Everlasting Springs

Everlasting Springs

(“Let the one who believes in me drink. Just as the scripture says, ‘From within him will flow rivers of living water.’” John 7:38)

We had been patient, waiting for the day to begin.
We had approached from below, finding the hills where
we could look out across the river, shiny and silver,
no wind, no wind, no wind.

We look to the east toward the mouth of the river some
200 miles away. We wondered how many had sent their
best wishes toward us standing above the water today.

We walked down from the hill to feel the river on our skin.
We approached from above, finding the ledges that edged
five feet into the rivers running torso. Fishermen slung
their line across the lapping waves, stirred by a late breeze
in the afternoon.

We look to the west to the foot of the river, some 50 miles
away. We wondered how many ships turned from the sea
and followed the river to upland ports to unload their burdens
before the tugboats turned them round to the sea again.

We sensed this lane of passage was something within.
We determined this was a picture of something more tangible
we could carry like canteens. We drank water to refresh
our parched tongues; we shared water to brighten the eyes
of the solitary ones. We might practice solidarity with
those excluded from the river. We might lead them by the
hand to hear how the Spirit pours herself into us like
everlasting springs.

From watching and waiting we learned to listen well,
and we were more certain now at the end of the day that
the river was our mother, always ready to share her affluence.
The river was our mother, always ready to show us the confluence
with every other stream along the way.

Waiting on Hold

Waiting on Hold

(“Then a dispute also arose among them about who should be considered the greatest.” Luke 22:24)

I called you up with my remaining time of the afternoon.
I waited on hold; I laid the phone on the desk while
scanned the internet until you picked up. It wasn’t
your fault
you were running late. The demands on your time
are endless,
and I called without an appointment.
So I waited on hold; patiently wondering how you had changed
since the last time we talked. I heard rumors
that you had traded your throne for
a camp chair in the middle of nowhere.
As soon as you were settled you looked in
on the children whose scrapes and bruises spoke
more of abuses than playful stumbles in the yard.
You touched their wounds delicately;
you understood their cries instinctively. You
interpreted their prayers silently and
slowly learned their names. You sat beneath
the sun with each one of them telling their stories.
You cradled the smallest ones who barely formed
a dozen words and had not yet found yours. You
always said your name was a mystery. But your
reputation preceded you. Even at your pinnacle you
mixed with the least of these, you decreased to
come down to their size.

--Hello, it’s me. Do you remember? Thanks for answering
my call. I just wanted to say I’ve learned from your ways and
will not stall another day to jump off my high horse and walk with
the poorest on the dusty road.

Like Cannons of Rain

Like Cannons of Rain

(“We are the temple of the living God, you see, just as God said: ‘I will live among them and walk about with them; I will be their God, and they will be my people.’” 2 Corinthians 6:16b)

If I told you tomorrow I’d be gone
would you save the day, would you hide it away
with your keepsakes?
But You may as well try
to store the sun ‘round midnight.
If I heard my ears would soon be closed,
would I memorize the way the songs make me feel?
Would I heal
outside
where the lightning scores the skies,
where the electricity conducts itself like cannons
of rain?
If I told you I’d never set foot in this place again,
would you remember my name? Would you etch
it on the front door? Would you sound it out like
phonics?
But you may as well try to name the gods,
pin down the angels,
catch the waterfalls midstream.

If I felt the warm no more, caught the smoke
of campfires on the ridges beyond the river
and then turned to go home,
would you come look for me? Would you
insist our way of life could exist on the
warmest beach
or coldest church bench?
If my fingers played notes hidden between
the black and white keys,
would it be another reason to cry heresy?
But you may as well try to keep the
hummingbirds away from
the climbing jasmine.

You might as well try to keep me from
exploring sanctuaries of light with gray
pronouncements today.

Today I will lay me down in peace. Today
I will cram my mind with unimagined things,
and laugh that we could be so certain about
which compass points are holier,
at which destinations the gods dwell.

Once you mark it on a map the mystery
dissipates and hardens like grime. Once
you build your monument
the sighs become yawns and we turn our
mattresses over so satisfied that we simply
cannot be wrong.

If I told you I don’t know how I feel about
precise measurements, would you still claim me
as a worshiper waiting alone?

