I Blazed at First

 

I Blazed at First

(“You are a hypocrite! First, take the wood out of your own eye. Then you will see clearly to get the dust out of your friend’s eye.” Matthew 7:5)

I have to admit I grew weary of the game,
for every speck I found, every sin I policed,
they always discovered at least another ten in me.
I blazed at first, burning my way through movie titles,
endless recitals of suggestive rock lyrics,
digging deep into conspiracies that proved the
world crept in through the pores of the careless
who let their oil run out and their lamps grow dim.
I was a fire, they were the lukewarm from whom
I would purge
every fallen poison and hidden urge to prove
my worth.

And yet I could not deny, had they spied my evening drive
or my bored routine,
they would lay eyes on a pretender, a show-off,
a bad actor in a good drama,
hoping to prove
my worth.

One day, or a thousand, I cannot remember clearly,
my energy left me. And yet

I did not stop the policing. I was impure as oil and water,
an emulsion unnatural. Some days demons ran scared,
blind eyes brightened, tiny lives heard the winds that bring
life like Spring. And other days (or nights) I pounded my head
against the impossible, the uncured humanity that
condemned me.

And yet,
dead to devices, the fire burned out, the fuel consumed,
every ember a remnant of the cloak I wore
for appearance’s sake. Reduced.

Today I play in the meadowed remains where wildflowers
grew after the old-growth crumbled when I thought I stumbled,
where only seeds remained to brighten my humanity
again. And I’ve found logs and specks,
failures and driftwood are all welcome here.

More Hemmed In

More Hemmed In

(“As the mountains are around Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds His people, from now and forever.” Psalm 125:2)

I’m sick with pain.
I no longer hurt, no mere aches,
but am diseased and broken,
a brain that has flown off the tracks.

Where are the ones who once walked with me,
Am I a leper unclean?
Where are the ones who broke bread with me,

Am I repulsive; or worse,
unseen?

You throw your words like shards of glass,
broken beer bottles ready for a street fight.
You disguise yourself until the last moment
and retreat into the words you learned in church
(but you forgot the Sunday School songs (Jesus
loves the little children of the world.)

I’m shattered with pain,
scratching at a heart that will not heal.
Numb and frozen in place my head nods sleepily
filled with shots of lead.
The avenues are blocked, I cannot see ahead,
more friends decide I am not worth their time.

And, what if I disagree with the new few who
smile at me,
occasionally? What if they find I am not nearly
one of their kind
as they supposed
me to be?

So, God you say you surround me, but I feel more
hemmed in than
protected.
You’ve put the squeeze on me, I’m the last dollops
of toothpaste in the tube.

So, God you say you surround me, my brain is broken,
so perhaps the arrows the fly through wireless eyes,
are angels come to rescue me.

Sounds are uncertain and sight is deceiving,
I cannot shake the feeling that I’ve been down this road before.

So, God you say you surround me.

At Night

At Night

(“He came to Jesus at night and said, ‘Teacher, we know You have come from God to teach us. No one can do these powerful works You do unless God is with Him.’” John 3:2)

We search beneath the curtained sky, moonless nights,
shortened “whys”. We ask with whispered lips, shaky limbs,
tripping tongues.

We sat up straight from morning till noon,
took a lunch, and loped through the afternoon.
The phones rang and we answered. The questions lobbed

and we prepared our quotations. Our pace was certain,
though we misread the destination.

The mud was still warm, the tree limbs exhaled their
humid breath, and we found the steps to the ancient well
where we did our best thinking. The leftovers of the day
radiated from the darkening stones to our face wrinkled
more by inquisitive lines than age.

On the right day of the month we pick up our checks,
a reward for hours or completed projects, and yet,
it never fairly represents our work. We wish for more,
we deserve less. Nevertheless digits measure our worth
for better or worse.

The aquifer has fed the well for more generations than
present habitants can count. The water absorbs the
workday heat from our brow as we lean into the black
circle and smell life and moss; distant frogs and songs.

The place we do our best thinking is a puzzle of creation,
a mystery, a rebus that quenches our thirst for grace.

We wake in the morning to earn our living again,
sun up, doors creak, cashiers call; buy, trade, sell,
alone, afraid, a bonus, a pink slip, time spent without
knowing names.

The well remains.

What Did You Buy?

What Did You Buy?

(“You must let a Hebrew slave go free after six years of service. Your ancestors did not obey me.” Jeremiah 34:14)

What did you buy today, and how much did you pay?
Was it guaranteed? Did you pay retail? Clearance?
Or was it a fire sale?

Who did you buy today? Who set the price? Good
pedigree? Did you get a second opinion, more than one
person’s advice? Where will you store your purchase?
Was it a bargain, a steal? And, once you have used it up,
how will you dispose of the remains?

“I am weary of possessions and stockpiles. Amassed
above beams in the garage, top of the ladder unbalanced
reaches to scrape my fingernails on the cobwebs coating
the bottom of the boxes.”

“I have lost count. I have tossed dice. Disrepair and
newly vacuumed air combine to announce I’m worth
more than my first year transport: all my goods in
two cardboard boxes.”

I’ve returned (without refund) every person I purchased,
and yet I find in my twisted mind, I still play with them
like they are my own. I’ve returned (without exchange)
every friend I owned from birthdays and Christmas,
and yet I know, they own me with no money ever exchanged.

The world spins and we only feel the wind,
we buy dirt and defend it with fences and property lines.
The world swims in space, we gaze past the places
we first grew up and wonder where our first acquisitions
have outgrown their pricetags.

Next time I shake your hand it will not be like
a shopper squeezing the cantaloupe to discover whether
it is worth the price.