Does it Show?

Does it Show?

(“Don’t worry—I am with you. Don’t be afraid—I am your God. I will make you strong and help you. I will support you with my right hand that brings victory.” Isaiah 41:10)

Does it show? Can you see the change on my face,
the brokenness of my gait? Do my steps seem slower today,
and can I point out all I’ve endured.
And have I paid for everything; am I completely cured?
Fear is the silence of a lion sneaking up without a roar.
Anxiety is the silence of songs that refuse to be sung.
I’ve sat through days I don’t want to describe,
I don’t want to hide. I stepped out yesterday and tried
out a little conversation. I never carried my half well,
letting the parentheses spill between questions and answers.
Do you believe? Can you see the rearrangements around my eyes;
can you hear the key change I no longer can sing?

I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I’m tired, no naps in my easy chair.
I read the side effects and lived out a few. I listened to the list
and hoped to sleep away the fatigue.

I’m pretty sure I am in no immediate danger, but my mind and
body
buzzes like a convict on his last walk around the grounds.
I’m pretty sure I am ok. I’m pretty sure the kingdoms are
not conspiring against me. I’m pretty sure I’ll lay me down
to sleep at the proper time.

I’m not sure how to celebrate; I’m unclear on the victory.
I’ve left some writing on the wall, but I may repaint soon.
I’ve read some ancient texts that decoded my younger aspirations.
I could tell you more, if only I had something weighty to say.
But I just play the radio and wish I would
play my guitar instead. I dedicated the room to music,
but there is nothing in my head. No notes, no lyrics,
no meaningful letter to trace between the lines of
manuscript pages.

Does it show? I’m slowly unwinding and willing to
play my songs if only I can find them. Can you loan me
an hour or two? I’ll play one song, but I don’t like how
I sing these days.
Does it show? Can you see what so much solo has done?

Worry for Weeks

 

Worry for Weeks

(“But I do have something against you! And it is this: You don’t have as much love as you used to.” Revelation 2:4)

An entire life can be squeezed into a moment,
a solitary word from a frozen sky can
crush the light that rained like spectral colors
across the soul.
An entire life can be freed in a moment,
a singular look from a faithful friend can
spark the dark that shamed like cavernous shade
and heal the soul.

But the fog descended overnight with trumpets of thunder,
the skies creased as supper was set on a thousand tables,
and the river sang the same ballad it had learned long ago.

I worry for weeks over broken things,
I worry week after week over things
I have broken.

Whatever is broken, sit at my table,
Whatever you have shattered, leave it for another time.

I cannot sleep for days over cancelled lives,
I cannot sleep night after night over lives
I have cancelled.

            Whatever you deleted, break this bread with me,
            Whoever you abandoned, there is a new subscription.

I cannot sing for months over hidden sins,
I cannot sing month after month over sins
I have not revealed.

            Whatever you transgressed, drink new wine with me,
            Whatever you withheld, there is no evidence.

And the fog soon lifted as the day closed with orange and pink couture,
the skies danced and dessert was served on a single table for a thousand,
and the river whistled the same ditty it had saved up for this very day.

Personal Space

Personal Space

(“Then Jesus said to his disciples: ‘Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear.’” Luke 12:22)

The lines lie just below the surface,
the matrix of creation,
the embroidery of matter and space,
the unseen provider that protects everything.

What shall I wear until I die,
what shall I eat while “why” is
the most frequent word caught in the
woven synapses of my brain?

There are holes in everything, gaps between seen
and unseen. You can travel all day from the nucleus
to the orbiting electrons. And each syllable of thought
exists a moment and lasts a lifetime.

Today I will wear shorts, it is late June in Texas.
Today I will eat chicken, left over from Sunday’s meal.

But, dearest Jesus, how I miss collecting shirts from the thrift store
and discovering espresso in an Oakland coffee house with
a free mic for poets on Fridays.

Crammed into a baby blue vw bug
we graduated through the Caldecott tunnel to
Berkeley and beyond. Personal space was never an issue
but now these few lifetimes later we are scattered like
electrons orbiting separate nuclei.

But I shall eat today. I shall wear my t-shirt and sandals today,
but, dearest Jesus, I would love to meet today
just one friend who was a friend with so little personal space
between us.