Unbreak Your Back

Unbreak Your Back

(“You were complacent in your evil deeds; you thought, ‘No one sees me.’ Your self-professed wisdom and knowledge lead you astray, when you say, ‘I am unique! No one can compare to me!’” Isaiah 47:10)

I can’t say we were shocked when your genius
(your highness)
fell from a stable
to a mahogany scarlet velvet throne;
but some were surprised (yet they would never
admit it.)

Your infancy was cradled in monumental deception,
you were conceived in arrogance and nursed on privilege
with little detection
of flesh and blood other than the band that
did your bidding.

I can’t say it took us by surprise, your rise from boasting
to a pill too bitter to swallow. And flocks of fallen angels
laid their hands on you, leapt like fawns for you,
posed in photos and roped in the followers for you.
But some were shocked (and they were ejected for it.)

Look over the vast expanse, walk next to the immigrant’s child,
ride in the front of a farmer’s combine at harvest,
sit with the mother and children who have stopped waiting
or the man to come back. Unbreak your back for once and leave
your agenda (hand-written, one thing to do today)
to find the place where the one-king lives

Back in the stable, just a few blocks south of the house
white with history’s stain. Right in your backyard

Left there since the mystery of incarnation; resign
and refind why the one man Jesus loved, having too
much stuff to carry

Turned away and did not follow.

Nothing to See Here

Nothing to See Here

(“Therefore, stop judging prematurely, before the Lord comes, for he will bring to light what is now hidden in darkness and reveal the motives of our hearts.” 1 Corinthians 4:5a)

There is no longer anything here
for you to see. You have already read
the things he has written
and make them into defections in your head.
You knew him decades ago
and suppose
you know everything behind his heart
and throw your arrows at him
rather than his ideas.

You like the man you knew years ago,
and did not factor in the changes of the years.
You want him to be just like you; unchanged, rigid,
granite and unmoved.
You want him to deny what he has become and
then you will like
him again.

But until then you pass your aggressions on with
public humiliation. You are the spokesperson,
the one whose mocking sounds like hymns to the
chosen. Did you “amen” your comments to a man

You have not looked up in thirty years?
Did you ask him why the hurt?
Did you know why people do not get over
the dart games families play with you as the target?
Do you care about brothers? Or do you bother to
ask why the sister cries herself to sleep? Weeps.

When damaged, the heart needs healing;
not a whipping and then the statement: “Don’t be a
victim, get over it."

Did you learn this from your savior? I trust not.
Did you whip out your pen too quickly? I pray so.
I dare you to look deeply into the eyes of one
whose heart has been damaged
and still extends it wider than he ever has.

Jesus walks among us. When your friend sees him
everywhere,
don’t be offended when he
defends those who the chosen
have rejected with their policies,
their legislation, their self-righteous votes,

And then accuse him of being too
political.

I Do Not Want You to Know I Limp

I Do Not Want You to Know I Limp

(“Grass dies and flowers fall, but the word of our God lasts forever.” Isaiah 40:8)

I do not want you to know I limp, at least not
when you watch me walk.
I had a bone spur removed a decade ago
and now the joint of my big toe
grinds bone against bone.

I should have it looked at, I should have surgery,
but I walk my mile-and-a-half now, stride matching stride,
so you cannot see my pain.

I will talk to you about my toe, and complain,
but I do not want you to know I limp.

I do not want you to know my heart is darkness, at
least not when I’m alone in the night.
I had an old self removed nearly five decades ago
and the new one, still a seedling,
sprouts slow against slow.

I should have watered it, I should sit in the sun,
but I walk my life-and-a-half now, dusk versus dawn,
so you cannot call my bluff.

I will talk to you about my faith, earthy stuff,
but I do not want you to know my
heart is darkness.

It is late February and the daffodils have not bloomed,
the tulips should soon peek through their winter tombs.
The bulbs, all dirt and mud, have yawned across the winter
until long sun and vast days pull them toward the stars again.

All the world is waiting for the uncrumbling of nature
to reveal the limps we hid from fear,
and the hearts we coddled for ego’s sake,
when all that ever lasts forever is
the unseen Word, the Poetry, the Song,
the dance that limps with the hurt and
the heart that started the seedling,
the Alpha and Omega of everything.

Without Reservation

Without Reservation

(“And those the Lord has rescued will return. They will enter Zion with singing; everlasting joy will crown their heads. Gladness and joy will overtake them, and sorrow and sighing will flee away.” Isaiah 35:10)

There was no parade today nor
a quiet place for candlelit contemplation.
There was no circus, no clowns and no elephant,
nor a canvas tent in the middle of the woods.

There were regrets (I am old now)
that I did not start things younger.
There was head pain (I am worn now)
that I did not ever ask for.

There were clouds; I didn’t see them.
There was blue sky; I didn’t breathe it.
(That does not mean I don’t believe it.)

This spoke in my eyes is not a temporary situation;
and promises of a painless heaven do not impress me much.
My faith is shaken, but not greatly stirred;
indeed it appears slurred to those who read me.
Many have endured longer,
many have endured more,
many have been happy just to
suffer for the Lord.

