished with friendship, unless, in Your delight in me, you
pour perfumed salve in the wounds, and bring back to my path
one or two with unlocked hearts who won’t try to crack my
own combination.

My quiet is my white noise. Sound annoys me. I would welcome
an unknown who simply opened my front door and wiped my tears
without a word,
than having to answer the pounding; doors are startling;
or the ringing; phones are disheartening.

If You will love me silently, then please silence me preemptively.

Now singing, that’s what I need. Let the other three or four begin,
and let me just join in when I’m ready. You know the music that
started like buggies over potholes; but we supposed it was better
to play,
than to keep our instruments locked within their cases. Sing,
like Fire and Rain, and the Hallelujah Chorus again.*

*If anyone who reads this feels the lonely shadow instead of the
lovely presence; now you know you are not the only one: friend?

Sad Language

Sad Language

(“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test my thoughts.” Psalm 139:23)

I should be playing in the light, the sunshine dancing on my cheeks.
I should be walking with a friend, the conversation arcing across the air.
I should be a joy-well, a love-all, and faith-full, yet

My tears increase, my heart is incomprehensible, speaking its own

Sad language.

My younger self cried as well, but spent at least the same time smiling.
We wrote songs on the fly, knew the tunes to music we had never heard,
spent hours on the tennis courts, afternoons at the pool, faced fears
(me with more tears than most), and were sure we knew Jesus well,
so well we changed political affiliations, church denominations, and
dropped out of theater class.

The warning signs have been there, one hairpin curve at a time. My mind,
more certain than ever of Christ my King, my Lord, my Shepherd, and
my Friend; my mind has left behind the costume I thought was required
attire. Wearing Jesus only, I feel naked.

Once full of words authorities defined, my mind cries like a baby for
its native language. My Japanese friend told me her parents never taught
her the language (“We are Americans now”, they said). Over 90 now,
she wishes she knew more than idiomatic American sentence strings.

I cry more often, without warning, for what I think I left behind. When
He says turn, follow, and leave your luggage behind, I am glad to empty
my pockets and start out on the road. My tears are shed, my heart has bled,

For so much I buried when the noisy voices (at church, at conference,
or simply in my head) insisted everything die and stay dead;

And now I’m crying because, Jesus, all grace, all light,
wanted me to arise instead.

And Carried

And Carried

(“They departed in a boat by themselves for a deserted place.” Mark 6:32)

I want to be alone (I told them)
and cried after the last one left (and carried her dog out too)
This silent place amplifies the drop of each tear,
(like the boom of a rubber-red playground ball against the hollow wall).
This silent place occupies every open space, couch or chair
(reminding me who, 20, 30, 40 years past of the ones who may still be sitting there.)

I want to be alone (I write them)
and still edit my phrases down the middle of the river (the rapids at the banks
would surely alarm the satellite men scanning people like me for movement
outside the lines)
I edit my phrases (and still call it poetry)
when poetry should be blood on the page, question marks and slashed phrases
so sharp it makes the reader want to rip it out of the book and burn it before
the questions creep between the place where eyes and brain always meet.

(I edit my phrases) I answer, mostly, as I’m expected (and argue once
the last inquisitor has exited, with my deserted self) He carried his doctrine out too.

I am in the dunce’s corner (I chose the seat myself)
without reading (magazine <weekly reader>, book <Fahrenheit 451>,
poetry <cummings, ferhlinghetti, Byron> ) and wear the paper crown well.

I know as much, but no more (only on different matters, different scores)
I have read widely, sang wildly (still different matters, but scorched the scores)
all upon a lonely corner because (enthralled by words my ears heard through my eyes)
the bell had rung, the day was done (and never noticed the last student leave).

I wandered home late (others carried out the doctoral theses well)
walked through the park (barber shop quartets in summer)
entered the front door where

Mother’s Remington always sat upon the dining room table. Next to it,
Father’s box of latin flash cards and a wall of books from Microbiology to
Faulkner. (I learned to edit myself far later, when big men with large desks
misread an innocent piece…)

I want to be alone.

(The faith, reason, here-and-now part of me knows that the disciples found that desert spot and experienced the miraculous feeding of the 5,000. This bit of knowledge I post at the end of this piece in case any firm believer firmly believes I have lost a marble or a screw has wriggled loose.) 

The Temporary Cure

The Temporary Cure

The pain has changed me, I complain.
Thinking the tears which come unbidden
have finally reached their end, they swell again
from hidden cisterns. The pain has let loose the reins
that held so much fear in check. But now the angry beast
burns beneath my brow, explodes through my dreams and
schemes to make no good thing worthwhile.

Embraces do not change it, words do not erase it,
heat and ice, the temporary cure, awakes my thinking until
room temperature steals every good thought away.

I scream alone, I reach the dead-end abandoned.
Once a cul-de-sac, and now rusted trashcans blow through
the idle plot where friends grilled out back. Picnics were
life and health;

The pain has changed all that.

Hiking the woods, camping and smelling like smoke,
charring marshmallows and reading a good book, fighting
the moths for light. Exploration and warm sun were
brisk and joy;

The pain has changed all that.

