Another Color, Another Hue

Another Color, Another Hue

It seems it is time to wander
through the afternoon, looking for love
or something to call mine.
I had settled in for the evening when
the phone buzzed like an area code for
somewhere I had forgotten. I could have taken
things slower if only there were more people
to gather around a central theme.
Morning turned a cold shoulder to me
so I am depending on the afternoon to light
me up like a few friends sipping beers.

The days pass too quietly for me,
the moments full of melancholy that
masquerades as perpetual motion.

It’s true the days get in the way of
lightly wondering where the next smile
will grow. I did not invite this pain;
it shows up voluntarily. Truth is,
I probably could not find an interesting
sentence even surrounded by a handful of
friends.
But I still must fill the afternoon with something.

I turn slowly back to myself when the
loneliness comes like fog hugging the coastal hills.
I could sing you a lifeboat full of courage if
only my voice would not crack like ice, like rain.
Today is dressed up with nowhere to go. It merely
twirls and winds its way until the sun begins to set.
It brings the meandering morning to a close. I will
look for something new, another color,
for coming from so far away.

To Know the Deep

To Know the Deep

I want to know the deep and long of you,
The all and song of you.
I want to give you the true and same of me,
the peace and frame of me.
I want to know the days you cannot sing,
the nights that keep reminding you of everything
you wish you could not remember.
I want to sit with you for hours
just watching the river run.
I want to walk with you, hand in hand,
slowly like love that rises from the roots of
trees in the forest, like the warm earth below
our feet.
I want to hold you the way the sun holds the sky,
the way the clouds hug the hills with questions.
I want to be one with you, our hearts answering the
call of soft birdsongs resting among the cedars on the way.

I want to know the wide and fear of you,
the why and tears of you.
I want to give you the love and end of me,
the sighs and bends of me.
I want to know you like a slow turning
ocean below the azure blue. I want you to
know I’m there before you say a word.
I want to spend days and days with you
unfolding everything we’ve forgotten about
dancing when no one is watching.

I want to show you the corners of my heart
that I’ve kept in the dark. I want to soothe the
hurts you never speak of and hope you will speak
of them more to me.

I want you to feel my hands upon your face
when the tears silently trace your cheeks.
I want you to know you are beautiful when
the tears pool like pearls in you eyes.
I want to know the hurts and pain of you,
to give the soothing grains of sand on a
warm stretch of ocean sand.

I want to be silent while you tell me everything.
I want to hold you while you tell me each
chapter of your story and I will memorize it
and protect it within my heart for you.

Our Clumsy Navigation

Our Clumsy Navigation

 

It is true, we have
finally come to our senses.
So let’s take a strong boat to
the other shore. Let’s not leave even a hint
that we know where we are going.
I don’t know how to sail, but we can let the winds
and current
take us tacking away from the harbor.
There are words we could borrow but no one
would believe then anyway. There are miles to
leave between us and our sorrows. There are
angels in the air, mermaids under the foam,
foghorns flailing at the mists, and mystic rivers
ready for us to cross.
We both know our stories by heart now.
We both know the water lines.
We both can finish the day and then,
by the orange light of the setting sun be lured
like monarch butterflies to the trees, like
salmon up the creek,
like souls aching to be left alone,
like souls seeking a reflection we both can recognize.
None of it makes sense. But that is why we must go.
We have waited, hoped half-hearted for all the signs
to point out our next departure. And we have stood
frozen and agonized by the shore
imploring a certain impartation, a cure for our
clumsy navigation.
Noah built a boat before it rained,
but we are drenched and stained by our own
immobility.
Jesus walked on the water in the storm,
but we have been tossed while only hazy ghosts
teased us like sirens on the shore.
Sensing the time is right, let’s embark this journey,
provided, of course, that we can see the stars
and trust their movement from sea to sky.

The Boy Who Survived

The Boy Who Survived

(“But it is true! Christ has been raised from the dead!” 1 Corinthians 15:20b)

I came here because I’m the boy who survived.
I write home about it nearly every day.
I sing sadly for the wasted laughter that was spent
mocking unsolved mysteries. Though I still do not see them
well,
I know they are the disguises divinity wears when we
see the sky,
drink the wine,
hear the robins,
spy the deer just 20 feet from here.
I know they are the patterns for everything.

I’ve seen Mayan ruins rising above the jungle,
I’ve seen babies so small they barely fit in your hand.
I’ve seen storms so fierce the world disappeared,
I’ve seen the night so black it blanketed everything.
I’ve listened farther,
seen thinner,
cried when my mother died,
and cried again for my father, my sister,
my partner-in-crime, my sweet young student,
and a mentor of mine.

My body too, grows slower through the rotation of days,
through the years when love eluded me, and I chased it looking for
christmas lights at noon. I was certain far too early,
I was convinced far too soon.

I’ve seen sage smoke cleansing basement temples,
I’ve seen incense painting a mood from sterile to starlit.
I’ve imagined midday with you.
I’ve eaten from the hands of an enemy just once,
but I would do it again if
given the chance.

I came here because I’m the boy who survived.
I sing for you to bring you back to life.

Lectures Never Worked

Lectures Never Worked

(“In your love, listen to me; in your justice, God, keep me alive.” Psalm 119:149 [The Message])

Until then I’ll walk like the
sun shines for you, and I’ll work on a
mystery while I think my time away.
Alone today.

It’s a long way home from here.
It’s a silent walk from here.
It’s a frozen planet of tears,
it’s a burning redrock canyon,
a lonely monologue while people play
war games and blame it all on the
bible.

I never planned to be lonely. And my
phone only rings
when someone wants my money.
I don’t know if that’s true. I haven’t checked my
messages since 2022. Anyway,
I’ve been too hard on myself. I repeat myself,
with lectures that never worked from then till now.

