Answers Writ in Childish Script

 

Answers Writ in Childish Script

(“So I tell you to believe that you have received the things you ask for in prayer, and God will give them to you.” Mark 11:24)

I was too weak to have any faith left,
I was too weak to see things in ones and zeros.
It takes a resolute mind to binary the wonder out
of the wonderful,
It takes a granite heart to up and down the spiral
eternal.

But I had slept in past noon all week,
and had slept past my best life the whole decade before.
I asked and asked for pain to work its way through my being
to show the strength the Almighty promised.
I prayed long before that for simple wellness or
general anesthesia to let me finish my journey.

(Though, truth be told, I may not have made it to the end
anyway,
with my broken toes, stumbling feet, and distracted heart
that kept me from playing first-string most of the time.
The ownership is mine.)

But still I cried. And my requests were denied. Longer
days with the pounding in my head outpacing the
beating of my heart. I would vow to begin, to start
an hour earlier from my bed. I would promise to wait,
to shed the last vestigial organ of doubt, knees keenly
placed on the floor. I would capture the playing blocks
of faith
until they spelled out my name.

I believed well enough decades ago and the rain stopped
before the downtown gospel show could begin. I believed
just as well
a decade later and the rain was unrelenting on our baptism
and burgers by the river.

I measured myself (didn’t my crew measure too?) I
measured
myself
by answers writ in childish script
in the drying sidewalk pavement. I wanted
it as concrete
as the stories the fellas told in retreats renamed
“advances” (who could take a chance with such a
faithless title?)
Do not think I am angry, do not think I am snide,
I just know what I heard, but also what I saw inside

And finally understood the mind is more supple than
we imagine. Oh, miracles happen.

But my brain still hurts like the dickens, like hell,
after a decade full of prayer (and do not tell me
I have not believed). Unrelieved I cried myself to sleep
last night;
unrelieved I began another day

And wished I would not have to begin another.

And still
I
love
The Name
more than I can say. Though silence is my answer
(Jesus, where O where are the hands and words of love)
though silence is my answer
I will not apologize
for these raging questions and this dead end
I despise.

Dots and dashes may serve an old code well,
but I need elbows and eyes and fingers. Where O
where
Jesus
are the incarnate ones to bring you close to me?

At Home Weary Hobo

 

At Home Weary Hobo

(“I will put my teachings in their minds. And I will write them on their hearts. I will be their God, and they will be my people.” Jeremiah 31:33b)

You are at home weary hobo,
we have seen the ashes of age covering your
face.
You are welcome repainted wanderer,
we have heard the dirges of miles echoing each
trace
of the journey. Here and now
we
invite you in.

Oh mother, hear your children. Oh, look inside their
reflective eyes. You are more than the pain inflicted when
you asked just a moment away from home. You are not alone
and
the drill sergeant words that keep you from healing
are barbs that stuck after the shock waves were gone.
Oh mother, see your children. Let them silence the
monotonous loops ingrained. Let them love
away the shame.

You are found wrinkled plow horse,
we can feel the scars upon your back.
You are cherished smoking candle,
there is joy enough with us to ignite
the night until the morning has waxed
wide enough forever

To light the way for each vagabond
to the eternal day.

Why Do These Tears Come Unbidden?

 

Why Do These Tears Come Unbidden?

(“Salt is good, but if the salt should lose its flavor, how can you season it? Have salt among yourselves, and be at peace with one another.” Mark 9:50)

Why do these tears come unbidden;
the day is full of quiet and life.
Both my sorrows and splinters ache to be heard,
while I keep silent, leaving the world to guess at the
unspeakable.
But my eyes know my secrets the best,
and speak only in water. The salt they shed
only leaves me thirsty
for something more than a mannequin,
someone clothed with blood-infused skin,
arms to float my whole self in
like the Caribbean
warmed and clear.

There is no hole in my heart
shaped like anything: god, friend,
success or smiles. It is too full,
overflowing and never empties itself before
the tides replace yesterday’s sorrows.

A hug full of sweat might replace
the tears that have watered the sad
and sunny years. From all appearances
there is nothing troubling to be seen.
But if my mouth spoke of the errors and
regrets
that have boarded my windows and
buried my assets so deeply below the
foundation of everything ever offered,
the day would sink even darker and my pain
would never cease.

Sometimes boasting and begging aligned like
an eternal eclipse. Sometimes the aching was
the blackest hole, the bottom of the abyss.

If there were one or two; no, there needs to be three,
so my bets are not hedged, I would tell them everything,
write it out, let them read it, then burn it on the fire of
a snowy day.

If those three would remember, more than scores of years
from now,
not to mention what only the eyes can speak, and
give attention to the day when

All things being equal

I spilled the contents of memory before I
finished my quest.

The Stones Burned Patterns

 

The Stones Burned Patterns

(“You see, everyone will be salted with fire.” Mark 9:49)

I have stepped where the stones burned patterns on the soles of my feet.
When I walked where answers were easy the callouses fell off
and my mind went soft.

 

Some believe I built too good a throne
and at this point farther down the road
I am inclined to agree. Though I miss the descants
the minstrels used to sing.

