If I was Cold

If I was Cold

(“…that is, that we may be mutually comforted by one another’s faith, both yours and mine.” Romans 1:12)

If I was cold, would you give  me your blanket;
If I was alone, would you send me a card?
If I was homeless, would you give me a bed;
Or just offer a comb to brush my balding head?

If I was far, would you pay for my airfare;
If my sister died, would you send me roses?
If I was destitute, would you raise the funds;
Or put your phone on mute while worship music hums?

Pouring, a pitcher of sweet sangria,
weren’t your throats assuaged;
Painting, a portrait of peaceful solace,
weren’t your tears wiped away?
Sitting, a hospice of slow departure,
weren’t your breaths sanctified;
Praying, a moment of candle and incense,
weren’t your pleas respected?

Now I am thirsty where the rivers do not run,
I am weeping in the rain, for the sun.
I am dying, though not like everyone,
I am praying for an invitation that more
than mouths a prayer, but raises a hand,
a letter, a paragraph, a long note that sounds
across the continent; that calls us home.

I am isolated, would you help me come home;
I am grieving, would you cover me with your wings?
I am boxed in, would you offer me a great river to swim;
I am confused; where are the friends, the fellows,
the brothers and sisters,

Who all know where I am.

The Extinction of Flattery

The Extinction of Flattery

(“Many plans are in the human heart, but the advice of the Lord will endure.” Proverbs 19:21)

There is more flint in our hearts than we know,
and I admit my own stony intrusions.
Encrusted upon our purest plans
are every whim and whisper we have impolitely shouted
or secretly hidden under muddy fields in fear.

You proclaimed what would come to pass,
told the man he would win election,
You proclaimed it was God’s command,
God’s purpose, God’s eternal plan.
But the election came and went, as all do,
and the fellow you uttered you confidence over,
fell far flat of your prophecy.
You told him, didn’t you?
You emboldened him, didn’t you?
But, you were wrong, weren’t you?

There is more me in my ministry than I like to admit,
more desire for notice, more smiles from past beneficiaries
who received such benefit that we knew it must be god (with
my name in parenthesis, but still spoken, please.)

But you proclaimed a yes that became a no. You
loved the center, you loved the words you thought were
fool proof;
but we are the fools, the fragile, the clowns who fall over
our shoes.
So, when yes was no, did you go to the fellow and confess
that you somehow got it wrong? That you spoke too soon?
That your ego was a big as the rest of ours, and it ballooned at
just the wrong moment?

Doors sometimes close without another window opening.
Mountains sometimes remain after long seasons of praying.
Miles separate the wish from fulfillment and trials dam the river
we swore would flow forever.

But there is a long road, sometimes solitary, most times narrow,
that edges us toward the extinction of flattery. There is a road,
a royal one,
that follows the wadis through the barren and red striations
of rock and sand laid down ages ago.

Today a door closed. No one proclaimed it, no one laid hands
on me
at all.

But the road still calls (though today I can venture only this scrawl)
and I’ll claim correctness less often with some help I hope,
lay my soul down in peace.

When We Were Homeless

When We Were Homeless

(“We struggled along the coast with great difficulty and finally arrived at Fair Havens.” Acts 27:8)

The ocean sounded like a broken banjo,
and the beach struck every chord.
The wind was turning in ¾ time
around the rocks, opening and closing the
grey theater curtain clouds.

And the entire time memory burned;
not yesterday,
nor the hours before the millennium,
but of days when buskers played flute
on Huntington Beach.

I would love to sing with you again my friend,
or dance like we knew what we were doing.
I would love to stop and stay the afternoon,
and into the evening to listen to
the seals barking in the distance.

But I’m indigent (did I mention that?) I’m upended,
sometimes laid flat. We used to bury each other in the beach,
and make
mermaid tails or
weightlifter forearms,
our heads barely above the sand.

But I am homeless (did you notice that?) not for long,
but not short enough. Did it occur to anyone roaming with us,
to ask
how to keep us
nearer the beaches?
Were their heads below the trembling

Sand?

Today the ocean is like an empty orchestra hall,
chairs askew, black curtains framed by sleepy fog.
Today the beach is cross-continent, and the piano sits silent
with a lock upon the keyboard cover.
I am the audience and not a player. There are too few to
perform for anymore.

But the ocean may call me back from the how close I’ve come
to composing destitution; to the tide pools, the schools of children
scatting the sweetest jazz at the closing bell.

There are still others whose only memory of occupied beaches
is a brittle sand dollar and a piece of grey driftwood that looks like
a broken trombone.

When Events Converge Upon a Week

When Events Converge Upon a Week

(“Fools will be punished for their proud words, but the words of the wise will protect them.” Proverbs 14:3)

Just a week ago I said goodbye to my
beloved raven-haired sister. Her, with the native
cheeks,
dark eyes,
and voice that commanded attention.
Oh youngest of us, why were you first to go?
She, with a love as large as the world.

This week I shall exit the tribe I’ve been allied with
for forty years. Early I believed nearly everything I read.
Early I danced in tongues and let visions capture my wrongs.
Early I sang the love songs, and maranatha songs, in circles we thought
the whole world understood.

But in the middle I stumbled mightily with few arms to catch me
and I fell right into the only hands that could hold me; the fingers of
grace. My tribe was divided. So, I took a drive with a decade friend
who cried with me over the hardship. And he never stopped the car
to make me walk back across the frozen landscape.
Another, four decades my senior, knew my worst, and called me first
and center and last, until his last breath escaped his jolly body that
that filled Oklahoma space like Santa Claus offering you a choice
at every altar call.
But others cross-examined me, accused me, used me, and now no more know
my name.