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.

Some Stay on the Same Square

Some Stay on the Same Square

(“Abraham was waiting for the city that has real foundations—the city planned and built by God.” Hebrews 11:10)

Some stay on the same square, never moving high or low,
never exploring diagonals that crossed their fence lines like
afternoon sunlight. They find silence one way to cope.
They think they are home. There is dirt between their toes,
but their souls are mere mirrors of every marionette face
that has nodded in approval.

I’m not sure where I fit. Some days the only speech I hear
is the buzzing of wings filling the air. Others the moments are
silent as snow.

Some wander like dandelion fluff, alighting on fence posts,
on the ears of lazy dogs in the sun, on the forehead of an old man
wishing he was young. Some never settle but are carried beyond
the sun. Behind the star where no one can prove they exist at all.

I have not wandered that far. But my feet are worn from red
Oklahoma clay, from black adolescent asphalt, from North Country
needles of ice, from imitating the fancy dancers on the summer plains.

The summer before high school, late for an evening walk,
two girls walked toward me who I had not met. They were eating
grapes
in the waning summer warmth. The told me their names, threw
the grapes on the street and told me they were making wine.
And one, I am happy to say, is still a friend of mine.

Some clamp down and never let go. Some hide inside the
doctrines that lied to them about the length and love and
shape and movement of things. Though they would thrive with
a single moment of brave contemplation, their diet is complete.
The healer they long for will never appear until their
lego towers crumble, random and underfoot.

I have built monoliths; I have worshiped granite. I have
longed for magical upheaval; I have written stone monuments
upon my walls.

My bones have become rigid while my heart melts beneath
the warmth that makes every turn of the earth my home.

Less Important Than the Melody

Less Important Than the Melody

(“Help each other in your troubles. In that way you obey Christ's law.” Galatians 6:2)

There is no reason to wait. Take the
sunrise to someone who
is still aching halfway through their day.
There is no reason to hesitate. Bring the
table with you and set it with
in the yard, gingham tablecloths and
fried chicken to tempt the neighbors
and their dogs. Enter the lonely space that
extends from the first tear of morning to the
half-shut eyes of midnight.
Why do you pray for miracles when
the old man up the road would be so happy
to hear a voice from the past, an anchor to reality
more heavenly
than a hundred verses of hymns.
And don’t forget the children who smile
so easily
at one twinkle of attention. Learn the choreography
that sets the burdened ones free.
Teach yourself the lessons you learned the last time
you returned from enforced silence to
hear native songs sung back to you again.
The words are less important than the melody
that lifts the eyes, lightens the shoulders, and brightens
the hills once shrouded in gloom.
Walk the dusty hills with the Teacher who
has no place to lay her head. Attend the weddings
of lovers
whose siblings stayed away. Dance with the groom,
twirl the bride, celebrate with cake on your face
and
invite the parson too. Be the presence in the
echoes, be the praises in the silence,
be the persona who frequent both
meadows and wilderness to discover the magic
and carry it to hovels waiting for time to begin.

A Sky Waiting to be Filled

A Sky Waiting to be Filled

(“Are any among you suffering? Let them pray. Are any cheerful? Let them sing psalms.” James 5:13)

A sky waiting to be filled with
tears of pain
or
songs of joy. It surrounds everything.

A friend’s gaze sitting on the swing
waiting
to reflect back anything
in your heart today.

The breath moving and silent
carries the human cries from
within the infinite soul to
the eternal ground of being.

Angels may hover, they may not exist,
while some insist on squeezing confessions
out of the unbelieving.

And I hope to simply be satisfied with

Being seen.

Campfires and Timeless Tales

 Campfires and Timeless Tales

(“I will be a Father to you. You will be My sons and daughters, says the All-powerful God.” 2 Corinthians 6:18)

Entrusted with mere existence I
often
cannot keep from trying to control
time as if the hands on the clock
can be speeded up by my anxieties.
It does not pass, it flows like jet-streams
laden with weather.

