Open Fire Breakfast

 

Open Fire Breakfast

(“Hey! Come, everyone who thirsts, to the waters! Come, he who has no money, buy, and eat! Yes, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.” Isaiah 55:1)

Did you ever have one of those skillet breakfasts
in the forest cooked over an open fire? The eggs
and cheese and ham and peppers
sometimes cooked at home
but never tasting better in the smoke and resin
and dew. Even a tuna fish sandwich
tastes better outdoors.

Did you ever camp next to someone who motioned
you over
and shared that frittata with you, ashes clinging to
the cast iron pan? If you talked, I am sure
you do not remember the conversation now,
but the taste of kindling and coffee last
at least a decade or two.

The recipe in your kitchen and the
one over the coals
are identical.
But one tastes so free, stays so close to
your memory.

And so, we savor the divine. An invitation. A fellow
pilgrim disguised in flannel. I only wish you, my friend,
had invited me in.

The Floor Was Slanted

The Floor Was Slanted

(“…being diligent to keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.” Ephesians 4:3)

The second the door closed behind us we noticed
the floor was inclined like a piedmont and we had not
quite reached the top.

We were a small band, travelers in the night, roaming in search
for the moments we had lost waiting in the cities.

We knew each other only by reputation then, now we knew each
other by name. We heard stories and gossip then, now we saved our breath
for chatter along the trail.

We were neither success nor failure, we were noticed and sometimes invisible;
clerks, nurses, nuns and writers of verse. We were teachers who had learned
far too much.

Passing a stream, we held the water in our hands. Passing a stream,
we knelt with each other, our knees buried in the sand. Passing a stream,
we waited and appeased our thirst thoroughly watching the sun between
the black branches of overhanging trees.

Some sang, some whispered, some laughed, some blistered in the afternoon sun;
some nurtured, some led, some murmured, some fled their past
along with the rest of us.

But our faces all looked ahead, our feet at last free of concrete and steel,
with no cross streets or street lights, we happily accepted the pain
that accompanies pilgrimage and took our turns at both sorrow and joy.

The second we saw the roofline pointed toward heaven, the
second we noticed the double glass doors with reserved parking out front,
the second we saw the well-suited smiler handing out greetings,
the second we stepped toward the sloping porch and saw the
benches for sitting in the sun

Was the second we discovered our Jerusalem, our Mecca,
our Zion, our Cathedral and we entered quickly to find a
permanent home.

The second the door closed behind us we noticed
the floor was slanted and we soon began to congregate
where the building demanded we go.

The corners were filled with people like us
who argued over the best view from the places up front.

Dust and Thirst

Dust and Thirst

(“Come down from your lofty place and sit in the dust.” Jeremiah 48:18a)

You sit in your dust and you laugh as if you drink all day from
a tap of crystal liquid; so cool your burning eyes assume all will be
healed under the flow of its spring.

You bivouacked  a place higher than your enemies,
you set up camp to display your long stature, your tall statues,
your walls which shine with whitewash sheen. In the desert you
can pretend all summer and nearly all autumn as well; the veneer is

smeared upon the stacked rubble walls. You stole the shimmer from
mica and polished bronze in angles to reflect the sun's long rays
for the fat portion of the day into the last few sightseers' approving view.

But the rains reveal you are austere; enough water to persuade your
pretty pebble to let loose of their sham of a veneer. You are done.

I stand in humanity's circle, showing off my latest braintrust just the same
as ancient Moab and Dibon, its royal city. Here's the thing, we who sing
our praises through the summer until the rains of revelation expose our
bling as nothing more than drug store trinkets, we will thirst in the dust
if we do it long enough.

Come down from your heights, you boaster of National rights;

Start the hike today, off the mountain; do not delay, your boast is only
brighter balloons filled with the same gas as the names you've claimed
are behind every conspiracy. You are the tyranny you decry.
Your hunger to be right is the heresy that prevents tomorrow's meal
from gracing a family so hungry their faces are smeared messy after
the feast.

Dust and Thirst

Dust and Thirst

(“Come down from your lofty place and sit in the dust.” Jeremiah 48:18a)

You sit in your dust and you laugh as if you drink all day from
a tap of crystal liquid; so cool your burning eyes assume all will be
healed under the flow of its spring.

You bivouacked a place higher than your enemies,
you set up camp to display your long stature, your tall statues,
your walls which shine with whitewash sheen. In the desert you
can pretend all summer and nearly all autumn as well; the veneer is

smeared upon the stacked rubble walls. You stole the shimmer from
mica and polished bronze in angles to reflect the sun's long rays
for the fat portion of the day into the last few sightseers' approving view.

But the rains reveal you are austere; enough water to persuade your
pretty pebble to let loose of their sham of a veneer. You are done.

I stand in humanity's circle, showing off my latest braintrust just the same
as ancient Moab and Dibon, its royal city. Here's the thing, we who sing
our praises through the summer until the rains of revelation expose our
bling as nothing more than drugs store trinkets, we will thirst in the dust
if we do it long enough.

Come down from your heights, you boaster of National rights;

Start the hike today, off the mountain; do not delay, your boast is only
brighter balloons filled with the same gas as the names you've claimed
are behind every conspiracy. You are the tyranny you decry.
Your hunger to be right is the heresy that prevents tomorrow's meal
from gracing a family so hungry their faces are smeared messy after
the feast.

Rolling Rocks

“…They drank from the spiritual rock that went with them; and that rock was Christ himself.” 1 Corinthians 10:4

While the Israelites wandered in the desert, God provided water for them that sprang supernaturally from a rock. God told Moses to strike the rock with his rod, and when he did, water gushed out. A later time God told Moses to merely speak to the rock and water would come out. Moses, acting presumptuously, struck the rock just has he had done before. In God’s kindness He still allowed the water to proceed from the rock, but He disciplined Moses by disallowing him from entering the Promised Land.