The Breeze Can Turn

The Breeze Can Turn

(“There are those who are last now who will be first in the future. And there are those who are first now who will be last in the future.” Luke 13:30)

The breeze can turn the day around,
it can move flags and leaves to their own devices.
The earth turns and the winds swirl
and we try to predict it all with instruments of sound.
The sand hill that you built your life upon,
no matter how high up the cliffs,
will not stand when the winds of time shift.
There are fewer days than when we started,
fewer moments to freely pursue the dreams of
salvation. You’ve fattened yourself like
a calf for the slaughter and do not realize
the days are racing forward.

Step down before
it is too late,
stand on the loaming ground before you fall
from the top of your precipice. Carry your
proclamations under your coat,
turn your speech around,
you’ve got more to confess than the
limits you’ve put on yourself. Failing
to flourish, you just pretend your boxes
are filled with more money than you can count.
Go look again,
the mice have eaten half of it. The rest are
necessary to pay your debt to humanity.

Poverty might look good on you. Poverty might
turn your words around. I’d befriend you
if you spoke honestly. I’d share a meal with you
if you lay down your presumptive power and
eat slowly the supper made by humble hands
born across the border.
The breeze can turn the day around,
if only you will listen to the wind and let
the Spirit fill your vacancy with the
cries of the walkers only wanting a chance
to work in the sun.

Something Victorious

Something Victorious

(“The Lord will rescue me from every evil deed and bring me safely into his heavenly kingdom. To him be the glory forever and ever. Amen.” 2 Timothy 4:18)

I ought to write something victorious,
gilded with golden halos and armed angels.
I ought to say there is never a day when
I feel lost or listless or lonely. But I would be lying.

I know your best friends forsook you,
I know others just never showed up.
I know it must have discouraged you,
I know you wish just one would have rode up
on their decorated horses. But it was you
at the center of the courtroom alone, answering
questions about charges that should never have been
levied.

How sad did that make you feel, how silent and alone?
How long did you wait for even one friend to stand by your side?
Did you ever feel like giving up, did you ever want to just give in?
Or did you continue you tales of the Good Story,
the tales that propelled you to this judicial encounter?

Maybe they didn’t know what to say; maybe they thought
you would be okay? Maybe they were disheartened;
apostles shouldn’t suffer, and if they do what are we common
people to expect? Maybe they just got busy in the fields,
or with a wife, or with grandchildren and forgot you were
on the docket that day? Who can say why souls stay away?

But there was one, you said, that stood beside you. There
was one who knew the story well. There was one who would
never forsake you,
one that stayed through your heaven and your hell. Can
we reduce it all like a potent mixture of spirit and flesh
and make ourselves forget all the rest.
Did you smile because he lifted you? Did you cry or
pray at will? Did the absence seem emptier in the
presence of divinity? Or were all the aching places
replaced with unseen arms you could feel in a moment’s breath?

I wish I could write something victorious,
but today is filled with the mundane.
I’ve known the silence of friends, I’ve known
the absence of comrades when they knew my pain
had become more than I could bear. I feel that emptiness
today as real as ever. I believe I ought to
write something victorious. And maybe it is this;
there is one who is present in this silence, one who is
walking the abyss alongside me. And though I see no
angels, and feel no hand upon my heated head, I do think
I am safe in the arms of the one who shows up
even when I am not looking.

The Soul Goes Slowly

The Soul Goes Slowly

(“Don’t be afraid, little flock, because your Father delights to give you the kingdom.” Luke 12:32)

The ego races to every spotlight to show off
its jeweled watches it won in the last skirmish.
The soul goes slowly, walking through the rain,
feeling the widow’s pain, taking it all in and standing
in the quiet of a Dream imagined before the world began.

The ego is a laser, burning off every resistance until
they are hollow, deaf and dumb.
The soul opens fully, hearing the stories of days
when nothing happened and knowing there was
substance in even those silent hours.

The empire land grabs sovereign entities, claiming
them and spilling blood. It will pay any cost for its victory.
The dream invites the newly arrived to enjoy a
slow summer day,
and puts burgers on the grill. The dream cannot imagine
a world without warm bonfires and warmer conversations.

The empire occupies the highest hill, overseeing its
next conquest. It is ready to alienate anyone who thinks
the world is not centered on their pronouncements.
The dream looks for the next person sleeping on the street
and gives them food, gives them hope, gives them room
to become. And so the dream is unseen. The dream is
not boisterous. It is subversive.

The dream is a gift,
empire is a theft.