My friends see the creases, my teeth gnash, my jaw grits,
my eyes burn, my ears echo every background noise like
nuisances intruding quiet meditation;

The pain has caused all that.

Friends love, but few call; what can they say?
God loves, but still hides; where has He flown?
The pain reprimands the kindest phrases, excuses
and amazes the man a decade ago who woke at
midnight to sit with a friend,
talked all night to calm a storm,
walked all day, conversation to coffee and back,
and had time to play before the sun retracted its rays.

The pain has changed all that.
The pain has changed me and I don’t know
how
to get me back.

Compression

"Compression"

(“Through him, then, let us continually offer a sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of lips that confess his name.” Hebrews 13:15)

His life once expanded, people traveled to ask his advice,
to watch his mannerisms and copy his reflexes. He was only
half of what they saw,
though the hidden half frightened him from daylight into
nightmares.

They etched his name on plaques and bylines,
brought babies with coughs for him to cradle,
sat him down around hardwood tables with
state committees. The governor’s wife presented
the award paired with a guitar-man statue on his
haphazard office wall. Musicians applauded,
and the sharp arc of his trajectory was combined with
just the right velocity to land him
happy once the hard work was done.

But his sad half never smiled,
dark side cold, stubbornly deflecting
the weak force attempt to turn it toward the sun.

Blind side hardly smiled,
cold side stark, visionless and pallid
though colors swirled around it,
the hidden half never upgraded,
afraid it would be discovered in its
perpetual monochrome.

His life once expanded, now the diameter of a dime;
pain limits his excursions,
fear authors the versions of every story he remembers.
He is few.

But he cries. He turns the music loud. He keeps the
doctor long to have someone to talk to. He loves
and does not know how to. He faces himself and
wonders how this all will end, with tears and pain
his dinner and desert.

But he cries. He turns to You. He keeps on
asking so he will not have to regret. Tomorrow
still frightens him, with so little room to maneuver.

But he cries…to You. And he knows You,
though all is puzzle and spiral, and thanks You
for hope that seems wickedly illogical. Hold him
now, he lays his lonely assumptions in the strongest
Hands he knows.

Waters Run Free

Waters Run Free

(“Behold, I do a new thing: now shall it come forth: shall you not know it? I will even make a way in the desert, and floods in the wilderness.” Isaiah 43:19)

The open space and arid desert land
like fish scales, shale and sand, once
were shallow and wet with ocean;
the fossils in stone testify.

Why not now, I wait and watch and
still find naked fragments of yesterday’s masterpiece;
I watch and wonder why
the same etching in pencil that began the
glorious oil on canvas is now dirt,
rust, oxidation and corrosion.

It was shiny once, it was perfect then,
the pieces fit, the shades were hints
of what the naked eye never sees.

Now I try the same, and must be to blame
for the colors that touch neither fantasy or
reality.

The open space, the empty, the arid air
robs the moisture and leaves it bare. My heart
is just the same, dangling where I left it.

My prayer: and I’ve said it before. My ache:
and I beg it all the more. Winced and lonely
with the air knocked out of me. My plea:
Renew these salty tears and let me laugh again.
My cry: I cry more than I should, and would trade
each whimper for something simpler. My day: Your
friendship and a way to see the

The waters run free from the mountains,
across the desert, to the ocean and over me.

"If You Are Willing"

“Father, if you are willing, please don’t make me drink from this cup. But do what you want, not what I want.” Luke 22:42

It is nearly impossible to come up with a personal example of what it felt for Jesus the night He faced the looming cross. He knew, as everyone else in his time, the torturous methods used by Rome in exterminating offenders. He was fully aware of the horrors that could possibly play out before even the first nail was shoved through his hands. He faced His skin being stripped from His back, blow after blow, from the metal and bone tied into the whip known as the “cat of nine tails”.

I Should Be Done

I Should be Done

I should be done by now,
over the unrelenting flow by now,
of days on end punctuated by tears in the morning
when no one watches,
and pain the same from first to last.

Will you remember me if someone mentions my name?
I know I shouldn’t ask, but would you meet me at the door
so I won’t stumble to the floor walking in?
I know you’re tired of pitying me,
You think I like this pantheistic game that sees
eyes evaluating every breath not drawn from the well
of a new repertoire of song.

I’m really not dressed to go to lunch,
the cinders from the last fire are still on my hands.
I’m really not ready to try to retrofit
a friendship I invested in with new window panes.

I thought you might be the one and only in
the long flat past halfway between then and there,
the only wayside station for miles upon miles of days.

It matters less than it used to, but it still matters mostly
more than the pep talks I try to use to fall asleep.
Morning brings the reminder of harsh winds whining
my blame for every blizzard on the prairie.

I want the couch again, the hidden language friend
who prescribes zero, reminds little, rewinds nullified…

Never mind, I am merely depressed to the core and
shouldn’t cry anymore over separations, reparations,
mistakes and antiquated relics that couldn’t help but
point me out publicly while trying to enjoy a meal.

I’ve tried the pills, and I slept a little better;
I’ve tried the prayer, over and over, and no echo.

And the God who I know loves me more;

I am weary as war.