I Saw a Silver Kite

 

I Saw a Silver Kite

(“Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” Psalm 37:4)

I saw a silver kite fly high above the crimson sky.

I saw a battle gray army tank rising from the sea,
all creases and rivets, with teeth like a shark.
It folded itself high, assigned itself heavy and indestructible,
sucking in its prey, pretending to shred them serrated
and break them spread out upon the sand.
But, once it landed like a white-capped old man
it all was water, only water, and disappeared from the sand
again.

I heard the pack barking between sea and shelf
once the workmen started building the beach house above the waves.
The hammers pounded nails while the lumber echoed across the water,
each strike a woof and cry that canines took for language.

I watched a tiny butterfly, creamy and white (not a quarter inch wide)
continue its flight plan unhindered. The breeze
lifted its fairy wings above seaweed, above algae,
above breakers mistaken for monsters. Undisguised,
I might have missed her; airy and transient. And closer
I might have resisted the urge to make her alight upon
the leather flesh of my hands.

And in my latest dream I had done everything wrong, (a common
theme). I was running from the law.
My co-conspirator, dressed like a sheriff, rode shotgun and
held a rifle to my chest. When I awoke

I went downtown for blueberry crepes and latte.

I have seen kites fighting for space in primary colors
beneath the silver sky.

The dogs still bark while green waves deceive us.

Some see the rioters and disdain their grievances,
some hear of them and invite them to dinner.
All I perceive is Jesus reaching out to them,
His hands and feet swollen with splinters.

I Will Lay Them Down

I Will Lay Them Down

(“At daybreak, Lord, You hear my voice; at daybreak I plead my case to You and watch expectantly.” Psalm 5:3)

I rarely see the sunrise these days,
and my offerings are tiny relics of dreams
that braided my anxieties and hopes in a fantasy of shadowy light.

I rarely see the dawn break these days.
More than anything else I sense the rays sneaking
up on me, stripes upon my eyelids, beams broken up
by slits in the window shades.

Before the fog lifts, before the moon shifts below the trees,
before the sun kisses everything, before the morning breeze,
I awake, no longer startled by the images that haunt my nights.
But I do not rise,
I do not speak,
I do not pass from ink to light
until the pain has squeezed the reticence from
my groggy mind.

But I will lay it all outside my room,
I will write it all before the looming day
has its way with me. Here is my fear,
my façade, my vibrating heart, my outlawed
conscience and hopes as thin as smoke.
Here are my beloveds, here are my wounds,
here are the missing places at the table,
here are the my mother, my father, my sister, my friend;
here are all I dream of who have left this world too soon.

I will lay them down and listen. I will lay them down until
the fire of love inflames my soul again to weep or laugh
with the wind in my face. I will lay them down until
the waters have wings, until, like eagles, they take flight
into the bosom of the Uncreated One.

I Do Not Believe in Mirrors

 

I Do Not Believe in Mirrors

(“And all who sat in the council looked intently at him, and they saw that his face was like the face of an angel. Acts 6:15)

I do not believe there are mirrors in heaven,
and they do a disservice here on earth.
You can never see you the way I see you,
everything is reversed.
So angels walk among us brightly,
but, hidden behind the scripts written
by time and overactive minds,
the best of us believe the reflections
of glass
instead of the creation ex nihilo
spoken: our name pronounced out loud by
the One who is unpronounceable.

I do believe there are best friends in heaven,
the same as the ones who tell us of the sun they see
in our distorted faces.
You, my friend, have been starlight when night what black,
moonlight when the sky cracked with thunder,
sunlight when the rain locked me indoors and alone.
I have seen your face shine at the same time
you avoided mirrors and took down self-portraits on your wall.

I do not believe there are angels in heaven,
they are all here in service on earth.
You see them better than they see themselves,
they think they are bound to time and nations.
But they are a best friend, a beggar,
a grandmother aging, a mother giving birth,
an immigrant making masa; an unlocked door,
an open kitchen, a hug that never lets go,
a gaze that say, “I know, I know, I know.”

You, my friend, again, have been an angel,
mostly on the days you thought there was far too much
pain
for your face to shine. All I know,
but for my angels, I would not like my
reflection at all.

It Is Lonely, You Know

 

It Is Lonely, You Know

(“Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in. I will eat with that person, and they will eat with me. Revelation 3:20)

It is lonely, you know,
taking breakfast by yourself.
It is solitude for an hour, the sun upon the back porch,
but then the quiet invades and screams there must be more
than waiting.
(I’ve left the front door unlocked for ages.)

