Walk into the Warm

Walk into the Warm

(“For I am sure of this very thing, that the one who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.” Philippians 1:6)

I saw the ways that sleep overtook you and
the moments you woke fresh-faced from your dreams.
I could remember the days that left you begging
like an unconscious tambourine. You tried every
escape you knew and yet
the discontent
only grew. You were sure there was a way
to scribble a new portrait that appeared more like
the appearance of the divine you had imagined.
You were so afraid of failing that you
masked your innocence with a succession of
prostrate prayers with your face to the carpet.
You learned to preserve the emotions that
collided against the walls of your heart.

Take a breath. Ease yourself into the day.
Lay aside the effigies you erected to present
yourself to the world. Even though it feels like
slow-motion
there is a trajectory within that moves you
to the wholeness you crave.

You can come into the light, you can exit the
cavernous unrest into the un-echoes of transformation.
You are far away from the starting line; overland
your journey is nearer than you imagined, sooner than
you knew. You can walk into the warm and feel your
icy nervous system melt like a baby being born.

You do not need to hide; you do not need to subscribe
to every anxious thought. You will finish this marathon
with life left over to smile as you survey the distance
you have come.

Would You Walk with Me?

Would You Walk with Me?

(“The Son of Man came, and he ate and drank, and you said, ‘Look at this man! He is a glutton and wine drinker, a friend of tax collectors and other outcasts!’” Luke 7:34)

Would you walk with me along the field where the
yellow daffodils form the border between tree lines
and grass? Did you see this day coming, did you wonder
if the rain would last?

Would you come if I invited you to
a table with common food? Would you let me
fill your glass with wine,
would you be happy with spaghetti and a
slice of bread?

I remember how the bougainvillea climbed the
patio sticks holding up the roof and
made it feel like Hawaii when we danced to the
listing moon.

We were too young for alcohol, too old for
musical chairs;
we were testing the boundaries, we were
choosing up couples and pairs on an
early adolescent summer’s eve.
We waited until the night was over to
dance with the one we had danced with
in our heads. We could not believe it when
she said,
“yes.”

I have to admit these days are split between
wishing to have someone who tells me all their wishes,
and sitting alone watching the news on tv.
I’d rather play in the band than practice
a few moves alone before the black and blueness of
the night wrapped it up for us.

The field will still be here in the morning,
the path winding past the cattle and geese,
and I would extend my invitation and wait
on the corner for a chance to speak with you
about the questions along these streets.

Anyone who will tell me their story has
already won my heart,
crossed the path from unknown to spatial
and relieved my discontent.

I’d love your company, but I fear the conversation
that leaves me speechless when you ask me
what I want.

His Walk Was Interrupted

His Walk Was Interrupted

(“Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28)

 

His walk we interrupted, his thoughts diverted from
the increasing potency of pointed reflexes. He saw
his image in each drop of rain. He heard his name in
the wind that exposed the trees and stripped the leaves to
create autumn’s carpet.

He rarely wandered, but liked to explore.
He rarely spoke, but liked to ask questions.
He liked the wildlife that posed just beyond his
itinerant feet.
He liked the voice, sounding like a child, that
whispered truth so rare he had forgotten
that once upon a time he memorized the faces of
children. And now they had children and
grandchildren
of their own.

He used to walk to work. He used to stop and
visit with the widow who tended her roses and
fountain in her front yard across the street from
the courthouse. He didn’t know all their names,
but petted the dogs who lived on the edges of
downtown.

It did not take much these days to throw
him off balance,
his equilibrium was affected as much by
gravity as it was by sound. He spun
inside, he twisted everything around his heart
in vain attempts to forget the faces that
ghostly adults displayed. He knew there
was a place created,
an Eden orchestrated,
that invited his rest.

And sometimes he did. Rest.
And sometimes he didn’t. Rest.
And rest became his comfort. Quilt.
And rest became his prayer. Quilt.

