So There You Go

So There You Go

So there you go, changing your name again,
just when I thought I could listen without thinking
I must look for the measuring cup again. I’ve nearly
grown insane
wondering how to please the sirocco or reclaim
my fame again.

So there I see, flying ghosts over the top of me,
clouds transferring shapes and geometry, while
I scratch out my records, my diary, my poetry,
upon the black mud beneath my feet. The specters
seem more real to me.

So there I wait, smiling like the hungry,
just when I hoped the ship had slowed to turn back
my fortunes upon waves and swells of friendship;
the trade winds bringing the young man’s laugh
back to me.

So there I hear, once more, and again, like before,
at just the moment I imagined a new refrain from
the same singer on or off the stage. Though the
performance is weaker, the words are old and unchanged,
and we excuse the breathy enunciation simply because
they bring those blues and memories
back to me.

So there you go, the name unchanged again,
just when I learned the latest articulation
my tongue crash-lands against my front teeth again. I’ve nearly
grown silent
wondering what rhyme is improper, what theme will regain
my fame again.

A Thin Prism

A Thin Prism

You false distance that deceives friends and others,
Oh darkness that envelops mind and affection,
Oh words used to force graciousness beyond gravity’s pull.

The debates created to win a side have consigned
the lower lights of the spectrum to shine no more.

Oh light, rainbow full of hues, we abuse your beauty
and demand, not simple understanding,
but a full confession of indigo
and complete rejection of red.

I told you I would no longer address
arguments begun by lies. I clarified what
I did not say,
and the lies took hold anyway. And the stiff-arm
leaves me further away.

Please leave your anger in the parlor
before you enter your office to write
another letter that leaves little left to say.
We are all prism and light, some distance
is needed to see the artwork; great distance
is quackery masquerading as truth.

I reaffirm my stanza fourth,
you will find what you came looking for
no matter my words, my photos, my broken pieces
some see as clues to a crime,
some sing as blues and the times
(genuine), evidence of honest attempts
to be the red or green expected by the
green or the red. You will find either, both,
or none

Depending on what you predicted.

No Leftovers

No Leftovers

“Some gathered much, some little. And when they measured it by the omer, the one who gathered much did not have too much, and the one who gathered little did not have too little. Everyone had gathered just as much as they needed.” Exodus 16:17b, 18

Some leftovers are famously better than the first day they are made. I’ve heard people swear that pizza is better the next day, eating it cold from the refrigerator for breakfast the next morning. I’ve never tried it, I can’t get over the image of a big triangle of dough and tomato sauce sticking out of my cereal bowl. I’ll have chopped bananas with my Wheaties, please.

Keep Following

“Here is a call for the endurance of the saints, those who keep the commandments of God and hold fast to the faith of Jesus.” Revelation 14:12

What do you do when the odds seem against you? What happens when everything you’ve staked your faith on seems to be crumbling around you? Have you ever come to a crisis of faith, a challenge to the things you have committed your life to?

Slow Precision

Slow Precision

(“And he said to the human race, ‘The fear of the Lord—that is wisdom, and to shun evil is understanding.’” Job 28:28)

One day soon the soles of my shoes will
match up sure with the beats of my heart;
every path I’ve taken will imprint unshaken the
truth
discovered unhindered by fear of remonstration.

There was a graphic of a leaf, modern and one-dimensionally green;
single strokes made up each vein and the contours open and unconnected.

They were oblong like the blueberry leaf, toothless and smooth. No
shadow or relief, simple passes of the brush across the glass door they
adorned.

With a dozen or more slow curves the leaf took shape, breaking the space
between the glass invisibility.

What had taught my brain to perceive a leaf from an artist’s deft brush?
What had taught her brain besides, that I would recognize her green lines
and fill in the spaces?

And so a leaf grows from the branch of the blueberry, creation’s
perfection, the verdure open to the sky and spotted with indigo;
and so a leaf grows from nature’s design, flows through the human
curious mind, and lives upon glass that I pass from time to time.

The precision in Spring; buds, the leaves and blooms, and final;
the offering of her fruit in blue, the succulent sac where life
is wrapped, a hundred seeds to die in the dark ground again
to begin the precise pace of the next life which one artist
may rewrite again.

Shall I call truth the bush and folly the art? Does Creation own
the patent for awe, or may my fascination be also called
wonder at the works wrought by mere human fingerlings?

Wisdom is the slow precision, and waits like Spring
for the evidence to begin.

Cut the Strings

Cut the Strings

(“Yet God knows every step I take; if he tests me, he will find me pure.” Job 23:10)

I should have researched this bit before I wrote, and, if I rewrite,
perhaps I will;
but what is it they call the strings by which they machine marionettes,
and what are they made of; what fiber, what source? Plant, like hemp
or linen?
Animal, like sheep gut? Or a manufactured blend, rayon, cotton and
spandex for stretch?

It does not matter much, except for the words I might have used
to describe
the life
of the girl with strings attached to every joint, every limb, her
several fingers and several toes. Without the slightest knowledge,
no hints or shadows upon the wall, her moves were less human
than she ever imagined. Yet, human to the core, the subtle
resistance of muscle against the tugging of string
produced the tiniest blisters, imperceptible stings over
years of performing the dance of the puppeteer’s perfection.

Once or twice, looking over her shoulder, she thought she caught
a breath, a change of wind from outside her body. Most assured her,
some remonstrated her hallucination, most carried on the
dance of the puppeteer’s perfection.

Days were tossed without second thoughts, nights were slept
with annoying plots that seeped into sundial perception;
a slow blend of reverie and real. She put up with what
she never saw.

Until she was set aside, strings untied and hanging on the wall,
dark and light were just the same, night and day were unacquainted.
Ashamed and cast off in the attic above the garage, her dreams
and her daytime reflections tugged for power over which
would oversee an
unfeigned sanity.

That is when, between dream and waking, she heard the crack,
the boxed thunder of a mighty limb, old and weighed down,
finally falling from tree to ground. She knew the truth,
sorely hidden, that was the moment, her brain broke
literally.

She ran the race of paranoia, seeing puppeteers in each
grain of sand. She grabbed only one hand, her own, with
thoughts still vying for competence.

Slowing as she ran, as she ran out, as she ran out of breath,
the knots which were knit upon each joint and limb
were more familiar than her own name. They were
her making,
puppet and puppeteer, she ran, and ran herself down
the same.

The strings we hate; attached to people’s words now gone,
are strings we tied to a passing glance on one day,
a smiling invitation the next, a trial, a conviction,
an inscription on our skin left by leather applied
when our conniption fits would not subside. The strings
we hate

Are enough to write the definition across our brow.

With no sign of reliance, we can stand or dance,
unenhanced by performance or perfection,
the simple human dance, resurrected messy and late

We are better unstringed and sometimes unhinged.

A Plea for Restraint

“Lord God All-Powerful, you are and you were, and we thank you. You used your great power and started ruling.” Revelation 11:17

Who is God to me? Is He just someone I refer to, hoping He will rubber stamp my preconceived notions? My heart breaks over so many followers of Jesus invoking His name to lobby for personal interest. I am baffled over the pettiness and ill will toward people who disagree with us. We don’t inquire of their personal faith, nor their own walk with God; No, they support gun control, they want health care reform, and suddenly, they can’t be followers. I have purposely left out two of the most volatile push-button issues because a strong Biblical case can be made for a particular opinion or stand on them.