And then a deep pivot that tore up the turf,
the phone rang, and I imagined the circles of the sun
growing lawns and treetops where the
mourning doves cooed the way that only
lovers do.

Somewhere in the middle of me
the smile of a baby
reminded me that kingdoms can be as
small as they are tall.

One thing you should know about me now;
I can watch the wind lift the leaves, one
by
one,
in the autumn haze,
and not feel like I’ve wasted my day.

Checking the Score

 
Checking the Score

(“For the Lord, the Holy One of Israel, has said: ‘You will be delivered by returning and resting; your strength will lie in quiet confidence.’” Isaiah 30:15)

I checked the score and no one was winning--
that is not true; I was losing.

My numbers did not add up,
my mind was numb with counting.
The walls turned on their foundations,
the windows were tinted and reflected
nothing back.
The room was filled with voices like lava,
everyone sat in the cheap seats while
the balcony was empty.

I checked the manuscript and no one was reading--
that is not true; I was writing.

Records show, if you are inclined to look,
that my ideas have been loose as rain tied into knots.
My grades were good, only my performance suffered.
The strain to forget was a night-full of mosquitoes,
the reminders, weeds untamed. They were housed
in my brain so long the attic was moldy.

I checked ratings and no one was watching--
that is not true; I had been recorded.

But I no longer care who sees or scores,
what unsavory secrets are stored in recent
and ancient files. They are hefty with my
under-deeds. They are filled with tales I
will not refute.

I checked with heaven; checked in.
All was quiet as the day before creation,
the day after resurrection.

Embrace My Soul

Embrace My Soul

(“For those who enter God’s rest also cease from their labors as God did from his.” Hebrews 4:10)

It is true,
the trailer won’t unload itself,
the house will not build itself.
But what if the soul grows in one
single embrace?

I get it,
the dishes won’t wash themselves,
my room will not clean itself.
But what if love is the effortless act
Of simple dying?

I cannot work,
my body won’t allow it.
I can barely write the words on the page.
Not that my fingers are stiff or crooked,
my mind has been seared by pain like a desert
and words like arrows telling me I just need more
jesus.

If just once they would sit in a chair next to me,
if just once they would share a bottle of wine,
if just once they would keep their mouths shut,
if just once they gave no advice this time.
Do I live too far away,
does my countenance frighten you?
All I know, I was just a stamp away and no one
ever wrote to me.

Are my tears too heavy for you to lug around,
do you fear my doubts will somehow undo you?
Are my words now too concrete for you to swallow,
do you pray for me while I cry invisibly?

I never stopped working and maybe I should.
My body will allow it no longer.
I no longer work, hear no voice on the phone,
no tone that enwraps my soul. “I love you” rings
more true than
“you need more jesus”
or “I will pray for you.”

Do you see my words, how artless they’ve become?
When I write in the middle of the pain
how can I ignore the silence I never heard from
Just one visitor, one victim of my hard labor,
or (maybe this is too crazy) one person who spent
a whole day imagining how a body like mine
could still house a healthy soul. 

I want to point to Jesus,
the suffering he took, the dying he imbibed,
I want to think of him with eyes that enliven
my hope again. But is it too much to ask,
too much to explain, that I wish his followers
bring him by when they came?

Incognito

Incognito

(“But speaking the truth in love, let us grow in every way into Him who is the head—Christ.” Ephesians 4:15)

He often traveled incognito,
he often traveled in disguise,
but no matter where he went,
no matter who he met,
you always knew him by his eyes.

He was a gypsy, a vagabond,
he spoke with swords, he was unarmed,
so no matter who he met,
they knew what he meant
when he said, “no need for alarm.”

He spoke so silent, stirred little dust,
he walked city blocks, slept in parks,
and no matter who saw him,
no one could ignore him,
he knew all of their missing parts.

Some invited him, some walked away,
some hoped forever, or today
that he would always know them,
he would never spare them
the gaze that welcomed them to stay.

As thick as the summer air, as light as ocean foam
Just before dawn;
As quick as a scissortail diving from the trees, as still as
An autumn fawn.
All things to all of us,
Winsome you surround us,
Within, without us,
Before the world was founded,
As true as love, you love us wounded.

Long After

Long After

(“Most of all, have a true love for each other. Love covers many sins.” 1 Peter 4:8)

Mostly I hear the printed word in tones full of objections;
a growl, a frown, a scowl, an upside-down offer to set me straight.
Lay aside your weapons and I’ll lay aside my wounds;

It’s fascinating the way the mind
inserts moods into the minuscule scribbles on
the back of a napkin or
the screen of a phone.

Happen upon our long history, friend,
not the two or three minutes that have fueled our silence.

What I would really like, you ask?

I would like to still smell the roses
long after you’ve left the room.

Wide for Two

Wide for Two

(“God’s way is perfect. All the Lord’s promises prove true. He is a shield for all who look to him for protection.” Psalm 18:30)

Think there beside me, there are no strangers,
we are not alone. You are too sweet to die by
lying words. Hear truth, the two-edged sword of
bright hues and life.

This is your destiny that calls you, speaks your name so softly you
hear each syllable peal like the
morning chimes through fog.

You are created; love and power, and a thirst unquenched.
A satiated heart, filled with its own words and senses, never
discover the colossal passion of the
hunger that only cries,

“More, my Lord. And never let
my eyes
become accustomed to the hues You create
for my daily plate, the divine nourishment
of love.”

Though the world conspires to clothe you only
with cast-offs, you have the same brown overcoat
daddy and grand-dad wore. Swaddled in the
well-worn lining ancestral discoveries mingle
with future longings and hope takes fire

Lit by prophetic miles, wide for two, and long
enough for all.