We Are Here Now

We Are Here Now

(“But whatever things were assets to me, these I now consider a loss for the sake of the Messiah.” Philippians 3:7)

I never imagined that all my work might
go up in flames.
I never dreamed that it might be the beginning
of a renewed carelessness. I had not planned on
such an early exit. I had not pictured a retirement
so soon.
I never planned on setting aside the fire which
I thought had been my all.

I think more carefully now about what comes my way.
I consider anxious thoughts and wonder why they still
can find their way to my fingers, to my gut, to my freezing
stop-motion when I am in a crowd.

Nonetheless, I am setting aside the false I that I’ve know
so long.
I haunted me and I drug me across the dirty fields.
I left me shortly satisfied only to thirst again.
I festered like self-righteousness while we rode home
in the back of the deacon’s Cadillac.

We are we now. Christ is not out of my grasp,
He is not at the tipping point of the last day of my fast.
He is within, revealing my true self in beauty I
never anticipated. Don’t mistake me; I still want I
more often than we would like. We are each other now,
fully like ocean tides and sand. Like salt dissolve in
water, we are more we than I ever thought.

A Change of Clothes

A Change of Clothes

(“In the same way, the victor will be dressed in white clothes, and I will never erase his name from the book of life but will acknowledge his name before My Father and before His angels.” Revelation 3:5)

On second thought, maybe it would be better to
light a fire than sit outside in the cold. Maybe it
would be advisable to invite the blazing glow back
to the front row of the evening.

We could sit around the table swapping stories
like baseball cards,
and rolling our tales out like dice. We could
evaluate their veracity. We could measure their
capacity for the truth. Or we could,
one
more time,
trust our friends who understand the rhythm
of winning and losing, of joy and pain. We wouldn’t
mind that much that we heard those lines a dozen
times before. They do not lose their truth even
with the embellishments each time they are told.

Is this what it will be like, to be known and
warmed by that knowing? Will our stories flow more
freely? Will our questions hang in the air without immediate
criticism? Will the systems of religion and politics fall under
the weight of the unadorned truth? Will answers matter less
than honest doors left open for perusal? Will we hear
the varied interpretations and anoint all of them true?
Is this what it will be like, to be seen and heard beyond
our talent for song and fashion? Will we create more space
between us even though we have grown so close?
Will the summers last forever; will our tales dangle in the
sky?

On second thought, I’ll light the fire and invite you to
warm yourself late into our waning life. The body gives
out over time, but the mind, oh my friend, the mind
never stops believing in eternity.

A change of clothes would really do us good.

Red Ink on Blue Paper

Red Ink on Blue Paper

It was fate, I have no doubt about it.
There’s not a damn thing I can do,
I’ll never stop loving you.
I could tell you, every day and more,
the well is bottomless, the supply eternal of
the elixir that intoxicates me.

I wondered how many times I will drink of it,
will my thirst ever be assuaged? Or
will this liquid that has transfixed me
keep my feet walking to you. I’ve stammered,
perhaps because there is a place I want to dwell with
room enough only for two.

I’ve seen the surface of you, and I’ve sounded the depths.
And I keep exploring, new, yet, and next. I know I have
layers
I’m still afraid to lay bare. I have words to say, and then
I run away, leaving only vowels behind.
I could write a note, red ink on blue paper,
and leave it where you would find it. And leave it
behind for you to read after
I’ve long since departed.

I’ve held back in too many conversations. I’ve
not asked the questions, I’ve not made the declarations.
But one day, perhaps late before the sun goes down,
I might take your hand,
kneel on the grass,
ask the question you asked me a lifetime ago
(and tremble, not knowing what to say).

Other lives, next life,
and still it is this life.

The same way you adore the sun,
the same way it warms your skin,
is the same way I adore you,
the same way you warm me again.

Living is so lovely now, even if it’s dreams and
imagination. But the pain leaves at
the very thought of you.

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.

It’s a Dry Heat

It’s a Dry Heat

I’ve been waiting all day for your call.
I messaged you hours ago. It must be your birthday
by now.
Maybe you are celebrating, maybe I’ve lost my mind.
No one owes me anything, I never had that much to give.
My mistakes are my everything, disappointment is the
mine shaft most of my friends never escape.
So I’ll wait for a new one.

Did you hear the waves crash today; did you hear
the cymbals clang like time screeched to a standstill?
Did you hear every thought in my mind? Is that why
the doors are locked again? Is that why I’ve lost
so many words. I thought I could be
unedited
with you.

It's a dry heat, so I’ll be ok. I’m fine. I’ll take
the afternoon to unpack my luggage and drink
too much wine. I’d

Meet you for coffee, but the shop closed an hour ago.
I’d tell you everything, but I’ve tried that. No one is
left

To capture my unsettled monologues and
erase them so they do not haunt me
again. I’d teach you to dance

On the lawn across from the old
locomotive in the park. Or

Walk my dog until we finally get
lost in the dark.

All I Know of Flames

All I Know of Flames

(“No one lights a lamp and then hides it in a clay jar or puts it under a bed. Instead, they put it on a stand. Then those who come in can see its light.” Luke 8:16)

I thought last night was just a vast alibi,
an opportunity to hide behind the stone walls that
increased my isolation. My chihuahua was there and
can vouch for me. The power was out and there were no
flashlights to be found.
We did light a few candles but kept them far away from the windows.
We had grown accustomed to silence,
but we needed the visitation of friends.