And he was blanketed by the name that
gives all the world the definitions that,
if we are willing to hear,
describe a love that transcends the
misuse of letters sent ages ago. He
needed to hear from former days;
he needed to listen more slowly and
pick up his pace. He loved the moments
when he forgot the epithets appended
to his name.

Tired of Wandering

Tired of Wandering

(Some of the redeemed had wandered into the desert, into the wasteland. They couldn’t find their way to a city or town.” Psalm 107:4)

I’ve walked this pathway so well it
opens to me like the gates to a castle I’ve never visited.
Glassy in the fog,
messy while I slog through the day like mud.
So afraid of wasting my time,
so afraid of running out of time,
I still walk my appointed route without deviation.
I have no excess, no minutes to spare.
I have no travel, no destination. I walk the
circle
hoping someone new will stop me,
will hold me with their attention,
will have every intention of helping me fly
between vague intentions and dreams
of people I thought would walk the road
with me
like we did ages ago. Do you remember
the way the snow fell in late November on
the Pennsylvania slopes? We ate hamburgers
and imagined reserved seating for all of our future friends.
I never imagined I would lose the seat
at your table soon.
But the song rolled in like a wagon wheel
crossing the jagged field where the hay bales stood.

Seems the music makes the hours pass more quickly
these days. I just miss the friends who listened to
it with me so many miles ago. So little time left
to
recreate days in the park, nights on the stage,
listening to crickets in the dark, hiding our age.
Would you, by happenstance, be going my way?
Let’s try singing again and guess at the lyrics for
the verses we’ve forgotten.
I’m tired of wandering, tired of missing the unencrypted
poetry we once shared. Read me yours, I’ll read you mine,
and we’ll sit on Persian carpets frayed from the sun.

You Hear Love Deeper

You Hear Love Deeper

(“One of Satan's angels was sent to make me suffer terribly, so that I would not feel too proud.” 2 Corinthians 12:7b)

I know you’ve tumbled over the stones that line the
swirling stream; I know the rain fell harder than hailstones.
I know how fast the scar tissue grows
to cover the pain, to make everything numb again.

I know your eyes see more than you say.
I know you hear love deeper than most.
I know your legs ache from standing so
no one will know
how weary it all has become.
I know your arms that tremble at a touch that
should feel like love.

I know the things you do not show.
I have bruises too. I feel the tears you hold
back, but they must go somewhere dear.
Drop them on the ground on your walk and
let the birds be silent in holy hush as they
perch in the trees beside you. Let the breeze whisper
the name of the flowers. It is not that you have forgotten them,
it's the wounds that have erased them.

I would name every day after you,
I would write it out plain. I would listen to
your small talk until
you knew it was safe to unload all the talk
you never share with anyone.

I see more than you think I see. I do not mean
I understand anything. It is just that your story
lies just below the surface where I’ve buried my
story too. But yours is one of innocence, mine one
of foolishness.

Your gentleness hits me hard. Your hesitations
only give me more time to fill the spaces between
you, me, the world, and the divine. I would blow
soap bubbles in the air between us
with our names written inside each one.

People Walk Right Over Him

 
People Walk Right Over Him

(“’Is it right to heal anyone on the Sabbath day?’ they asked him—hoping to bring a charge against him.” Matthew 12:10b)

While you colloquy and cant about
Sunday Mornings
there is someone who is housing impaired
ditched behind the house of worship
and grasping whisps of dying grass just
trying to get to street level again.

But who would want him; clothes smelling worse
than a cat box,
noxious fumes would fill the room.
Who would want him; so much surgery to stitch his
soul,
unroll the gurneys and send him to urgent care.
The Lord’s business happens in
this
building,
and we must not be interrupted by a case of
idleness gone to seed.

“oh no one says that. no one talks like that at all.”

Then why don’t you make a few calls,
search the tall grass,
take your offerings,
bake your good breads,
and find the leaking trailer where
despair and anger have damaged a mere man
in pain who never planned to forsake baths for
weeks at a time. He never imagined soggy socks
midwinter, and never asked for the isolation that
stumbling in the snow brings. People walk right
over you and
notice nothing until spring.

