Flutes Upon the Hills

Flutes Upon the Hills

(“Circumcision and uncircumcision don’t mean anything. What really counts is that the new creation has come.” Galatians 6:15)

I don’t need to light another candle,
though I like the way they help me pray.
I don’t need a new amendment,
all things gleam in the eternal day.

I don’t need to study your words harder,
though they run through my mind anyway.
I don’t need a new translation,
all they do is get in my way.

I don’t need to smell all of the roses,
though I plan to plant some when I return.
I don’t need a new song to sing,
I have melodies yet to learn.

I’ll ride in a bus, I’ll ride on your bike,
I’ll pull you in a wagon, I’ll paint your tricycle red.
I’ll love my neighbor, I’ll love my enemy,
I’ll watch the wildflowers grow; breathlessly.

I’ll look toward the east, I’ll pray toward the west,
I walk northward for a while; in the south I’ll take my rest.
I’ll give you my time, and offer you a chair,
We’ll talk and talk with no notes to compare.

I’ll love you forever because that’s how you’ve loved me,
I’ll stumble in my promise, though I tried carefully
to be new when I am old, to be pure when I am soiled.
And all the time what mattered was that
all the time I belonged
in this new country; foggy or shine,
flutes upon the hills, fiddles on the plains,
all that has ever mattered (I’m finally resigned)
is the breath, the spirit, the mercy, the grace,
of Your life
in mine.

listening to "yer blues"

listening to “yer blues”

(“Say to the prophets who prophesy from their imagination: ‘Listen to the Lord’s message!’” Ezekiel 13:2)

Listening to “yer blues”
I’m reminded I’m not of the earth or sky,
I am of the universe, and that is what I’ll use
to decide the barrage of words that pass as
god-talk from people who just have no time to wait out
patient love.

(I’m so musical even my yawns sound like a song.)

You just cannot bring god down,
and you cannot just call him up from below.
You cannot make the fire fall,
and you cannot make a spring of water flow
from a rock.

(I’m so logical even my snores are antiwar.)

Why are you uncomfortable with silence,
Why do your god-words sound so much like your-words,
Your announcements are no better than palmistry
reading the wind.

(I’m so comical even my scars can spin a yarn.)

There is preaching in the zero syllable breeze,
there is gospel in the clapping branches of the trees,
the message is as certain in a stranger’s hug
as if Jesus himself stood among us unplugged
like a gardener.

(I’m so spiritual even my pores are open for more.)

Don’t preach when lunch will do just fine,
Don’t predict, conjure, invoke everything that enters your mind,
But walk in sackcloth, put on ashes, sit with the silent
whose words were stolen when the expectations of violence
became the sermon of the day.

(I’m so hopeful even my feet tread heels-over-head.)

One Playmate Who Knows

One Playmate Who Knows

(“Isn’t it clear, friends, that you...are children of promise?” Galatians 4:28 [The Message])

Some days it seems the children do not
want to come out to play.
They stay inside measuring the hems of everyone’s
pants and dresses. No one confesses they would rather
skip a rope. The work is their burden, the burden is their work;
and wouldn’t God be offended if they ended just a stitch too soon?

Besides, the children outside do not care what you wear,
the bubbles will float wherever the wind delivers them.
The sprinklers will spray the serious toward laughter and
the moonlighters toward day.

Some days it seems adults have forgotten their childhood friends.
The days come to an end too quickly, the porches sit quiet and empty
while one man’s tears plead for someone to search their memory
and remember his heartbeat, imagine his throbbing pain,
look south, or up, or in, to find him again. All he is hoping
is one playmate who knows, so their own tears well up in
Summer-time pools.

He must have fooled himself. He thought it was always family.
He must have misspoke far too often, mistook the blossoms
for perennials. But they do not bloom here where he has been
transplanted.

Come find me, I am not hiding. I never was good at hide-and-seek.
Ollie Ollie Oxen Free, please come and see me. My green lollipop
has melted, stuck to the preheated cement. But every word,
every card, every letter, every vowel was always meant to tell you
I could never give you up my friend.

The sun is setting, children are heading indoors, and still I sit,
praying, hoping, crying behind the bushes so no one sees,
that you will remember the playful days when skinned knees
meant no harm, and funny bones were cold, electric, warm;
The days when hearts were mended before the next game of
marbles in the alley round our circles of dirt.

Two Bursts of Air

Two Bursts of Air

(“Because you are God’s children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into us to call out, ‘Abba! Father!’” Galatians 4:6)

She knew what she said before she could
lift herself propped up against the couch;
“mah”.

A single expansion of air, lips and lungs when
she could not find the first nestled retreat she ever knew.