On the days when I can lay my machinery
down
and simply listen to the cranking of the gears,
the creaking of the years,
the friction of time against space
I discover something far beyond the face
of things.
Far slower than the pace of things.
Far nearer, by the grace of things.
A table filled with aunts and uncles,
a yard filled with first degree cousins,
an afternoon filled with siblings who happen upon
the bbq we serve whenever the summer sneaks
up on us unaware.

Did you see your brother waiting to cross the street,
stalled on the corner because the light stays red?
Did you see your sister ragged in the corner,
breathing on the backstreets waiting for the
curfew to be lifted?

Did you see the Power. like. love.
Did you see the campfires lit on a thousand hills
with no fences around them? Did you see
the maternal love latent in the universe?
Did you see the paternal care lately calling to
all of us?

Did you stop and stay though the wind blew the
smoke in your face? Existence will not wait
while we measure the time in nitpicking packages of
hills to die on. Instead, we rely on
the stories told that take the whole night to tell

And do notice the hours slip away while we pass around
flagons of wine, crumbles of cheese,
and more bread than we need as we
hear the kindling crack.

And each new tale begins.

Waiting by My Window

Waiting by My Window

Waiting by the window for the rain to fill the yard,
hiding in the closet where joy has been locked up tight,
formless friends never knock on the door while
a few ask about me, electrons sending their questions
with a handful of taps on their phones.

We used to run through the rain,
we used to sit on couches without having to explain,
we ate vegan spaghetti and pasta fagioli,
we traveled over the Cascades for Christmas,
and sometimes played tennis at midnight.

Waiting for the phone to ring, all I get is notifications,
someone has stolen my identity, someone compromised my passwords.
Losing my trajectory I feel my orbit failing,
near the apogee of my revolution I see home-base
rapidly fading.

I have the whole day to think, all day to question my assumptions,
but my mind aches from the outside in
and could use a break
from an old friend or two
who wouldn’t mind meeting for a beer
or a dark brew espresso.

Last night was Halloween and I sat where I could see
the children outside my window
just before they knocked on the door.
One called me by name, and I wish he had stayed.
But his bucket was not full yet. His young voice
stayed with me, a log on the hearth, a distant
ember-infused
smile.

But back to my orbit: I am sorry my tangents
have taken me away from the only solar system I have
every known.
And the distance between us is like a heart slowing down,
memories unmade, and no crew to guide my flight.

Waiting for the apology, and many are waiting for mine.
But I am dust on the shelf. The vise around my brain,
the floods and the rain,
the months and months of isolated pain

See me
waiting by my window again.

Waiting for the Miracle

Waiting for the Miracle

(“Children, guard yourselves against idols.” 1 John 5:21)

We hold our breath, we flip through the hymnal,
we sigh and gasp, we wait for the signal,
we want a sign, we last until midnight
then say goodnight
waiting for the miracle to come.

We erect our flags, prop up our candidates,
we salute the rags we had to fabricate,
red, white and blue; we sing this hymn to you
from wooden pews
waiting for the miracle to come.

We bar the rest, we rebuild torn curtains,
we earn our way, our belief is certain,
we lose our minds, we prize our opinions,
we’re good civilians
waiting for the miracle to come.

We paint the past, we gild it like heaven,
we think we’ll last, our land is god-given,
we walk on tombs, we are immigrants,
it’s just circumstance
waiting for the miracle to come.

And while we wait the poor are limping,
the aged never come down the stairs,
the sick have stopped asking,
their breath reserved for living.

And while we wait the Spirit is calling,
the Father has a banner of his own,
the Son takes down the flagstaff we’ve saluted
far too long

Waiting for the miracle to come.

Some have resorted to self-defense,
others to self-hatred, some to paying the rent;
some have reverted to soil and sawdust,
others imagine gold dust, some do what they must
waiting for the miracle to come.

Some hear in the quiet the cello note underneath it all,
some see graffiti and murals scribbled in a child’s scrawl,
some taste the wine, some touch the bread,
the divine aroma permeates all who know
the miracle has come.

Everything I Need

Everything I Need

(So, my Christian brothers, when you come together to eat the Lord's supper, wait on your turn.” 1 Corinthians 11:33)

Everything I find, under my feet, over my head,
everything I need, into my heart, words never said,
everything, everything,
I find  in the silences, in the spaces between columns and
walls, in the unseen hollows and the songs yet sung,
everything, everything is sweeter to my ear,
more savory to my tongue because
It comes first from You to me.

