The Road was Darker

The Road was Darker

(“My life is stuck in the dirt. Now make me live again according to your promise!” Psalm 119:25)

The road was darker than usual
and I was unsure about the corners that wound
through the hills. I had spent the day wishing the
sun would shine more brilliantly to drive the
sludge away from my mind.

I had sat in the middle of incomplete and
run-on sentences that wanted to be certain that
I served my time.

And so, I left that small circle that surrounded me
with more weight than I could carry.
The night had fallen and I only wanted to find
somewhere that felt like home.

They were made of dust and so was I. But
beyond the wall of rocks they built to teach me
who to exclude,
they were certain they were building a temple when
instead
it was armory always preparing for war.

My anxiety grew, my skin turned white,
my voice caught in the back of my throat.
Mark my words, I had no syllables to say that
would make a way out of the imprisoned improvisations
that used “no” in ways that nonsense never heard.

There was no one who knew everything about me
so I set out from there on an excursion through the
night that might land me somewhere that left my
humanity alone. I wanted to find a place where
I could close my eyes and know that no one stole
my story while I was not looking.

I found a place to fill my lungs and revive my
fainted heart. Just outside of town there were circles
within circles and tables laden with bread and honey.
I pulled up with my lights on and tested the ground
to see if it would hold the full weight of me.
I turned off the engine and took my time examining the
lightly designed coffee cups being filled for vagabonds like me.

All I Can Say Is

 

All I Can Say Is

(“Of what use to me is frankincense that comes from Sheba, or sweet cane from a distant land? Your burnt offerings are not acceptable, nor are your sacrifices pleasing to me.” Jeremiah 6:20)

All I can say is
brother, your head’s not right.
You were so thrilled to follow Jesus
after making your first million
that you bought a bracelet that said
WWJD
and sported it in 14k gold.
All I can say is
brother, your head’s not right. All I can say is
sister, you are awake.

You were promoted and applauded,
offered the moon and a couple of planets,
and you gave it serious thought.
Then moved in where
at-risk babies lived; taught them as your own.
All I can say is
sister, you are awake. 

Let’s meet in the abandoned warehouse,
let’s make the floor warm for vagabonds.
Let’s make our own clothes, stretch the leftovers,
enlist the teenagers to share sacred bread
house to house. 

Let’s bathe the feet of widows,
let’s listen to the old men’s stories.
Let’s make our own laughter, stretch the muscles of joy,
enlist the CEOs to move into the neighborhood
and give away their gold.

All I can say is
brother or sister,
we have enough and more than enough,
we are a far cry from simplicity
and could start the journey
any day now.

Only Vagabonds

 

Only Vagabonds

(“He answered, ‘The foxes have holes to live in. The birds have nests. But the Son of Man has no place where he can rest his head.’” Luke 9:58)

Is there a space in this world for my kind
--he sighed.
Adobe or stucco, bamboo or thatch; a place where
a heart can feel at ease, though the feet may obey every decree
that sends them homeless and walled.
--he cried.

Is there room for my story in a town this size--
she sang.
duplex or guestroom, fireplace or furnace; a simple cube
with a window where guests can visit one at a time and
I can watch the doves coo and chortle alone.
--she sank

Into the only offer that stilled the curses that made her nerves
shout like carpet bombs,
her thoughts grind like
catacombs of dead words that kept
living inside her mind.

--he lied
every time someone asked if he was happy, if he was content.
His house was warm, his family free of charge,
and his rent was paid. But blue sky or hardwood floors,
his shadows hung heaviest at midday summer. He
relied
on visits from the Homeless One
and others who offered only the comfort that
vagabonds provide.