Nothing Remains the Same

Nothing Remains the Same

(“The Lord reigns, He is clothed with majesty; the Lord has clothed and encircled Himself with strength. Indeed, the world is firmly established; it will not be moved.” Psalm 93:1)

I’ve walked the pavement, I’ve breathed the morning summer air,
I’ve watched the ravens circle the field, I’ve felt the mist of fogs.
I remember the words that used to bring solace to my soul,
I meander on this earth like a vibrating guitar string.
I’ve on the edge of the highway just to see if anyone knows my name.
I’ve tossed my certainty into the silver water,
I’ve abandoned the language that once bound me to speak
in faith without wondering.
I stayed inside today, though the sun was bright.
I napped inside today, and wondered why.

My thoughts had become pinwheels, blown by the wind in
concentric spasms. My heart was smitten by the way
light played with shadows in the air.
My soul had always been saved. My bridges unraveled
above the abyss as I walked across them. I did not fear
the falling, only the words that made the echo like the
cry of a rabbit in distress.

I would tell you what I think now, I would recite my beliefs,
but I need a new language, I need reupholstered words. I will
not simply replace them,
without defining where they have been. They are all linked,
they are all combined. They fit together with infinite space
between them, they dance like electrons crossing the sea.
God does not care that I have circled back,
God does not require my faith or confession.
God clothes me when I’m unexpecting and encircles
me beyond the sight lines of my horizon.
I do not believe in prayer though I practice it.
I do not believe in healing, though I have been mended.
I do not believe in sunrise, I know the earth revolves in space..
I do not believe in new moons, I know how long it has circled us.

I awake to changes and nothing remains the same.

The Sane Walked Away

The Sane Walked Away

(“False messiahs and false prophets will have arisen and will produce signs and omens intending to deceive, if possible, the elect.” Mark 13:22)

You had them convinced, you had them in the palm of your hand,
you had them believing you could cast out demons with
just three notes of your song.
The proof was in your words;
the demons were invisible,
you waved your feet like they were swords,
you proclaimed defeat while the crowd
watched in silent appreciation.

Your profit was enormous, your houses a dozen palaces,
you scolded the few who could not sing
the words you wrote that dug into the ears
of the unsuspecting.

You were not enormous but pretended to defeat
every malady, to browbeat the darkness as if
you had invented the sun. The day gave way to
innuendoes and deceptions. You feigned sanity
while handing out madness like candy. Where

Did you learn

To package it slightly, stuffed within your black coat
baying at the moon.

The sane walked away, went downtown,
and bought lunch for the hundred who were not
taken in.

To Sing by Heart

To Sing by Heart

(“Jesus saw him lying there and knew the man had been sick a long time. Jesus said to him, ‘Would you like to be healed?’” John 5:6)

I’ve walked on a dozen sad oceans,
crossed every mountain before snow.
I’ve traveled seven brimming continents,
followed every desert before the thunder growls.

But I have never heard a song like this before,
never conceived a tune that would set me on the road again.
I rarely leave my chair these days,
save to walk with the dogs and children thirsting for summer.

I’ve met you in a score of buzzing cafes,
called you every evening after you have gone home.
I’ve shared a beer with a jovial patron who asked me to
follow them down the road for a spell; listen to their
story for another hour before the bars were all closed.

But somewhere along the way I lost you, didn’t I?
If I unfolded a vintage map, could I find the street where
we both once played? Could I persuade you to
sit outside and wait for the day to fall quietly across
the horizon?

I’ve listened to a decade of polyrhythms,
danced to a wailing mariachi band.
I’ve cried the blues played with the best of them,
listened to lofty hymns at my worst.

But I have never sung with you, have I?
I hate singing alone.
Let us write something to cross the chasms,
let us announce our concerted effort.
Let us abandon our reservations,
let us sing by heart the songs we both
already know.

I Saw What You Carry

I Saw What You Carry

(“So then, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” Romans 8:1)

You walked by and I saw what you carry,
I saw the burdens, the load heaped on you from
far before I knew you. I saw the weight on your
face and around your eyes, the gravity that draws
you down.

The voices you hear are not your own,
or god,
or conscience,
but lyrics of dissonance that have cast
you aside.
Your song is higher. Your melody is sun
and wine. Your story is timeless. Your place

In this world

Was infested with thorns when
poppies should have covered your days
from hill to pond, from pond to horizon,
from horizon to sunsets inhabited by
butterflies.

I will shoulder the load for a while. I will
rewrite the lyrics.
I will find a place, a meadow or a beach,
where you can lay some of them down.
I will reflect the way the light plays off your face,
I will let you see your original portrait in my heart.

Lay them down. Breathe the daylight. Believe you
are flawed and fabulous, free and no mere accident.
Lay them down. And this moment, this second,
this tiny universe of time,
feel the hands of all who have loved you
and leave the others behind.

You walked by and I saw the light in
everyone’s eyes that
twinkle because of you.
You were never meant for ice, though some
have left you cold. And this season,
this turning, this inexact point in time,
feel the hearth of all the hearts that
would warm you forever,
because they have seen you

Walk by too.

Love is Not Bottled

Love is Not Bottled

(“The greatest one among you must be like the youngest, and the leader must be like the servant.” Luke 22:26)

I opened the invitation as soon as it arrived in the mail;
unexpecting any change but only more delays,
I read your proclamations. They were the aroma of rubber
burning up the bridges between neighbors. They were the fire
you called down upon the masses, the enemies you cooked up in your
ghost kitchen
where you kept top secret spices, restricted recipes.
You hoped to tickle our ears with
days of fickle feasts no one attended.

You loved your calculations. You posted every poll that raved
your newest followers. You whistled for the gremlins and acted surprised
when they broke in, broke windows, crashed glass, hunted servants and
cheered between the gallows and a cross. Your flags said Jesus.
Your words said fuck.

I walked two houses down from my quiet bungalow. The
daisies smelled like bath salts; the dogs licked my hands.
I waved at a toddler riding a tiny 4-wheeler with a tiny pink helmet
as her crown. I waved again. She looked. I waved once more. She smiled.

The neighbor boy became a teenager today. He loves my feisty chihuahua.
My second grandchild was born yesterday. He already knows my name.
(Or so it should be, world without end, amen.) The mom is my daughter,
the dad her husband who can’t believe he has a new best friend the
size of a cantaloupe. Love does not decrease the more we give. Love is
not finite. Yet we store it in pickling jars and put it in vegetable basements
along with the wine we made from last year’s dandelions.
But love is not bottled. Love is not demanded. Love is never drought or
famine or threadbare or loyal to geography or sports teams. It is

Yes. It. Is.

It is the story every human has told, and every other human desires. Love is
laying down my pistol, my rifle, my cannon, my tablets with rules written in stone.
And love is a child, a 24 hour one, a 6 pound one, a hungry one, who reminds us

Why we keep begging anger and handguns to stay outside before coming to voice
their opinion at
the next board meeting.