It's not that I’ve fallen, it’s that I’ve learned light is
full spectrum. Tunnels are fine most of the time,
but a wide beam wash of a hundred faces at once
might change your mind.

The light I carry now, or, more accurately, that carries me,
turns like kaleidoscopes, bends around black hole, sends insects
the direction home and birds the tune of their waiting nests.
I swear I saw
light
like this once before. But now that I think about it,
we were all white privileged kids walking in the mountains
because our parents had the money
and we had the time.

Once on an autumn night, standing with an Arikara brother
over a vat of propane-fueled water boiling beef for a memorial,
we talked of deer and ice fishing
and then saw behind us, north toward Canada
the Aurora Borealis. Our conversation was punctuated,
like staccato notes. The beef would feed everyone in the hall.

All I know of flames this time around, is that they are the heat
of love that burns eternally. All I know of light that ebbs and flows,
I know my eyes are closed far too often.

I’ve Thought of Fire

 I’ve Thought of Fire

(“No foul language should come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for needed edification, that it may impart grace to those who hear.” Ephesians 4:29)

I’ve thought of fire,
I’ve conjured smoke,
I’ve conferred with wind,
I’ve bought a home
for doves outside my window.

I’ve heard the sun,
I’ve written rain,
I’ve painted with snow,
I’ve lured the song
like sirens across the silence.

I’ve wrestled pain,
I’ve conquered fear,
I’ve compared the view,
I’ve sought the grass
for days to rest in summer.

But I’m still erasing,
I’ve awoken slow,
I’m still rehearsing,
I’ve run too fast,
I’ve brushed the golden hair
of a toddling daughter.

I’ve spoken low,
I’ve daydreamed sage,
I’ve deferred my soul,
I’ve smudged my words
for days like this. For
love.

And They Thought He Was Lost

And They Thought He Was Lost

(“You blind leaders, you take a small bug out of your cup but you swallow a camel!” Matthew 23:24)

Rounding the final lap
he wanted to
stop
and
sit down. He had already
won 101 and
102 meant little to him now.

He sat until the final runners
lapped him, then
stood up,
looked around,
and walked quietly off the track.

He picked up his phone,
called a friend and
walked the mile to meet them
at the coffee shop. They
sipped their lattes and
spent an hour with few
words needed.

He walked home and lit
a big stogie although
another friend once told him
she would prefer he take up
nude sunbathing than
smoking cigars.

Our Feet Were Sore

Our Feet Were Sore

(“They camped at the Lord's command, and they set out at the Lord's command." Numbers 9:23a)

We heard voices like people playing with faces
in the sand.
We were precise in our aims and missed the landscapes
where electricity was untamed. We knew what we knew,
and ignored what was created outside our myopic view.

We loved to camp on the traces of history,
we drew our lineage to boats from the east. We were
manifestly destined for this
with our gunpowder and bibles;
we determined who was savage by
the primitive campfires they lit.

We were poor, but not poor enough.
We were sure, like heads, not tails,
on our coins. We inscribed our mottos
in latin.

We looked for God and found him at the
end of our weapons. We won, we thought,
when we would not see what we not-knew.

Then we blamed it on infidels, we pulled our wagons tight;
the circle was broken, though, when what hemmed us in
kept out the light, the love of another whose horses
were wilder than the mannerly company we kept.

We saw the smoke descend like a cloud and vowed we
would destroy it again, this darkness we thought was a
stranglehold on everything our DNA screamed must be.
We heard the fire rise from the camp like lighthouse bells
that toll safe harbor and toothy waves. We tried to
quench it,
wrench it from the coast
where its beacon invited the scraps of clippers and sailors
we wanted to keep out.

Cloud and fire, when will we follow so closely
that our own desires are swallowed by the flaming cloud
of love divine,
and call, yes, announce, proclaim it all a dance of love
in dark and light. Our feet were sore from conquest anyway.

Say the Intimacies

Say the Intimacies

(“You must pray at all times as the Holy Spirit leads you to pray. Pray for the things that are needed. You must watch and keep on praying. Remember to pray for all Christians.” Ephesians 6:18)

Once a thought in the mind of God,S
then a word and command, the world began.
There is no mud nor air contributed by man,
no angel or demon made the seas meet the sand.

Once infinitesimally small with all the weight and fury
the entire universe would carry; expanding beyond imagination,
words eclipsed by eternity, music hindered by hearable scales.
The stars, like glitter and powder, sing sacred songs unknown
within the trails of swarming galaxies. A mere Painter’s
flick and colors spun from the Center of all being to the
edges of Not Known.

The Scholar and Artist who still conceives a day on this planet,
a year on the next, is not deaf to the whispers or agony
of a single creature upon the universal canvas. One cry
to His ear is all.

Turn over the contents of your heart, pour out the tears stored
in hidden jars and all will stop as the Father hears.

Dawn delays, dusk slow its rosy dark while
eye to eye, heart to heart, every word, every thought
is heard and repeated. One appeal does not deplete
the constant supply of wildfire love, nor any whisper
too soft to merit the gentlest reply.

Sing if you pray, or chant new rhymes, keep matins
or vespers, shout or whisper, knees, feet or prone,
crowded or alone; seek and say the intimacies
that have crowded you too late and early, too
recently.