“oh but how should we know. we could not know about the hidden ones.”

Haven’t I just spoke to you in this short tome?
Haven’t I described him, (half of you know his name.)
Don’t you remember how he comes for coffee and donuts
and leaves before anyone can shake his hand?
Don’t you see that sheep limping and lost
are the mission statement of the Shepherd’s own?

November 2

 

November 2

(“You have encircled me; you have placed your hand on me.” Psalm 139:5)

Pick a day of the week or choose
a season.
Walk the sleeping fields where the cut alfalfa
hugs the loam. Breathe the autumn air, both
gloomy and inviting. Watch the leaves barely
awake,
the last of the year. Gone from green to oxblood
and orange, they hang on until the last breath sends
them
fluttering like messages from the gods. The
fog carpets the hills, a screen behind which
the lady-in-waiting prepares for
the coming spring.

I Wish You Would Walk with Me

 

I Wish You Would Walk with Me

(“And he said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you whole. Go in peace, and be healed of your affliction.’” Mark 5:34)

I wish you would walk with me, I wish you knew me,
I wish you would walk to the unseen city with me.

I cannot see it yet, though the crowds chant its name.
I have watched for its gleaming alabaster piercing the sky,
I have heard the words shouted like a hundred spears
to drive demons away.

And twelve years with the same unknown pain has
slowed my pace while others went ahead on their own
pilgrimage. My courage sinks as I see them disappear
across the hill-spotted margin of the trail.

My face is not disfigured though my brain is tangled like pasta.
My eyes are not darkened though they burn like fire.
My music comes slower, my voice has no power,
my days are on rewind, my nights project images
of ghostly winter trees, fingers snapping when the ice
weighs them down.

The detours are as lonely as the singular path I have walked
for decades. I bring up the rear, or turn back, or aside and
can only be reminded that I have cried in wishes, sometimes
in faith that misses the point. And the pain stays; one of
the few companions
that are not afraid of the unheard words I long for.

I wish you would talk with me, I wish you got me,
I wish you would listen to the silence in the dark with me.

I wish you would hear me or heal me. I wish you would
keep me company.

Coronation Day

 

Coronation Day

(“How terrible it will be for you legal experts and Pharisees! Hypocrites! You shut people out of the kingdom of heaven. You don’t enter yourselves, and you won’t allow those who want to enter to do so.” Matthew 23:13)

So, you be queen, and I’ll be your king
because we need more heroes and fewer
novitiates.
I cannot remember the last person I saw
kneeling before a peasant in the street.
But we’ll take it all back when we come to power;
we’ll storm the gates on our coronation day.
I’ve heard them say the day will not be long enough,
the forces against us are weaker than the principalities for us.
We can break a few windows, steal a few chairs,
set up our thrones at the top of  the stairs
where everyone can see our benevolence.
(Imagine the arrogance of those who only kneel
at ball games.)
So, parade with me; we will walk together past
the old frame churches to show our allegiance
to script and verses we cannot repeat but
have rehearsed for this day only. March
with banners of war, that’s what we are here
for. Doing battle against the enemy you have hated
with me all along. Slay the satan, demolish the devils,
and create more dragons in the minds than ever existed
in fables or rhymes.
You know we have the votes, you know we have the defenses,
you know we have kept out the vagrants with our fairy-tale fences,
unscalable except for the quiet mob we invited
to ignite the flames within our sacred chamber with
wood from the lecterns and ancient documents declaring
independent witnesses are so last year.
In God we trust (since 2015), no matter our obscene
rants. Chances are our subjects will love every word
from our mouths and erect us monuments and fill
their churches with songs about our anointing day.

So, you be queen, and I’ll be your king
because I cannot think of anything more
that God and Country could need.