I would go into town, meet the gang for lunch,
but my cat has run away, and most of my friends
live state-lines beyond my reach. My feet ache
from starting my walk south and turning around.

I’ve heard the songs you sing, hands sometimes raised in the air;
I’ve seen the prayers you pray, sometimes kneeling on the ground.
Where does all that seeking leave you?
Which direction does your face turn,
what concerns you most after your encounter with
holy moments better than the building around the corner?

It remains lonely, you know,
after lunch by myself.
The sky is sun, the air is roses, the grass is fully awakened.
My eyes are rain, my breath half a prayer, my mind slowly mourning
the silence that makes all my thoughts shout even louder
that happiness is still far beyond my reach.

I’ve sat at tables before full of bread and bounty;
I’ve heard the thrum surround the forks and knives
while stereo conversations fill the kitchen counters with
more than just casseroles. Laughter is the echo that remains

After everyone has gone home.

Drink with Me

Drink with Me

(“What man is like Job? He drinks derision like water.” Job 34:7 as spoken by Elihu)

What else would I drink when you offer such bitter libations?
What have you offered me but your sour incantations?
When you sat at my table I offered you the sweetest wine,
when we sweat away the afternoon I always filled your water first.

You are false springs, for you make me false with what you
have attempted to offer me.
I will not take your sour wine, your vinegar, when I have said,
“I thirst.”

And, you, with a tongue red as fire,
never inquire once about the weight I carry, the burden I
cannot
unpack without
it being filled again.

Every morning begins the same,
every evening ends in pain,
and your favorite saying is “get over it’
and I would gladly do so if it would
get over me.

You are false springs, siphoning your poison into my soul,
you make me false with your projections, your supposed hologram
of my mental apprehensions.
What questions have you asked to find the reason my
love has turned to pain?
Oh, you asked them once, and never asked again
because it did not fit with your preconceptions
of what a man like me should drink in the desert.

If you offered a top-shelf gift poured in crystal,
I would drink slowly with you, never dismissing the distilled
liquor you sacrifice for a friend. But, in the end,
you’ve only brought the bitterest brew and accused me
of drinking it long before you.
Truly, I would offer you the barrel-aged best
if you would only stop for a moment, cease your
enmeshed arguments and breathe with me a while.

I’ve seen your millstone, the albatross around your neck,
but I have not mentioned it. And now, burdened as I,
you double the weight I carry by words too heavy to bear.

If I could transfer every fiber, every nerve, every misgiving,
every quiver of my words, every question of my faith,
and every battle I have fought to keep the demons at bay;
if I could transfer them to you, so you felt them. This time.
This space. This thirst. This heat. This dirt and disgrace…

…then perhaps you would drink with me something better than
sulfur springs. Then perhaps you would hold your tongue,
hold my hand, join me and either weep or sing for my agony
when you arrive so late to the party.

CrissCross

 

CrissCross

(“I know where you dwell, where Satan's throne is. Yet you hold fast my name, and you did not deny my faith.” Revelation 2:13a)

We hear the electromagnetic hum from the White House
to state houses,
from Supreme Courts to county fair judges,
from legislative lobbyists to the home-town blogger
and it all sounds so powerful.

You feel the static in the air, the murmur of a thousand
deals made on the back of a million people who thought
they had their say. Oh

by the way

Filthy rich preachers pray for the president.

All the while the rivers crisscross the country
lapping lazily at the banks
and no one notices how long they have been there.

Worry for Weeks

 

Worry for Weeks

(“But I do have something against you! And it is this: You don’t have as much love as you used to.” Revelation 2:4)

An entire life can be squeezed into a moment,
a solitary word from a frozen sky can
crush the light that rained like spectral colors
across the soul.
An entire life can be freed in a moment,
a singular look from a faithful friend can
spark the dark that shamed like cavernous shade
and heal the soul.

But the fog descended overnight with trumpets of thunder,
the skies creased as supper was set on a thousand tables,
and the river sang the same ballad it had learned long ago.

I worry for weeks over broken things,
I worry week after week over things
I have broken.

Whatever is broken, sit at my table,
Whatever you have shattered, leave it for another time.

I cannot sleep for days over cancelled lives,
I cannot sleep night after night over lives
I have cancelled.

            Whatever you deleted, break this bread with me,
            Whoever you abandoned, there is a new subscription.

I cannot sing for months over hidden sins,
I cannot sing month after month over sins
I have not revealed.

            Whatever you transgressed, drink new wine with me,
            Whatever you withheld, there is no evidence.

And the fog soon lifted as the day closed with orange and pink couture,
the skies danced and dessert was served on a single table for a thousand,
and the river whistled the same ditty it had saved up for this very day.