Within My Sorrows

Within My Sorrows

I don’t mean to complain, it’s simply become a habit,
a well-worn path, a late morning communiqué.
Cranky is as cranky does and I’m doing cranky like
I’ve fastened it on my lapel.

It’s not that I revel in the drudgery; there is some evidence
I delight in smiles more than the four walls bearing down on
late afternoon winter like the closing credits of a movie
you wish you hadn’t paid to see.

I didn’t mean to be short with you; my skin is always tingling
and hair-triggered. I don’t mean to be famously gun-shy,
hiding so I don’t have to wave at people I have never met.

I cannot get it back, the lad who I was when the world was in front of me,
every decision a step toward the candy-store, every morning a reason
to try something new.

I pray, perhaps with my faith that has flinched. I pray,
while I scan the keyboard for happier letters to write.

I have less money than I need to make it till I die,
I have enough friends, but cannot find the money to
bring them next door or a day’s drive away again.

I play, perhaps with less abandon and passion. I play,
fingers curled around the guitar-neck, fingers ready to pounce
the black and whites. But nothing new fascinates me and my
old riffs rarely satisfy.

I don’t mean to complain, don’t want to be hypnotized by
tomorrow’s rainstorm. My day passes before I think of anything
that would fill my joybucket surely.

Here are my tears, My Lord, My Love, I am sorry I have less faith
and have not found the happy by riverbanks or back-porch friends.

Here is the remainder of the day and the one cent curiosity
about tomorrow. I will lay it on the page, a photo of rides around the bend
now too lazy to find.

I wish I was a loveable curmudgeon, but all I have become is
a cry-baby who can find nothing ahead to smile about.

I know the sun dwells beyond the clouds, and cannot bear to
give away the little hope I have remaining as I walk more disappointed
in my day than any reader.

I know the Savior dwells within my sorrows, and I drain the cup dry
holding to the love, the Creator of my days.

of Blame, Curses and Comfort

of Blame, Curses and Comfort

(“But Jacob became upset with Rachel and answered, ‘Don’t blame me! I’m not God.’” Genesis 30:2)

If I could raise your son from the dead,
restore the years when you thought he never would return,
remake the words you nosed him further and further away,
recast your rants to a wayward son
into invitations home for mom’s goodsome pie

I would have done it they day before he died.

But I am not God and you are not the Director of Activities
for the Heavenly Hall of Callings.

Your grief turned curls like anger,
Your sorrow blackened the bookends where cures
for every ailments went unread
after you thought I knew nothing of faith.

Your present points became past precedent as you
planned the future for one who could not do what
only should be asked of God.

Your demands were unprecedented and your prayers
against the ones you loved
resounded like curve balls cursing the very air through
which they flew.

If I could renew your mind from the dead,
restore your memories of what we just said yesterday,
or 10 minutes ago,
remake the sword into a plowshare,
recast your spear into a pruning hook
to prepare the fruit you and I might have eaten
round a table of mutual questions

I would set the table myself while we consoled
by twos and more, the loss of a son too early.

Lukewarm?

Lukewarm?

“Behold I stand at the door and knock. If anyone listens to My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him and he with me.” Revelation 3:20

It is very uncommon for someone to ignore someone knocking at their door. There are reasons, I suppose. Perhaps someone sharing religious pamphlets, or a door to door salesman. But let’s assume it is someone we actually know. Unless there is a definite reason, we will always go to the door, open it, and invite them in.

After the Rain

After the Rain

(“In times past, God let each nation go its own way.” Acts 14:16)

After the rain has washed the summer dust
from the crop-lines,
and
after the day and night are divided, half and half,
12 dark, 12 light,
and
after the morning bell tolls in digital tones
I may wake refreshed again, without lying on the
couch again,
wishing the night was longer until morning and
morning washed lasting the dog-eared vellum from
my dreams.

After the snow has melted the winter ice
from the curbstops,
and
after the day and night are divided, even steven,
12 dark, 12 light,
and
after the morning bell buzzes battery powered,
I may swing my feet onto the floor, without much more
than the normal last photograph of a dream that took me
on vacation where friends remained as they were since
30 spring and autumn changes.

After the light opens the very last flavor,
whether pumpkin pie or watermelon ices,
after the light has closed and locked the doors for the night
I may sleep in peace with the rest who
have taken up the offer of grace beyond measure,
(it has been His pleasure to wait until we all could hear)
and press my feet upon the warm floor, into the
the dream that puts pain in its place and leaves every
reverie right.

Coughs Make the Headlines

Coughs Make the Headlines

(“But I answered him, ‘Should a man in my position flee?’” Nehemiah 6:11a)

“Strike the shepherd and the sheep will scatter”,
it matters whether we run when the pop guns
boom and pow outside, alongside the hillside
with depleted ammunition.

Scare tactics, I fear, sometimes appear undiluted
and disperse the best to worst of us with recorded noise;
or a single voice claiming authority higher, notarized
with posturized signatures along the bottom line.

Lock me out, lock me in, claim to have the power to
mock my sin and I sink to my knees with the icy
river that runs head to toe at nearly-true scoffs;
coughs make the headlines when there is no other news.

It matters who I follow, I no longer wallow giving flattery
to the rumors, unconfirmed reports of a worldwide takeover
of my conscience, my health, or the nation we all know that
God decided was his very own baby boy and girl
(forget the rest of the world), and fight for the right to
tell them all how wrong they’ve been since we have been
better all along.

But I lose my focus and here I stand, a new stanza to remind
the patient diners of the good plates served where urban myths
are dismissed before they get through the doors.

The Last Laugh

Abraham was a hundred years old when Isaac was born, and Sarah said, “God has made me laugh. Now everyone will laugh with me.” Genesis 21:5,6a

Our daughter Sarah was unexpected. We have two sons about three and a half years apart. We were happy with our two boys and had decided we were finished having children. So, with Michael starting his teens and Jonathan just turning 10 we had no thoughts about more children.

A Note from Jesus

“And from Jesus Christ—Loyal Witness, Firstborn from the dead, Ruler of all earthly kings. Glory and strength to Christ, who loves us, who blood-washed our sins from our lives.” Revelation 1:5 (The Message)

It must have meant the world to the Apostle John, nearly 90 years old and exiled on the island of Patmos, to receive a personal vision and visitation from Jesus. Many have spent their lifetime trying to unravel the times and seasons of which the Book of Revelation speaks. One thing is for certain, as with all other Scripture, it is primarily supposed to make us better acquainted with Jesus Himself.