Ant University

"The poor in spirit see and are glad—Oh, you God-seekers, take heart!" Psalm 69:32 (The Message)

Imagine that ants had such a thing as an ego. Suppose there were actually great universities where certain ants could prove their intellectual prowess over those who knew only enough to stay worker ants. Or perhaps there are gyms where the buff ants could produce a more “cut” ant body. They could strut their stuff in front of the weaker ants that perhaps had less powerful a bite.

I'll Be The Poet

I’ll Be The Poet
(“Then I will ever sing praises to Thy name, so I may daily pay my vows.”
Psalm 6:8)

I'll be the poet who sings your glory; no vanilla words.
I will not fear that my poems will not be
published next to works written by jewels and
read by budding scholars.

I’ll pen upon napkins old words turned around
familiarly to bounce near and up, piling them
finely, one syllable upon the other. I would try
to keep them short and friendly so the reader
(one does not write for oneself alone)
might see a face as if they’ve known it sometime before.

I’ll scratch with the pencil stub I found
in the parking lot…then quickly lest the
words be forgotten. I’ll weave them broadcloth,
linen and cotton; earthy sounds to carry
our solitary love to Love’s ear.

I’ll write of devotion, the passion forgotten,
that speaks simple, from puddles to bubble,
the lowly voice, single; lasting for the theme
enwraps eternal the universe’s song.

I’ll not pretend to command every diction
considered, I just throw the love like
kitestring knotted to flight breezes playing
over the meadow alone. Within sight
it dances where eyes face the smiles;
children captured after a sack-lunch picnic
on the lawn.

I’ll script the playbook, the single player
within the one-act composed over a single
day alone. A Cast of One, a song meant
to return the kiss of heaven; simple
words with a harp or plastic recorder
to play the interlude that leaves my soul
wanting more than just another set of
words.

Vanilla is fine; words may not rhyme,
but alone I find honesty, the cohesion of
joy and sorrow existing only in the
heart kissed once and wondering how long
until the Love of Heaven returns the song.

What I Cannot Forget

What I Cannot Forget

The things I forget only embarrass me,
what I cannot forget is what haunts me.
All of the worst of it is thrown into the deepest part
of the sea,
Marianas Trench, that colossal canyon,
flooded deeper than Mt. Everest.

All of the cracked bones, reactions to infractions
broken half the time out of willingness, have been scattered,
I am told,
as far as the east is from the west. I attended the East-West
Shrine Game once, when I was 10, at the Rose Bowl in
Pasadena. Until I got there, I thought I was going to
something important; Michigan and USC.
Nonetheless, despite my mistaken perception,
the day was perfect for helmets and pads on
the gridiron. I forgot
I was talking about how far the infractions
were hurled. They do come round again,
back to their starting place, to pound me into
the funk I find myself in nearly half the mornings I wake.

It is not false, they are further than I can fathom,
but my mind rains circles, and so, in every tighter orbits,
the weights resound their presence no matter how much
I believe they are beyond my apprehension.

I know You won’t reject me when the massive doors open,
between my last breath and my first real focus. I know
You’ve cast my worst stubs and stabs behind Your back
and never make them count against me. But I remain

As sad as if You meant them to greet me before I
can wrestle them or believe You cast them away.
My mind is my hell, will You make me a heaven here?

Good Soil

(“But what was sown in good ground means one who listens and understands the message; he bears fruit and yields, one a hundred, one sixty and one thirty-fold.” Matthew 13:23

The Christian life is to be wildly productive, not mildly passive. Jesus tells a parable describing what happens when the truth about Jesus (the Word of God) is spoken to different people. Some are like a pathway where the seed falls and barely begins to grow. Some are like stony ground who hear the message and quickly get exuberant about it. But they quickly fall away when it appears this life is more difficult to live that they first thought. Then there is the thorny ground. They do well for a while, but soon the distractions of life keep them from really living at all. Like weeds, the distractions choke out the very life they could possess.

"Talking Shop"

“You talked only about violence and told nothing but lies; you sat around gossiping, ruining the reputation of your own relatives.” Psalm 50:19,20

The literal meaning of the two phrases in verse 19 is of great interest. The wicked are spoken of as “sending your tongue” out to do violence. They talk of violence, and violence alone.

Creation’s Refrain

(“We know that the whole world has been crying. It has had much pain until now.” Romans 8:22)

In the moment of lingering silence, waiting for the sun,
buds yawn toward wakefulness, birds spread their wings
prepared to leave their nests to make their morning meetings
on lawns and leaves.

Roses that slept through winter and March
 sprout like covered heads removing quilts that
covered their slumber. Partially dead for a season,
they fumble less for their beauty than we do
for lightswitches hoping renewed coffee brewed.

Mourning Doves call, their mates answer the dawn together
after full night silence, they are make-ready, their song sounds lonely
though they may nest in the same-place year after year.
Black Birds crack open the sod with one dark-eye guarding,
ready to noise the intruder within its vista.
Blue Jays scour the lawn and leaves, picking up bunting
in their beaks for the perfect nursery décor, their
young brood waiting.

But there is a moment, a minute, maybe as much as
a half-hour predawn
where the only sound is the sun scratching the horizon
to pull itself up to vertical and start the song
sung for centuries and newly composed
every next rotation upon the planet that
cannot
complete the universe with verse and measure.

Like a castaway alone on a hidden island,
the days are vibrant with improvised colors
dancing to unfretted music sliding between
half-steps. It is a song, if we forget we are alone,
we would join every morning with the sunrise.

But needing salvation, our planet so full of melodies,
fastens hope to its flag while the trees (replanted)
inch their way to the vertical staff of the conductor’s
score.

Unaverted

Unaverted

(“My enemies are wishing the worst for me; they make bets on what day I will die.” Psalm 41:5 [The Message])

Maybe I’ve found another who dispels my passion for paranoia,
perhaps a friend who frees me from the expectation of
rocks dropped upon my head.
My pain is still like sawteeth grabbing my perception
with odds less than 2 to 1.

I like to love, open the door to pain and joy, with at least
a comrade or two,
until memory serves me, sanely or patchy imagery,
and reminds me of the way my heart was left on the floor
by one or two with whom I sat during
their pain, their loss, their confusion condemned by
those who had answers for every question in creation.

I am not as paranoid as 300 sleeps ago, but still
offer my hand slowly to certainty mongers
for
fear
they will discover (in their neatly-tied bow on
top of the universe) a rock with my name boldly
crayoned; the means without a motive.

May I poke about, just a word or two,
until my breath comes slower and my heart
takes its time, to see if the rocks you find
are monikers left as placeholders for questions
I’m certain to ask with my
eyes unaverted?