 

From there it was a briny bog, brackish near the dusk
when people tried to eat the sun. All I wanted was a chance
to hear the songs again that pointed me back home.

I have wept over wounds I’ve inflicted,
would have amputated my hands, my feet, my eyes
to change the misdirection and spirals my aspirational
slipups caused.

I am wounded too, sometimes rubbed with salt
by ones who remember more than they know.

Who can blame them? Out of control, the fire burned
invisible welts from house to house, from soul to soul.

I have wept where the days turned scattered light into prism colors.
When I cried the colors bled. I am held by the blazing eyes
of the One who purifies all with a single gaze.

We Sanitized the Whole Place

 

We Sanitized the Whole Place

(“Uphold justice and righteousness. Deliver from their oppressor those who have been robbed. Don’t mistreat or do violence to the alien, the orphan, or the widow, or shed the blood of innocent people in this place.” Jeremiah 22:3)

We sanitized the whole place before you came,
scrubbed the pews,
resewed the red-white-and-blue,
and made certain the aisles were clear of the
gum the children bring in on their shoes.

We never knew exactly how you wanted us to keep up the place,
dark wood, ancient tongues, plenty of parking, words projected on the wall.
We never completely understood how to control the masses,
the untrained, the languages, the odors and the hoodies,
the certain and the rookies.

Believe me, we made sure the alcoholics found their place,
the dealers too, and the genders that would not keep their
assigned designations. We know what to do with
alcohol and drugs and sex.

But, I hate to confess this, we never mentioned the immigrants
(only to tell those Vietnamese hairdressers they ought to learn
our language).
We stopped for the homeless like we stopped on Route 66
for a handful of curios and sticks of jerky. We pulled away
quickly before they identified us and asked for a ride.
(We would be glad to bring them for church if only that had
a street address.)

Where would you have us hide our halo? We keep it shiny
to make the world know we are wholly different than
the domestic violence we watch on tv. God bless America
and leave the rest of the losers out of it,
John 3:16 notwithstanding, the world is our world
and we will love it as we desire.

We do hand out candy at Christmas,
deliver turkeys on Thanksgiving eve.
But to bleed for a user who lost his keys
and locked himself out of his car during our November feast;
that is an interruption, that is going too far. (Here,
have some mashed potatoes please.)

And one last thing, our carpets are stained from
coffee we allowed in the sanctuary. Would it be okay,
Would you mind very much, if we spent a few thousand dollars
to clean it up? (We might even hire an undocumented or two,
if we can convince them they would be happier worshiping
up the road somewhere.)

Excuse me please, but I need to watch my favorite evangelist
tell me I could be a millionaire and that Jesus was the richest
guy to walk the face of the earth. I’ll have coffee with someone
at McDonald’s and do my penance just before lunch.

It Has Been a Slow Death

 
It Has Been a Slow Death

(“…as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, yet possessing everything.” 2 Corinthians 6:10)

It has been a slow death I know,

From

Circles on a carpeted floor,
sharing cups of 7up and
crumbs of sourdough in makeshift
remembrance

To

The names I have heard you call
good men and women
who were once the all
you proclaimed to love.

And now I feel the death all around me,
the demons of power arcing above the towers
that once called us to joy (the soul’s sorrow,
the spirit’s release),
that once called us to mercy (the word’s story,
the gospel’s free speech),
that once called us to believe (the child’s trust,
the riches unleashed).

And now I see the black figures swinging swords
and aiming nooses, surrendering the peace for
a withered podium of power. And now I hear
the funeral song and I cannot endure

The divorce

Of the ancient faith from its ineffable source,
the crucified one, the suffering Son,
the one acquainted with grief.

I have died today as well
and do not know which world to enter.
The worst abuse, like stripes on a weary body and mind
has found its endgame in the final clod of dirt
tossed upon the casket of my once
vibrant faith.

From the ground up, from deep within the earth,
poor again, having nothing but the me, the seed,
the pleading for life beneath it all,
something still breathes that was smothered.
Something still reaches that was buried.
Something still sees that was blinded
by the shuttered standstill of sight trained
in only one direction.

Something breathes…

But today is one gasp away from
diving beneath the mud and blankets
and never venturing out again.

When the Signboards

 

When the Signboards

(“Jonathan thought as much of David as he did of himself, so he asked David to promise once more that he would be a loyal friend.” 1 Samuel 20:17)

When the signboards are empty with letters
scattered on the ground
I wonder
how many words
we have forgotten.

If I mailed you my heart as a postcard,
a simple white bit of cardboard,
would you question my sanity or intentions?
Sadly it is me
whose nerves are shot.

I do not want to waste your time,
still I look for days when the sun shines
on the picnic tables by the riverbank
and dream of long conversations (you
remember: the teenage angst, unbroken faith,
the questions that came with age).

Will you help me turn the pages again
without asking why I am no better
than the last time we talked?

Besides, I have seen words and dates
inscribed on granite where George Washington
surveyed the rivers and valleys of Pennsylvania.

When signboards spread big lies with
their letters
I wonder
how may promises
we have forgotten.