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.

They Say Water Seeks its Own Level

They Say Water Seeks its Own Level

(“But whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never thirst again; but the water that I will give him will become in him a well of water springing up to eternal life.” John 4:14)

They say water seeks its own level.

The sun swung above us hugging the ragged horizon
as we ascended the narrow trail. It warmed our shoulders
like a shirt just ironed on an autumn day.

We were three as we trod the hardpan and wound our way
between stands of lodgepole pine. The sun followed us,
still kind as midmorning turned to noon.

We ate homemade trail mix, dried fruit and rinds,
enjoyed the pace, the breeze, the river below us
and the climb.

Our music was acoustic, our laughs the lyrics,
the birds our musicians, and our lungs worked full time
to sing and to climb.

What are friends? Travelling trios on an isolated footpath,
sharing the moment the sun takes its toll.

Parched, dry as aged wood fences,
our throats stung for refreshment as we tilted our canteens.

Warm, but clear, the water soothed us for a moment,
seconds of the hour; we were young, we were fine.

But once we stumbled; no, discovered. Once we happed upon
a rivulet meandering across our path and the spring above
which was its source, our tepid drink was forgotten

As we, each in turn, tilted our faces below the icy stream
that sprang from the rocks and wrapped our mouths, our
arms, our torsos, our minds completely around the unexpected offering.

We emptied our canteens there, puddling across the path,
and filled them from the slow trickle that broke through the granite.
We waited without time, the sun aligning with the river below
creating silver dancers where water and air barely kiss. We knew
what all hikers know;

The water is free, abundant, and pure. The spring would continue,
though snow filled the trails, and next year, or the year after that

We could return to find the pristine refreshment, the sacrament, the
grace.

They say water seeks its own level. Older now than young once was,
three hikers scattered across the continent and time
may think, in the same late moment of the day
of water that bore the mixture of earth and divine.

What the Sliver Sees

What the Sliver Sees

(“Son of man, the ones living in these ruins in the land of Israel are saying, ‘Abraham was only one man, yet he possessed the land, but we are many; surely the land has been given to us for a possession.’” Ezekiel 33:24)

The moment our numbers reach a peak, our towers loom above the
jet streams that streak across the sky; the moment we’ve made a million,
counted the membership fuller than a beehive; Pride

Is the slight breath that blows our towering egos to totter and sway
the way an elephant on skates loses momentum, and cannot find
gravity’s center for the life of him.

Hand me my profit, today’s bottom line is higher than yesterday.
Hand me my commission, I’m ready to spend it now
and next year the same. Watch the graph point to the sun,
we’ve added on and jammered on, led interested buyers on
enlightening tours of exactly how to build it better with nothing more

Than staying late to close accounts and learn a handbook full of
redefinitions. And, I’m happy to say, the building is still bustling,
the roof is renewed and the money keeps flowing through
the front door into the anxious pockets that own everything they see.

But a handful smell the tar that constantly fills the holes,
a sliver see the misdirection that keeps the bodies inside the building
so those who enter are counted with the exiting and reports are doubled
like lightning.

There is a new creation that never aspires to awards and plaudits,
but, in horizontal architectures, builds across the boundaries that
counted some in with money to spend, and some out until near the
end of another business day. A new creation enwrapping every
block on the street, bum on the avenue, executive at the bus stop;
every junk shop, swap meet, back street and front row seat. A
New Creation where everyone’s view is the best view in the house.

The walls are sand now, fortifications unemployed. The guntowers
and turrets
are belfries and steeples now; the sales charts ripped from the wall
while
new songs older than creation fill the hearts and throats of all
willing to love bridges more than the
barricades of yesterday.