I can wait until the Amen’s final sustain,
I can believe beauty inhabits delay,
sense indwells the crazy way a storm
piles up on the horizon moments after the
sunniest day.
I will watch Your eyes until the capture me,
I will look to Your hands until you embrace me,
I will know, though my “whys” increase,
I will hope, though the sighs release so little pain
they build upon each other, sigh, and another,
sigh, and breathe; sigh, believe; sigh, upheaval
from the hot spear that never cools; sigh until the

Breath is so large it fills the room; a sigh that
has grown, the sighing, the groaning, the hands
both covering my brow, in some way hoping to
kill the courier of agony somehow.

But still, storm and pain, crash and insane,
everything I need is worth the wait until
I see as I am seen,
and believe every crooked way has
been made straight.

A Better Place

A Better Place

“But as it is, they aspire to a better land, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore, God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.” Hebrews 11:16

It seems we always want something more, something better than what we currently possess. Five years ago we purchased our first automobile with that new-car-smell (translation, first “non-used” car). It is nice, economical, and we enjoy having something that doesn’t break down every month or so. But, I have discovered it is not enough. Now, I want a new car, but with more room, better electronics, and seat warmers. After the first year of “new car” wore of, the desire for something better began to take root.

The Art of Patience

“And so, after waiting patiently, Abraham obtained the promise.” Hebrews 6:15

I am not one of those who gripe about how terrible “this generation” is. You will rarely hear me grouse about today’s society and pine for the good old days. I am not unaware of the deep ungodliness of our own times, but, any student of history will be quick to acknowledge that all eras have had their atrocities.

Should We Wait for Another?

Should We Wait for Another?

(“Go tell John what you have seen and heard. Blind people see. The lame people walk. People with leprosy are healed. People who could not hear can hear. Dead people are alive again. Poor people hear the good news.” Luke 7:22)

I have had my doubts, my u-turn possibilities;
I have wondered why the sky will not rain when
I am parched and need relief from my recent disabilities.
I wondered about each promise, just like you,
I have sought His solace, questioned his silence too.

Wondering why, at 3 am, someone won’t help me sleep,
or turn these dreams from lame and slipping to strong feet
and mental grip upon the faith I nodded aloud to follow.

I am no prophet, but a quiet shepherd, content to sit upon the hillocks,
the green and yellow moguls of spring or summer. I watch the sheep,
give them water, tend their weak, romp with the strong, and feed the
best fodder before night falls quietly and we gather in the fold.
I would be content to read my book, play pastoral on my mandolin,
and protect the loves, ewes and rams and lambs, upon the spreading
shadows of dawn.

I nodded yes to the Power I knew had every right to my existence,
and yet,
when I needed Authority to rid me of a certain incarceration, subsistence
was my ration.

I have asked the questions, the wonder about inability;
I have pulled God’s hair and turned His head around to see me,
to face me,
to embrace me,
and occasionally be startled by what I saw.

But the sheep have sometimes wondered where the lines were born
that were buried in my brow and cracked beside my eyes. And more
than twice a pair of eyes,
have met me from beneath uncombed wool that, sad before,
a half-dozen years or more,
brightly played like a happy lamb again; and I occasionally
was startled by what I saw.

Who Sees the Movement?

Who Sees the Movement?

(“When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, ‘Do you want to get well?’” John 5:6)

Wait for the water, watch for the springs that
bubble angel’s breath to break the surface tension
of plural years immobile, of secluded days centered
in the circling crowd.

Watch for the ripples swept by angel’s wings
that begin adjacent and end detached. For all
the years of waiting,
a stronger paralysis, a force of fiction,
impels the inaction. Each added anticipation
lowers the hope that once brightened the
first morning on the bank.

A pool of confection, glass candy to cool the
perception that the wait is myth, the storied cures
are legend. And, though walking is out of the question,
a staff new as the old days in the sun, awaits the moment
the first query and longing is answered.

With a quiet descending so slowly that only the discerning notice,
once the final bird has sung, the breeze brightens, the water
glistens
with diamond reflections of wind and sun. Unseen,
the wings freshen the mediations of those placed
and left there to revive or die.

