Calyxes

Calyxes

The rain batters between shutter bursts of sunshine,
the buds bow their heads in reverence, protection.
While puddles fill, mud clods break, and
light punctuates the occasional hiatus,
the sprouts and not yet blooms are covered, protected;
Calyxes keeping delicacy for summer to observe.

Headline: Good News!

“I am proud of the good news! It is God’s powerful way of saving all people who have faith, whether they are Jews or Gentiles.” Romans 1:16

 I am so glad that I can always have good news. No matter the weather; darkly wet or scorching dry, the good news remains the same. I am glad there is always a headline to each day that reads: “The Good News is still available.”

Of Pearls and Pigs

“Don't give to dogs what belongs to God. They will only turn and attack you. Don't throw pearls down in front of pigs. They will trample all over them.” Matthew 7:6

We love to be right. And, we love be right about what we thing is righteous even more. If we are convinced we are part of a good and just cause, we tend to argue that point stronger yet. And why not? Any fool should be able to see the worth of our belief as well as we do.

I Long to Hear

I Long to Hear

Sleep I do not fear, acquainted with its tow that
sucks me below consciousness. Sleep is the safest place
I’ve found, night or day, no matter the sounds around my
ears. Only my back can wake me sure with its electrical slice.

I miss the day, I miss the hours, I miss the walks, I miss the
daffodils peeking from warmspring dirt more faithful than
my recent attentions to duty.

I do not want to write another dirge, and would be happy
to interpret birdsongs as salutes to the sun; dogbarks as
percussive dances with the windchimes. Dots like rain,
underline the day; green like clover, sings the refrain;
sapphire skies complete the chorus,
but my days remain porous, holding each circuit within
spongy combs. Everything new has been done
and nothing wakes me to see what no one
has seen before.

One occasion in a million, and I talk to a friend,
still 18 in my faulty memory, when neither has seen
our sagging faces for 30 years or more. I do not recognize
even my own.

My dog still would romp, and I simply shuffle, leaving
shavings from my sneakers in wandering lines upon the asphalt path.

I cry, rarely tears, I used them up a year ago; but still
I cry, fairly often, between dozing and praying that
sleep would leave. But having been shoved out the door,
sleep leaves pain in its wake, and I want to go to
sleep once more where pain cannot reach me;
where trust and dreams speak
the language I long to hear upon awaking.

The Wild Ox

The Wild Ox

(“Can you depend on (the wild ox) to use his great strength and do your heavy work? Can you trust him to harvest your grain or take it to your barn from the threshing place?” Job 39:11)

There is no way to train your strength,
yoke you, cajole you, lead you, plead with you.
Your power is greater than mind,
your attention boasting, nostrils flaring like
a fire-breathing dragon.

Why would I try to tame, sun or rain,
the elephant’s cousin, the rhino’s comrade,
the stomping that grinds the earth to powder,
the pawing that turns the prairie dark as arctic winter;
as dozens of paws make the sod roar applause
leaving clouds upon the flatland, clouds upon the
razorbacks, clouds upon the buttes, clouds contending
with the sun.

Nets cannot collar and clatter annoys,
smoke rings comply with blue instinct alone.

Wielding microscopes and parsing DNA,
dissecting brain matter and genealogy
only take me to the cliff’s of Ocham’s razor
positing what I cannot posit by
reason alone, while I look within time

For That which time cannot contain.

When Words Meet Truth

When Words Meet Truth

(“There is no night dark enough, no shadow deep enough, to hide those who do evil.” Job 34:22 [The Message])

Oh Lord, I am just a poor man who
carries his life in a kerchief with holes
in the fabric.

Oh Lord, I have wondered as far as I can see,
why the efforts of goodness sometimes are lost,
buried, faded and dusty as moths.

Oh Lord, I have often wandered as far as I can walk,
slowly looking back to the sun above trees,
seeing jigsaw pieces between the branches
and asking the same questions again.

Oh Lord, I am just a poor man here
carrying my doubts, stubble and bruises
in the fabric dusty as moths.

Oh Lord, I puzzle at the words concrete,
and place the pieces along the corners
where word and reality meet.

Oh Lord, I am just a sinner who
likes to think He loves You more
than the carelessness that comes,
morning to midnight,
knocking at my door.

Oh Lord, I often saunter, glancing over my back,
and wish all the evil lit up the night like fire
and clouded the day like smoke. I am neither
more evil
nor
more saintly
than the paths I remember. But I often desire
to tender

My poor resignation to ask questions that
would not get me fired.

Oh Lord, I would rather be a poor man,
a pauper, who does not need to alter
his speech and hike; but only walks
as close as joy, up as truth, without
mincing down the honesty of questions
when words meet truth.

Housefuls of Hope

Housefuls of Hope
(On the Japanese earthquake, March, 2011)

Lodgingly we cling to housefuls of hope, shiftingly
the road reloaded its avenue, bending the open below
the level of the sea.

We had watched clocks wonder for seconds on the wall;
cars wiggle on the their rubber in the parking lot.
We usually waited, then ate our lunches
without remark; talkingly taking our time.

But the earth erupted at sea where we blinded
and sucked the ocean unkindly toward earth’s hot core.
Strung, disrupted lungs imploded and buildings pancaked,
wrinkled hats long the sidewalk.

We had no power, no authority to stop the wave
outrunning airliners.
We had not dominion but collision as sparks flew
and went dead. Water burst and dried up. Plates crashed
and pantries emptied fastingly.

Grab the sonar, diggingly low between layers of lots,
cars, papers and bones. Find the life before the breath
is stolen in the dark.

The worst since World War II, a nation gainingly risen,
a face before the world, eyes that dance and define propriety.
A face before the world, technology’s face, a face displaced
by tears cutting the dust.

I wish I could dig with you, bloody my hands on the corners,
dryingly finding my eyes strained, reaching between parking lots
to help a package of hope out into the sun. I wish I could
cry with you, wettingly combining my tears with your own.
I wish I could wait the night, search the day, suck the air
dry of pain and fill it lovingly with propriety again.

I will wrestle for you where I can, before the merciful throne,
and give more than I can, for your children are my children,
and our children are echoing to runningly come home.