I Wish I Had a River Road

 

I Wish I Had a River Road

I wish I had a river road to walk upon,
a lazy trail behind the trees to lead me
to your home.
Our faces once glowed in moonlight like
decorated pines. No snow,
just eyes that saw everything.

I wish the days did not separate the years
from each other. Though our tracks convened
in mud and asphalt decades ago,
the world still speaks in syllables of love,
the poetry of patience that embraces everything.

I weep how the roads have degraded over miles,
over time,
and the navigation is more challenging from
your house to mine. I can see it,
I can hear the music wafting from the windows
like a country apple pie. I can hear your heartbeat,
see the frost in the air as you exhale the same
atmosphere as me. Yet we get tagged, we get named,
we get classified and remain no different than
when we both agreed.

But what if birds were no longer birds,
were verbs like stretch or pinch or slobber
or cringe? What if language meant nothing and
facts are farce; no longer simple opinions
and their interpretations? It you call it pie
while others insist it is an automobile, how do
we communicate at all?

That is why I hesitate at your door. If you ask me
to sit on the couch, I do not know if I should fly
or buy a ticket to the stockyards downtown.
And further, if you tell me you have dreamed,
I may presume it is real; the ghosts, the pale riders,
the dark forces you believe have embattled me.

That is why I say so little. The more I speak the
more brittle my words fall upon the kitchen floor
where the pet dog licks up the remains.

And yet one thing never changes: the syllabus of mercy,
the portrait of long skies that undisguises everything.

Audition (I'm Fine)

 

Audition (I’m Fine)

We walk side by side on wilderness trails,

talking temperature and humidity and the soon coming winter.

And then children and neighbors (lunches and dinners)

we skim the shallows of conventional conversation.

But the sun and shadows invite us to a slower pace,

where the deeper waters flow. I was once bitten by a shepherd,

you were mauled by a pit bull, we were mere children, and sometimes

dogs frighten us; maybe cats and rabbits and moose and tigers too.

You ask me a question I fear to answer. We stop between crests and

listen to the stream gurgle below. My throat is full of apprehension, but

I answer and fear I shall have to walk home alone. 

But like grace, like heaven, you wrapped my honest answer like a gift,

silver and gleaming in the late afternoon.

I still audition for your friendship nearly every day,

and when things go wrong all you say is

“I’m fine” every time 

I know you’re crying.

I wear my heart in a broken locket,

one hinge forgotten in the earth, the other rusted and

hanging open. It is impossible to close.

You face fire, you walk into explosions, the place where

peace should play is full of anger, and fierce. You cringe, hope to hide,

and close the door to the daggers always aimed directly at your heart.

.

Your sorrow is beautiful as your smile,

your pain is lovely if you let it out into the day.

And even though I cannot see it

I feel it dull and aching inside of me.

“I’m fine” will not erase what

the unkindness has done to your heart.

I know it and carry it, within and without.

I saw stars within you, the moon shining over the dark memories.

There was never a day when it did not rise as evening approached.

But then you closed. You became stone. I knocked, so softly at first,

And could not find the safety I knew within. I knocked just a bit louder

(I did not want to damage even this new granite skin)

And, from deep within all I heard; “I’m fine.”

I know you are not fine. You are beautiful, perfect, gracious and strong;

But you are not fine. Tell me your truth. Don’t make me audition for

your friendship today. Tell me your truth. I promise I'll wrap it as carefully

as you wrapped mine

and hand it back to you with unicorn bows and rainbow wrapping. 

We walk side by side on wilderness trails, this friend I hoped would not fear

the way hearts can interlace like butterflies across a meadow.

We walk slowly, my heart always unclasped in my broken locket,

always colored with the boredom, the emptiness, the uselessness, and sometimes

the love it has received over time. We walk slowly,

your heart sometimes visible beneath your breast, but other times shut behind

doors and locks and granite walls, recessed behind an impervious wall.

The days always end like glowing sunsets when, slowly, you unlock the secrets

and the secret place, and trust me with cries you’ve kept inside. I sigh because

in those moments, I know I’ve won the audition for your friendship.

