Skipping a Beat

Skipping a Beat

(“For this people's heart has grown dull, and with their ears they can barely hear, and their eyes they have closed.” Acts 28:27a)

How long will we lock ourselves into
concrete cells,
midnight caverns,
armed boundaries where we shoot
on sight and ask no questions?
How long will we delight in
creating enemies,
launching missiles,
holding on to land that belongs
to no one? Why do we draw
butcher knife lines?
Why do we nail signs to the wall
that keep people out on the coldest
night of the winter?
Why do we aim at targets
only to practice
shedding blood on the property we
say we own?

The end will not come because
you are chosen;
the apocalypse is below your feet.
The second coming is the defeat of
death, of idiotic killing, of insanity
unleashed in the name of allegiance and
national anthems. The match you lit,
the tiny flame,
sets the wilderness on fire while you speak
of holy things. You utter sacred words like
they are your private language.

There are better prayers. Leave the
hell behind, the place you have consigned for
oh
so
many who never said an
unkind word about you.

Father forgive us, and we know this is dangerous,
just like we have forgiven those we believe have
never forgiven us.

Standing aside for just one day, maybe we
can pack every imagined target away. Maybe
we can invite the opponent to stay for the evening,
drink wine late into the night,
and let the cool spirit breezes flow like
music through our souls again.

A Missed Phone Call

A Missed Phone Call

(“For I will pour water on the thirsty land and streams on the dry ground; I will pour my spirit upon your descendants and my blessing on your offspring.” Isaiah 44:3)

I heard you called while I was out,
that you had left a message for me. I fumbled
with the phone, misdialed the number and tried
again.
But my fingers slipped and,
too
tentative to re-call, I thought of
dropping by.

You know already how unsteady I am
when I do not know the subject at hand.

But I have not forgotten how to dream.

While others talked of visions, told in great
detail and
filled with colors like Van Gogh,
I was myopic. An ant carrying a leaf
was glorious to me.

I did not understand that until now. I did not
know how majesty invades a dial tone or
a grain of sand. Could it be,
scratching my head,
that becoming less is a better vantage point
than flying with the fireworks across the sky?

Anyway,
what I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry I missed your call.

I hesitate to write much at all,
(you know my missteps, my wrong turns, my downfalls)
and you would be right to mention them, though
I carry them heavy. I carry them deadweight. I carry them
inside my body and outside my dreams.

But I will meet you. Give me a time and place. We can
sit by the river if you like; the seals swim by this time of year.

Just no place too crowded please; the noise compounds my
dis-
ease.

But I will meet you.
And exchange an hour of our time, and
let quiet talk replace the pathology of imagining
the worst. We can watch the streams tickle the
pebbled banks.

The Steam May Rise

The Steam May Rise

(“Peace in place of bitterness! You have preserved my life from the pit of destruction; behind your back you cast all my sins.” Isaiah 38:17)

Tonight, the steam may rise from
wet pavement warmed by tropical sun.
Tonight ice may form on heated roofs
to melt away near noon.
Tonight pipes might freeze, children shiver,
moms wonder how soon someone will deliver
the next cord of wood to heat her leaky home.

I might put on a movie tonight.
I might think of calling someone too late who
is my age
and lives three time zones away. They used to live
in my neighborhood. We have become elongated,
whisked like dancing pellets of sleet.

Tonight, someone may dream and wake in peace
who dreads the pillow every night. Knives and
sharpened tongues
have kept her away for years. When her eyelids close
the haunting begins. She would be rid of them. But
dreams are slow and deep. She needs something fierce
to open tomorrow, something strong to lock the past.

I might have shrimp tonight.
I might write, I might wish the ocean was nearer
and I could hear how waves buzz no matter the time of year.

Tonight may narrow my options,
tomorrow may open them wide.
Yesterday I composed a new song,
today I forgot it all.
Tomorrow may offer me a self-portrait
I painted once to remember who I am.

Or perhaps
we can all arise again.

