Here I Do Err

Here I Do Err

The skies opened for business preceding the
baritone winds twisting up the gorge.
Pelting drops the day after Easter,
a moment in the lifespan of the
average American man.

(I do not mean to use “man” as a generic
placeholder for humans of both sexes, but refer
specifically to men of a certain demographic.)

Closing in on noon the customers roamed
beneath the “open for business” sign splashed
above the sidewalks, boat ramps and
hearty men casting for a steelhead or two.

(Here I do err, knowing full well that my own
daughter cast her line in the Elochoman between
raindrops just yesterday. Perhaps
“men and women” would not interrupt the flow
as much as I thought.)

Humans, a handful, ate brown bag lunches
under the overhang of back porches
with a full Columbia view.

Proof Texts

Proof Texts

(“The woman came close. Then she knelt down and begged, ‘Please help me, Lord!’” Matthew 15:25)

I was formerly fascinated by each teaching encapsulated
within the phrase; a word out of position, a proof positive
that the traditions always considered Deity the first
layer spoken by commoners coming to Christ who knew
no different. She knelt down and begged, and thus I proved
the worship she gave, a classical attribution of divinity.

I formerly picked past golden broth to stick my fork in
the one piece of chicken meat I thought soup’s justification
for existence.

I’m fonder of broth now, keener of the simple and earth,
layers and linger the flavors can conjure without a single
chew exerted.

Which leaves me to ponder less often the proof texts I
string along to show the kneel means king, the worship
defines god;

If I cannot see His divinity in the tale as it flows
from healing to whole and surprise to holy;
if I cannot posit from the leaf falling that a tree
reaches far above the narrative smiling,
then my pick and choose will be biting only dust,

If His story is not startling enough as it flows
through angel meetings, Mary’s magnificat,
a boy upsitting to end his own funeral,
words spoken to poke death in the ribs
when the little one arises,
calvary foretold, forgiveness unfolds
and a tomb vacated following a weekend stay;

If all that is served like a classic risotto
and still our taste buds will not dance,

How shall the parsing of one word or the next
turn one thought to a taste for the Divine.

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.