Above the Orange Sky

 

Above the Orange Sky

(“This is what God told us: God has given us eternal life, and this life is in his Son.” 1 John 5:11)

In the regions of the orange sky
I have laid down my restless heart only to
take it up again when the phone does not ring
for more than a day.

My moments were once filled with 6-strings,
my days with a dozen friends,
and my nights with dreams of music and members
of the band.

I want to hear, “how are you” again,
I want to ask, “how is your heart, my friend?”
I want to be the voice that only speaks peace,
the fingers that only send safety in a world so
anxious it starts burning before the sun comes up.
Sometimes the fire in our minds is a hell like dying,
held up by fear that drowns the words we know the best.

I would call you up, hear your voice and know, before
the first word
that, just like the garden you water;
you are thirsty for someone to cool your brain.
We are much the same.

I have tried to water my own for so long I fear
only weeds exist where roses once bloomed.
I know it is too soon to make a final judgment,
but the smoke hazes my vision of the better day.

Will you call me up, hear my voice and say, before
the first tear
that, just like the poetry I write;
I am a jumbled alphabet waiting for someone to rhyme?
Would you give me time?

You read words that water your mind,
words that cause tears to drop upon the page.
You are fearful as I; I am thirsty as you.
Words or water, bread baked together
or broken at the table
what if the sounds we remember
of music, and names, and holy silence
shatter our reliance on tiny rules
and remind us of greater loves.

I will join you in your garden if you will hear my song,
and perhaps a dozen, perhaps only one, will join us
and hike along the trails of delight until the stars rise
above the orange sky.

Morning Glories and Poppies

 

Morning Glories and Poppies

(For every friend who never gave up on me.)

(“I myself will see him. My own eyes will see him, and not as a stranger. My emotions are in turmoil within me.” Job 19:27)

Please don’t turn away,
my health depends on it.
Talk runs circles and sometimes out of bounds
but I promise the campfire in the center holds
both the secrets and the potion
that makes friends nod at the silly jokes
and laugh at unpleasant memories.

I’ve been a joke, I know it. I’ve smoked the place out
with my long-winded stories and half-witted heart.
But starts are better than endings; noon is still long enough
to walk among morning glories and poppies.

I do not care to win; and do not want to lose,
I only wish to erase the words that made you cringe.
I only wish to hear the voice that makes me smile,
that asks for more music when it’s been a while since
I’ve sent a mandolin lullaby. It’s this friendship that,
like others,
makes me feel I have met with God.
Met together, and left the day lighter, for laughter,
tears, nods and empathetic cries
are the best prayers I have ever uttered.

And I shall ever laugh or cry or keep my silence
for you were sent by God
when I felt I did not have a prayer.

You Withdrew

 You Withdrew

(“Jesus said to Peter the third time, ‘Simon, son of John, do you love Me?’ Peter felt bad because Jesus asked him the third time, ‘Do you love Me?’” John 21:17a)

Do not fear these tears, these tears,
do not fear
these tears.

You knew I would cry them. You knew, you knew.
You knew the moment you saw me
crumble on the gravel,
scrape my knees on the gravel,
bloody my face with red anguish
on the pavement of your sorrows,
bloody my face like a drunken boxer
taken down for the third and last time.

No! I do not want to sing.
I’ve forgotten how to pray.
I would write my words again
but no matter what I say
guilt and fear mix with undeniable affection
until they become lost, a distorted reflection
of the language of my heart.

You withdrew, appearing once to my delight.
You withdrew and my tears raced to the edges of my chin
fearing never to hear from you again.
It would only be right,
surely be right,
I had proved my self a traitor three
too many times.

I would call you once, I would call you twice,
but I fear you would not answer.
I would call you three times, but my love
(I would call) has become rancid.
I am sure you will block me, unfriend me, never invite me
to follow or sit at your feet again.
Just a simple breakfast on the beach would do.

“[Peter] answered Jesus, ‘Lord, You know everything. You know I love You.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Feed My sheep.’” John 21:17b

But my love is incorrigible as uncertain as summer dew.
But my love, who would I follow, so lazy with my follow-through.
(But my love) is the only answer (to my love) who three times soothes
me to his side again.

With the Cold, Cold Water

 

With the Cold, Cold Water

(“This is the teaching you have heard from the beginning: We must love each other.” 1 John 3:11)

I was born with the cold, cold water streaming across my toes,
I was born with my head held fully upside-down.
I have lived sideways and hidden,
I have lived every way and have, unbidden,
sought friendship that would last for more than
a year and a half.

I was born in Texas, I remember that,
or was told. West Texas where the oil spurts and
the hills are flat.
I have lived coastal and prairie,
I have lived every town and have, unsurely,
sought placement among cohorts that would last for more than
a lifetime and a half.

I was born like others, I am sure of that,
or know it. I was raised first of four whisked across 66
to East L.A.
I have lived playground and school dance,
I have lived every kiss and tell, transplanted
before anyone knew me well enough to leave the floor early
with a better boy.