She answered the phone; she was not supposed to;
she heard the voice, the first low vibration her skin had felt;
“dah”.

A single expansion of air, tongue and teeth when
she knew the joy of the first giggling she ever knew.

She wandered into his room, drunk on diapers,
and grabbed his leg to horsey ride;
“boy”.

A new expansion of air, throat and breath when
she knew the playful safety of big brother’s arms.

Dada, Mama, Bubba, Memaw, and Papaw; peanut,
noodle, booboo and bubbles. We all knew who,
we all hear her, we all see around the royal titles
christening our little broods. Dada can be sung like
an ancient ritual, dancing round the living room. Or
“Mama” can be a death wail in the middle of the afternoon.
Dada” can be red-in-the-face stomping stumpy legs away.
Or “Mama” can be the beginning of a sigh snuggled in
The best shelter on earth.

And Abba, I cry to you just the same, I sing. And
Abba, you call me son, or boy, or mickey, or hon.
I have cried, denied, amplified my longings with just those
two bursts of air. And, knowing all, you know I would
rather dance to that rhythm that entices us all to
The best shelter on earth.

April Undefined

April Undefined

(“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.” Lamentations 3:22)

April sometimes sits undefined,
a bird who sings and a gale that hides
new beginnings.
We move through it, the square numbers on the
calendar wall. We move through it, black mud,
cotton candy mornings and charcoal evenings.

We hear the next tornado warning,
in the south they start early, like winter in the
north country. We swear there is nothing to fear
until we pass the little house where the trees have
crashed through the roof, with only their roots showing.

Some are captive to their thoughts, still frozen to a dozen
winters past. Some are more active, breathing fire like
summer smashing into September.

Some inspect, others infect; some build siege ramps
upon the walls of the unexpecting. Some suggest quackery,
some just quake. Some cannot sleep, others will not weep;
some ritually send scapegoats over the cliff.

Some suggest wrath has blanketed every enemy, some
imply the enemy is us. 

But the few that view the first rays of morning see further
(sky-up and down; lake-mist and clear; earth-full and washed;
clouds-float and near). The few know that love
peeks through everything and fear hides in plain sight.
April sometimes sits undefined,

But always underlined by appointments with the breeze
that wafts sweet songs to children, oh! dance! Sage
and bluebonnets wear their jewels of the dew.

The Paradox of Clowns

The Paradox of Clowns

(“Examine yourselves, seeing whether you are in the faith; test yourselves. Do you not know that Jesus Christ is in you?” 2 Corinthians 13:5)

We can function just fine, the
windows pasted with rain,
our cups filled with wine.

We can subsist too well, our
porches are well-ordered,
our plates swell with bread.

We know the steps to the dances,
the lyrics to all of Dylan’s songs;
we know what is expected,
Counting all the rights and the wrongs.

But when we are wronged, let’s just
admit it,
the cross was for another man, another time.
And when we are right, lets not

fool ourselves,
we fancy a crown, a ribbon, a promotion,
an honorary degree to show how well we get it.

Still, we are shaken. Within, we are shocked,
(stand by please) and we mock the disheveled shells
of dissenters to our well-crafted lives. Just before sleep
as the last frog in the pond finishes its mating song,
we see the lies, the painted siding, the patched wallboard
and the stains on the rug.

We love Jesus, but we require him to love our loves more.
Jesus saves us. You know, years ago when we wept on the altar floor.
But all we wanted was some remodeling done,
a coat of paint to show whose side we are on.

Just before sleep, if our breathing slows enough, we might
feel the disclosure of scaffolds and hammers and saws
deeper within us than galaxies or stars.

What is the music, the inner racket, the gnawing and buzzing
that at first annoys, then destroys, then stretches toward the
joy

that reimagines everything. Transforms anything.
Invites everyone. Dines with anyone.
Dangerous and transcendent, kaleidoscopic and
transparent,
the song parades like the preservation jazz band
with the same tune played a million different ways.

We would hear him singing if we only listened within,
and heard the music that is
unafraid
of the paradox of clowns.

This Dialogue

This Dialogue

(“Whatever house you enter, first say, ‘Peace be to this house!’” Luke 10:5)

If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to open
this dialogue
again.

I do not need to win.

Your eyes showed the fear within,
and naked anger
bursting
from too many unfinished songs.

If we had it to do all over again, I’d applaud every
lyric and verse
unsung.
I would not need the tune.

Sooner than later I’d like to meet you
for coffee and
first rites,
unscripted with advice set aside.

Just after I return, I’d like to swing
my front door wide
open,
and let within every north and south,
every fair and ill wind

that simply needs to rest on my floor,
on my couch, with silence or without.
Sanctuary.