What does a paralytic do when the waters of healing beckon?
What movement will take the immobile improbable?
Who left a man who could never move an inch closer
than the place they propped him, dropped him like
a rock float to the other shore.

Who sees the movement within the motionless?
Who lifts the staff unused? Who asks the inevitable
with intention to answer? Who brings the waiting water
further upshore to the flood tide meandering wider
than it ever had before?

Wait was Reward

Wait was Reward

(“Stay with God! Take heart. Don’t quit. I’ll say it again: Stay with God.” Psalm 27:14 [The Message])

I wandered down the marina path
to pondering street,
looking for the address that would
make my search complete.
But the numbers had been changed,
the houses rearranged,
and the sky laughed while I claimed
the neighborhood I remembered never looked like this.

I ambled up the hilly trail
to blackcrowing bluff,
seeking the scenery that would
stuff me full enough.
But the view was askew,
the shadows royal blue,
and the woods knew what I lost
after growing past childhood and daylight savings time.

I stood still, determined to find
the neighborhood park,
casting anticipation past
each beat of my heart.
And the wait was reward,
the face of the Lord
kissed me where I stayed. Recall
fades, but encircles, then, now and in-between.

To Wait Until

To Wait Until

(“At once Jesus asked them to come with him. They left their father in the boat with the hired workers and went with him. Mark 1:20)

It does no good to wait until more favorable times
when following is freer from questions about
whether I will follow well or succeed at success at all.

I wish there were patterns for promised infatuations
(there were more than a dozen hobbies I never stayed with
for more than a year).
I wish there were recipes for baking a life just the right amount of time
(I’ve left out more ingredients than I’d like to confess).
I wish there were seminars for messiah-following
(oh…there are, I’ve attended dozens).

I could brag about all that I might have had; boats and extra cars,
dinner reservations and vacations anywhere I please.
I might boast about how quickly I ran after the Voice that
ran after me. But there is no credit in following
such compelling attraction, nor in giving away
what I never intended to have; beside regrets,
and those I would give away freely to the first asker
with no price, delivered promptly, to their front door,
postage paid, no handling charges. I’d even wrap them up
in Christmas paper I bought for next year’s holiday.

It takes me twice as long to name anything a success
as it did when I had people coming out of closets,
clients making payments, and invitations to digress
about current reservations. I used to run after You
and now my feet ache from bone-spurs. I used to
think so clearly about God and His country
and now my head aches with an incurable disease.

I had hoped by this time I followed You better,
but not nearly as well as my first week out of the cradle.
I could say I’m still working on this or that,
but I’ve worked longer than I should have for such
simply variations from the norm. I’d rather be silent
in my daylight, alone with my night-light, and
hope I’d followed well enough to come home

Tomorrow.

Be Seated

"Be Seated"

(“I will take my stand on my post, station myself on the tower, and watch to see what He will say to me; what answer I shall receive concerning my complaint.” Habakkuk 1:17)

I have waited faster without hearing the wind bring
a lasting balm to grant the answer

I must have already known.

Feet raised upon the end of the couch,
head sunk into the pillow,
the quiet must be cut by tv
to dot the self-talk, the dialogue, trialogue,
self-cast reruns of regrets I cannot redo or
fewer away.

I need someone to dry my eyes,
I need to know everything’s alright,
(the tears have evaporated since)
I need a word to match the actions,
a lifelong flash in the darkness that opens the
corners to view.

I hate to complain, to sing the blues to a brilliant Master
of dis-Illusion, but I’ve felt for sometime my racing radio plays
crisscrossing in my thoughts height and length-ways

Need a better match than where my bony feet lead me
these days.

So, punctuate me, please, so I know when my first act ceases
and Your intermission:

New paradigm please!

Speak to me, I can’t figure it out anymore.
I’ll say, “If you say, ‘let the vision wait’, I’ll wait”
But I’m rock-sure I’m uncertain which is Your vision
and my screenplay.

Strike the set, already!

I’ll stand stark on the black paint stage floor,
won’t call it a monologue with nothing to say;

a listening play.

The cast is now seated, legs up on the couch,
ready to vouch for every word You might say.