I was born lean and long, I’ve seen the photos,
and so I should have kept it up, but stopped short before
my teen years hit me.
I have lived every Shakespeare and absurd,
I have lived improv and dialogue, undeterred
by poor reviews and silly plots. I only wanted to end my
life well.

I was born, so were you. We were born for companionship.
I didn’t guess that, and neither did you. It’s just my slipups that
block the view.
I have lived to find a single friend,
I have lived every dream that fades; I would amend
everything I said (stupid dreams of a boy too young) to keep
a friendship I may have thrown away.

I was born, I have lived, but my tears are uncanny. My emptiness
almost insanity. So I ask, handle me with care, be gentle with me.
I am less damaged than you think, only another castaway dressed in skin
looking to be a friend if I have to learn it again and again.

I Wear Them Like a Chain

I Wear Them Like a Chain

“([God], look away from him and leave him alone, so he can enjoy his time, like a hired worker.” Job 14:6)

Sometimes you are heavier than glaciers,
and I breathe the moraines left inside me by
the previous ice age. Look away from me until my
heart warms slowly like spring wildflowers along the highway.

You are too present for me, though all I feel are electrical charges
in my brain
sustained from the first second a decade ago until this moment
weeping over the work I’ve forsaken,
the relationships I could not keep,
the mastery over my life that was just a servant to
the chemicals in my brain. Please ease the distance between
us.

I cannot work when you have confined me to unwieldy thoughts
and pain so accurate it stabs me on the spot I’ve made famous
by hiding my fontanels from birth until late autumn. But any
soft spot will do to expose me as a pretender, a joker,
a clown, an actor, a jester, and a swimmer nearly drowned by
exhaustion. Step away just a bit, please, and give me room to think.

Quite prosaically let me say, my anxiety is sky high today.
Every thought is judged, and I have no defense.
Every hypocrisy is seen, and I cannot restart the dance.
Every mutation is obvious, and I cannot modify my genes.
Every tear is tedious, and I cannot explain why my hands quiver,
my thoughts spit from every pore in my head, and I rarely look
anyone in the eye. My life is measured in decades now,
and the charges against
me have piled up for so long I wear them like a chain, and I know
everyone hears me coming.

So, please stay away today, I need some space. Wanting to please you
just brings more disgrace into the veins you created to carry oxygen
to my veins.

So please, I would rather say, (please, do not stay away.)

Open the Day Wider

Open the Day Wider

 

(“This is the message we heard from Christ and are reporting to you: God is light, and there isn’t any darkness in him.” 1 John 1:5)

 

Open the day wider, the eyes, the spectrum of paint
that interprets every dandelion, dragonfly, and cloud.

 

Open your heart fuller, the ears, the spectrum of song
that hears every waterfall, thunderstorm, and roar.

 

Being is better than careening,
joy is sweeter than parades.
Each moment is filled with particles
from the first day the universe was made.

 

Lately and lazy, I see only shadows.
Polaris is obscured by my
pain, transgressions and friendships
broken across the sky.

 

There must be air beyond the abyss,
parallel rays above the raging cliffs.
There must be a place of endless day,
sundance or sunday, all the dead bones waste away,
until light is left behind to turn tears into prisms
casting rainbows on the cavern walls.

 

Until failures fall silent, pain lasts no longer than
the first drop of rain. Until friendships are friendships
that hold each other unafraid;
for the light has revealed every and
pronounced everything “good.”

Depression is Insatiable

 Depression is Insatiable

 

(“[The Lord] is patient toward you, not wanting anyone to perish but all to change their hearts and lives.” 2 Peter 3:9b)

 

Depression is an insatiable beast.
Remove a single joy among thousands and I am
weeping on the couch,
praying on the toilet,
gnashing at my sleep,
and looking for just one more piece to
make my puzzle complete.

 

I have done it nearly all my life.

 

Where is the person who lets me get away with the worst?
Where is the room where I can simply boil over?
I should bottle my emotions and send them into the sea
for someone anonymous to find. I should send it unsigned.

 

But then who will speak back to my spit and tears?
Who will find my rebel heart and not give up after 1000 nights?
Who will enter with their own, bruised and guilty as mine?

 

In one day I can wipe away the joy of hours,
a single text can send a whole friendship creeping away.
They were my words, always mine.
They were my expectations; palaces, dreams, unicorns
and rainbows--a child’s watercolor illustration of belief
that should have brought every star near and complete
In every night sky.
In one major flaw the crack breaks open the useless stone
where I hide. And I never find the whole to fill the hollow.

 

I would have acted if I could, rearranged time like a sideways alphabet.
I would have stilled waters, but my own swelled on the calmest days.
I would have spoken better, but my days sometimes spin like haunted pinwheels.
I would have loved like I should. I have no answer, no defense, no lies
to help you or me or ancestors or silence understand.

 

They tell me God is patient, that he will not let me be destroyed,
but I have wrecked my own heart where it lies like a skeleton of driftwood
abandoned on the shore.

 

They tell me God is patient, that he wants me whole and redesigned,
but I’ve reformed more often than snowfall one winter to the next. I’ve
reformed, and still, more than less, my heart feels cold.