Thinking About Dancing

Thinking About Dancing

(“Then the lame will leap like a deer, and the tongue of the mute will sing for joy, for water will gush in the wilderness, and streams in the desert.” Isaiah 35:6)

I’ve been thinking about dancing,
late evening to dark under the lights where
someone got married just an hour ago.
I’ve been thinking about music,
a couple of guitars and a beer, singing
what we used to write 50 years ago.
We invented everything back then.
We pretended life was different back then.

So many times, thirst showed up in ways
that only melodies could quench.
Friends showed up and brought laughter
like
disco.
The rhythm ran up and down our spines,
tickling us to find the floor with sunshine
underneath. We never were alone for long.
We never were left waiting while the rains
had their way with us.

(I should pause here and explain that
though the refrain sounds like joy uncontained,
it actually hides beneath layers of pain so noisy
they I rarely know how to keep time.)

But
you

Speak one word and everything comes back to mind.

You

Knock on my door with sage tea or cabernet sauvignon,
my choice,
and I look at your feet to see if

You might like to dance with me.

Triangles on the Prairie

Triangles on the Prairie

(“My people will live safely and quietly in their homes. They will not be afraid of trouble.” Isaiah 32:18)

The desk took up a quarter of the office,
the phones rang downstairs and up. I answered
on the second ring and heard a voice I knew who
did not recognize mine.

So, I cultivated some extra space,
slid the papers and requests-for-quotes aside,
and listened closer hoping to find the texture
that mingled my memory with hues to remind
us both of the rhythms that conversation left behind.

My recollection my be spotty, hers may be crystal-clear,
yet I hear the cadence that puts me (place and time)
inside a world not my own.
There were triangles on the prairie,
hoop-skirts on twirl,
drum-songs pitched low and high,
and
distant campfires curling toward the west,
curling slow upon the sky.

If only we could digitize,
sanctify with frybread and wine;
if only we could replace our insistence with
newborn reminiscence where
each day is a
new day. And each voice is
a giggle until its final breath.

I fear my cognitive decline,
I fear the antipoems in me.
So I dream to recall the voices,
I muse to let the smoke of a thousand
incense conversations float and land
wherever they will.

The Foghorn Rumbled

The Foghorn Rumbled

(“You keep completely safe the people who maintain their faith, for they trust in you.” Isaiah 26:3)

The foghorn rumbled through the mist
like a rumor, a hint of memories carried above
the river months ago. It was the safest song
to hear
on a day like this.

Too many days alone turn silence into a
jumbled abacus;
nothing adds up. Houses of old friends,
now occupied by strangers,
repainted; the same moss tempers the driveway.

Some trails never change;
season to season, the view remains the same.
Some sounds pierce the day and sweep the mind away
to imperfect visions that
draw us toward the yearnings we feel
are more touchable than the boulders we lean on
watching for an opening in the sky.

And today, punctuated by foghorn bellows
and occasional doves, rust and white on the wing,
may be the place we rest after
all

The longing is done.

Like Cows in the Fog

Like Cows in the Fog

(“’My brothers,’ he said. ‘I have conducted myself before God in a completely good conscience all my life up to this day.’” Acts 23:1)

Like cows in the fog,
black specters on the savannah,
we looked like strangers, but we belonged there.

It got to the point where we always said,
“I’m fine”
when people asked who never made up their mind
to come closer,
to see better,
to hear the bellows of creatures left out in the cold.

We are all looking for a better love,
a higher sun that looks deeper than the droplets that
mask our view. We are all hoping for better apologies,
higher comedies that laugh
only at our own misperceptions.

I know you are not fine. I know you juggle
tears and eggshells on the floor everywhere you walk.
I know you hide it well,
but not from me,
not from me.
I know you seek a cavern deep inside yourself,
a pattern that turns the years inside out,
a hand that takes you outside yourself
for one day or two.
I know you long for,
cannot believe, but hope for,
a light through the fog that sees you
more clearly than you see yourself.

We looked like strangers. But
we hoped to be arranged in a way
that left us leaning together,
unafraid to say,
I’m not as fine as I let on.”
And trust the honesty will pierce the haze
we always believed would hide us from the
worst of days. We need something fiercer than
words that push the best gifts away. We need to
simply

Stay.