But I do not exit for these reasons, Indeed, they are reasons for my stubborn soul
to say. But that same soul has made a journey it began before I knew. And now,
seeing cheers for charlatans and few ears for discussion, I have become an
ally
to those who felt rallied against by muzzles trained upon their most sensitive
tears and tastes.

This week is nearly a year since I retired from shepherding people I love,
people loved, people imagined by God before the worlds began. A dozen
years I spent on the banks of the Columbia, leading with love, pouring out
grace
from a tap that never ran dry. And my health nearly died, but I tried; crawl,
sing or stutter, to utter new to the old; mercy to the sold; comfort to the unfolded
hearts that gushed when touched ever so carefully.

And now, pain is my only companions, save a few friends who step in an out
of this muddy river I’m isolated in. And I fear I’ve said too much, I’ve spoken too soon,
I’ve gone too far, I’ve laid open my wounds;

I fear I’ve frightened those I love the best. I fear I’ve heightened the anxiety
of friends I cared to calm. So, sometimes, ever so slowly,
I sink beneath the murky current, wishing I could hold my breath for
at least 20 minutes
and friends would forget my failures and just remember
affection is all this heart ever needed to heal.

The Shape of Sunday

The Shape of Sunday

(“Be sure to give to them without any hesitation. When you do this, the Lord your God will bless you in everything you work for and set out to do.” Deuteronomy 15:10)

There are always more people driving past the corner
where the ragged people sleep earlier than the arm of the sun.
Minivans with fish decals turn left instead of right
to miss the cardboard signs and boarded up shoes.
Men in collars, some in habits, pass the concrete where
the cracks and broken backs wait and try to catch their eye.

Get up early man.
Plant your seed with the sunrise.
Apply within. Generate your CV where the sidewalk ends.
Get a bath son.
Shave your face with your bowtie.
Save your money. Put a little away for a rainy day.

While you do; I’ll pray.

-----

He cannot remember they shape of Sunday,
he barely knows his name.
But I used to golf with him, debate with him,
and prayed with him for the Spirit’s flame.
Friends, peers, ministers; we patted each other’s
midlife backs on the links and in the fire.

He shepherded a river of sorts, and then I dove in too.
He bred new sheep a thousand miles south while I
briefly put my feet in the river unsteadily.

A million years later he was on the road to Jericho,
and waylaid by robbers, they took his health,
and now he cannot remember the shape of Sunday,
he barely knows his name.

He lives within broken synapses, he lives in
a frail apartment above an in-law’s garage. His wounds
are still untended, his breath slow as his mind.

And for all the life he spoke, for all the joy of the river,
for all the sheep who prance in the curling hills,
he is left with nothing but

Feet that have wandered to follow the Shepherd,
and slices of memory of words out of time.

-----

Don’t tell him you love him if you don’t touch the same dirt he does.
Rich or destitute, our feet are stuck to the ground.
First and last, the last will thirst until the first offer a
drink from the river.
The first in line who led you there
deserve a share of the crystal waters and the
trees on either side with leaves for
the healing of nations.
Is it too difficult a notion to provide him
some comfort, some health, some better abode
and some

Gratitude for a

Job well done?

Even when he cannot remember once, or the month or 

your name?

The First Shot

The First Shot

(“Then Peter remembered that Jesus had said, `Before the cock calls, you will say three times that you do not know me.' Then Peter went out and cried very much.” Matthew 26:75)

I understand what you did.
I understand why you did it.
Your leader was threatened.
You had a permit for open carry.
They came looking for him like a common criminal.
They came to arrest him warrantless and illegal.
It was dark and he was vulnerable.
He was unarmed, and you could protect him.
It was dark and you took the first shot.
Barely missed the head-shot and took out an ear.

But then he finally spoke: “Stop! If you keep pulling your gun,
you’ll die by a bullet one day.”

You slunk back into the blue night and watched them
take him away.

I understand what you did.
I understand why you did it.
Your kingdom was falling.
You had the coin of the realm in hand.
They turned to bottle caps you thought you were winning.
They turned to worthless stock and your mind went whirling.
It was cold and you were shivering.
You were undone, weak, and unprotected.
It was cold and she took the first shot.
Spot on, “You were with him”. The earshot landed.

But then the rooster crowd thrice: “I know you will say
you do not know me at all.” And you were not sure you knew
him
at all anymore.

You slunk back into the red night and wept with
nothing left to stand for.

More Hemmed In

More Hemmed In

(“As the mountains are around Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds His people, from now and forever.” Psalm 125:2)

I’m sick with pain.
I no longer hurt, no mere aches,
but am diseased and broken,
a brain that has flown off the tracks.

Where are the ones who once walked with me,
Am I a leper unclean?
Where are the ones who broke bread with me,

Am I repulsive; or worse,
unseen?

You throw your words like shards of glass,
broken beer bottles ready for a street fight.
You disguise yourself until the last moment
and retreat into the words you learned in church
(but you forgot the Sunday School songs (Jesus
loves the little children of the world.)

I’m shattered with pain,
scratching at a heart that will not heal.
Numb and frozen in place my head nods sleepily
filled with shots of lead.
The avenues are blocked, I cannot see ahead,
more friends decide I am not worth their time.

And, what if I disagree with the new few who
smile at me,
occasionally? What if they find I am not nearly
one of their kind
as they supposed
me to be?

So, God you say you surround me, but I feel more
hemmed in than
protected.
You’ve put the squeeze on me, I’m the last dollops
of toothpaste in the tube.

So, God you say you surround me, my brain is broken,
so perhaps the arrows the fly through wireless eyes,
are angels come to rescue me.

Sounds are uncertain and sight is deceiving,
I cannot shake the feeling that I’ve been down this road before.

So, God you say you surround me.