But me, I’d just like a phone call. Or a letter.
Maybe not. Maybe I’ll take a walk. But the circus

is not in town today, and the café is too far for my
feet to find. I’m always behind the curve.

I’m praying each breath is received in the way I mean it,
I’m hoping returning is in my future.
I’m not going to sell many books with this sort
of quarter-faith writing. Crying is the only act of faith
I practice today.

I have returned, and where are you?
You cancelled the bread and wine we had planned.
I keep turning, to see what you see.
But burning has consumed more than just the chaff in me.

I am demi, I am a fraction. There is no action left for
me to take.
I will not be fake; I will not pretend. If that means
I’ve lost my faith (at least to my friends)
then I’ll still wake up tomorrow with a spear in my eye,
a billion memories that wind themselves around me,
a skin that has thinned, a heart that has sinned
(without reservation)
and a hope that believes there is more to living
than just a life after resurrection.

Every Day Has Its Defects

Every Day Has Its Defects

(“Until the Spirit is poured out upon us from on high, and the wilderness becomes a fertile field, and the fertile field is considered as a forest.” Isaiah 32:15)

Every day has its defects,
some days more than others.
Every day has its spare hours,
some days I would rather
be anywhere than where I am.
Every day has its countdown.

Some earth is pink powder,
every seed does not ripen.
Some earth is black forest,
every seed is a hyphen
between the ache and where I am.
Every seed has its mountain.

Every dream has its bloodline,
some dreams leave you sleepless.
Every dream has its language,
some dreams leave you speechless
beneath the pain and where I am.
Every dream has its doubting.

Some trees have their arms out,
Every tree applauds and stands,
Some trees have offerings,
Every tree is lush and planned
within the desert where I am.
Every tree has its rebound.

Unlike Pie

Unlike Pie

(“Greet Andronicus and Junia, my fellow Jews who are in prison with me and are prominent among the apostles. They belonged to the Messiah before I did.” Romans 16:7)

I cannot fit me on this piece of paper,
I cannot fit me inside your head.
All you know are slices of me, no
matter how long our mutual road.
All you know are minutes and seconds,
and days occasionally,
but, unlike pie,
every slice of me is different. Every radii
leads to a different face of my circumference.

If I turned on my axis slightly
since the last time you saw my face,
would see the tears or my eyes shining brightly?
Would you remember, once you walked away,
when I told you the truth that was like a scab,
and unrolled my rind to show the scars within?

I cannot fit in the universe,

I cannot fit within your perimeter.
All you know is mixed with
all you think should be,
and you do not know the volume of me.
But the partial eclipse made you
turn away from me
before you knew the depth of me,

And before you revealed the hidden
pulp beneath your skin
you turned again
to offer the gleeful shell of one
who is certain of every spark in the universe,
every opinion offered in the dark.

But me, I am unbreakable, though I’ve been
harvested, winnowed and threshed.
I have not been broken, I am not a fraction,
I have been opened and refreshed while
others just examined my remains.

The Leather Hills

The Leather Hills

(“So then, we must each give an account of ourselves to God.” Romans 14:12)

Do you remember when we used to roam
the leather hills?
Green lace trees grew crooked from charcoal trunks
and we would sit in the shade occasionally.
Do  you remember when music floated above us
just close enough to grab the tune? Do you remember,
before we stopped listening?
Do you remember carefree summers, frozen root beer mugs
and using 7-up and crackers for communion?

Do you remember how certain I was, how studied and
discerning? Do you remember when we called Madeleine L’Engle
a heretic and waited in line for the
evangelist from India to push us over with a prayer or weariness
from standing?

Do you know it has been 20 years since we talked,
two decades since the plug was pulled? But,
the sentence came down from above, and without my consent,
an ally became neither friend nor enemy. Do you remember me
being nothing to you?

Do you know I never walked as well as I spoke;
that I tired easily on the hills? Do you know I wept when
I woke in the claustrophobic middle of the night,
that I prayed in the cold darkness to have the demons
leave once and for all? Do you know how I despaired,
and returned abed worse than I began?

Do you know my failures are public, well known among some,
hinted at among others? Do you remember the white blush
when the blood left my face as I confessed it all and begged?
Do you remember the three hour lunch, the tears you shed,
while you told me the story of your beloved, your wife (35)
who died as cancer removed her, and your brave faith.
And I remember how they stood on her grave and expected her
to meet you from under the sod.

Do you remember boxes, assumptions, bosses who made presumptions
that I was much worse than he knew? Do you remember poverty with
children who smelled like war? Do you remember the pocket-knife that
slashed the back pew in the hands of one of them? Do you remember
the never again pronounced so mightily?

Can you imagine, my account will be incomplete? I’ll delete the most
unworthy offenses. Can you imagine, so will you? Or, knowing nothing
more than we know here,
will we dismantle the fences and go walking again

On the leather hills where the spring of healing spills
the last thing we’ll ever remember?