I Do Not Want You to Know I Limp

I Do Not Want You to Know I Limp

(“Grass dies and flowers fall, but the word of our God lasts forever.” Isaiah 40:8)

I do not want you to know I limp, at least not
when you watch me walk.
I had a bone spur removed a decade ago
and now the joint of my big toe
grinds bone against bone.

I should have it looked at, I should have surgery,
but I walk my mile-and-a-half now, stride matching stride,
so you cannot see my pain.

I will talk to you about my toe, and complain,
but I do not want you to know I limp.

I do not want you to know my heart is darkness, at
least not when I’m alone in the night.
I had an old self removed nearly five decades ago
and the new one, still a seedling,
sprouts slow against slow.

I should have watered it, I should sit in the sun,
but I walk my life-and-a-half now, dusk versus dawn,
so you cannot call my bluff.

I will talk to you about my faith, earthy stuff,
but I do not want you to know my
heart is darkness.

It is late February and the daffodils have not bloomed,
the tulips should soon peek through their winter tombs.
The bulbs, all dirt and mud, have yawned across the winter
until long sun and vast days pull them toward the stars again.

All the world is waiting for the uncrumbling of nature
to reveal the limps we hid from fear,
and the hearts we coddled for ego’s sake,
when all that ever lasts forever is
the unseen Word, the Poetry, the Song,
the dance that limps with the hurt and
the heart that started the seedling,
the Alpha and Omega of everything.

Silence is Fuller

Silence is Fuller

(“Be silent, all mankind, before the Lord, for he has come to earth from heaven, from his holy home.” Zechariah 2:13)

Silence is fuller than cascades of verbs
that travel from outside our ears into tangled
shortcuts with words.

Silence is deeper than cenotes unfound
where history is buried beneath the muffled

rituals of sound.

Nouns are less concrete than the quiet that
sees
only the bluebird that conversation makes invisible.

I do not wait well in the stillness, nor walk when instruction is unclear.
The buzz in the background; the blues, a movie, a distant campfire circle,

all arc back to short-circuit the wheel of sentences that repeat
like a coffee grinder churning my mind in a closed-loop of fantasy.

Silence is denser than the Dickens
or other deep descriptions of time and rooms,
of seasons and revolutions. Silence is the black hole
that holds nothing and

in which everything exists.

Words have been my language since I heard my name
for the first time, since Mama or Dadda and No and Me.

To believe God speaks with nothing, and to find eternity

in that void,
is to learn, not another dialect or use for words I still need
to find.

It is a new Kingdom of being; of seeing without tongue or ear.
The more I beg Him to speak, the more precious His silence has become.

Waving Us

Waving Us

(“And he called them to him, and spoke to them in parables, “How can Satan cast out Satan?” Mark 3:23)

When light stands up displacing the haunts of darkness
and
the rivers flow solid with richer healing than imagination,

Why do you still ignore your Creator?

When a night of certain-death is redeemed with a Word of forgiveness
and
a stone is moved like mere liquid from a tomb’s gaping mouth,

Why do you still resist your Rescuer?

But some still can see a shadow with crisp lines early afternoon
and insist there is no sun to make them.
And others will never, (evidence aside), believe, crucified,
the Man rose alive while earth was shaken.

And so darkness wrestles grayness,
sickness wrestles faintness.
The forgiven walk ashamed,
the Risen One remains the Anointed One
the Right Hand Man, whose wounds still bear
the scars of love’s best wager.

Demons scream at His name, and we still dabble
in our darkrooms hoping to discover the germ that
started it all.

Or we steady ourselves by our daytime labors,
our professions and provisions making sense of
the calm that comes before the final call.

He sits on the shore with breakfast
already baking, waving us shoreward;
He sits on the throne with mercy
already won, pointing us homeward

If we will walk in the light; creation’s best invention,
and redemption’s best intention; once (then, there, here, now)
for all. The strength of love revisited awaits
the next open moment, the silent solace of grace.