Do Not Forget Me

Do Not Forget Me

(“Are not five sparrows bought for two copper coins? And yet not one of them is forgotten by God.” Luke 12:6)

April is the fulcrum which winter and spring
balance upon. The hummingbirds come,
one an hour, to taste their sugar water hanging
above the backyard deck.
The eagles are fewer, their prey hiding in the
thickening grass and foliage.
The skies take turns threatening and inviting;
you begin to dream of cloudless days after
just an hour of sunlight between rain showers.
It has left me in between shaded sorrow and
sunlit rapture. My soul seems like a captured bird
which the clouds could not hold.
My mind feels disconnected and can only think
of napping as a cure for lethargy.
My brain is weary of masking itself from the
critiques it has always paid attention to. But I
am caged
by my own disengagements. I am so far down
the road that
I am the old one in the room. I’ve roped myself
so tightly
that my wings have atrophied despite my desire to fly.
But I can remember, somewhere between the age
of accountability and mid-puberty,
a boy who stumbled between whirlwind dancing
and curious crushes. Do not forget me,
boy of the past,
and name for me again the secret things
you’ve kept silent for too long. Do not forget me,
uncreated one, on these secondary days.

Teach Me Silence

Teach Me Silence

(“Those who want to be rich are falling into temptation and into a trap and into many foolish and harmful desires, which plunge them into ruin and destruction.” 1 Timothy 6:9)

Can I learn more about you, the silence between
the commercial rants and conversational winds?
Do I need to listen to every interview with the next
entrepreneur hawking what I never needed but want
just the same?
Can I conquer this need for occupation,
can I slow down my mind?
What of the hands on the clock that mark my hours
more slowly than the day? What of the tremor I feel
just wanting to get out of my skin? If I could
buy everything (retail or closeout) how much
quieter would I seem? I don’t say much, but my
brain unsteadily steams like the iron wheels of a train.

I’ve never had much money,
don’t know where I’d shop if did. Maybe the
minutes would tell me how to satisfy these desires.
Maybe the hours would empty my treasure chest
buried closely to the line where land and sea meet.
Maybe my heart would beat to the rhythm of the waves,
and maybe I would be still long enough to know
I have everything that I need.

The fingerprints of the world are whorled on
my transparent brain. I never wipe them clean. They
inform me of everything like rafts
carrying pelts from northern excursions. I inspect
every one but leave them for someone else to purchase.

Take me silence, teach me stillness. I’ll lay my
yearning aside for an hour of solitude, though I barely
talk
to anyone all day. Is there a word in the center of me
that can define my cravings? I’ve run out of energy
and no longer pursue them. But they still occupy my
thinking every day.

Meet me, find me in the middle of my sentences that
trail on for hours at a time. Unpack my density,
my destiny seems to be wound up and tangled like
vines in the middle of a rose garden. Meet me
finally where I can hear only silence waiting for
me.

You Tend Your Garden Well

You Tend Your Garden Well

(“Do not oppress the widow, the fatherless, the sojourner, or the poor, and let none of you devise evil against another in your heart.” Zechariah 7:10)

Did you offer them bread from the loaves
decorating your kitchen? Did you pour them wine
the moment it seemed the time was right?
Did you hear them knock on the door and
did you happily open even though you knew
they would leave you more weightless than before?

I know you’ve ached before, haven’t you?
I know you’ve slaked your thirst, didn’t you?
I know it’s been years for you, but for them
there is no setting sun to disappear their cravings
for necessary food. I think you knew that chapter
before you opened the book.

I hope you believe their stories, I hope you listen well.
I hope you believe their inventories of pain. I hope you feel well.

But what do I know? People call me political when
I make any noise for the hurting and neglected, and
they aim for my head telling me it’s not my place.

The moment you close your heart you dismantle the possibilities
that could feed the starving at least through tomorrow. Fire up
the hearth in your heart, let the liquid warmth of the sun behind your back
take you tears and make them heavier than you can bear.

You tend your garden well so that no red rose petal
goes unaccounted for.

I’d Like to Buy a Thousand Angels

I’d Like to Buy a Thousand Angels

(“God desires everyone to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth.” 1 Timothy 2:4)

Your retail price for a thousand angels ($1000 dollars check or cash)
is far more than I can afford. Incidentally I already know of nearly
a thousand
that surround me day and night.
Some have faces I recognize, some have names I have forgotten,
some are invisible, some as small as butterflies.

Why do you take the money that belongs to individuals,
why do you charge for blessings that are free?
Incidentally, I have wondered how my cash increases my
angelic horde, how they surround me, just based on your word?

I’ve walked in the rain enough times to know
that the range of angelic protection each day does not include
a promise to stay dry. It’s not their fault,
I need the rain to wash away doubts and inhibitions.

You promise an enemy to my enemies,
and I gasp that you call it gospel. You have
drastically raveled up the beautiful story,
the one that gives enemies our love.

The story is plain, the position insanely more pleasant
than prying dollar bills from an old man’s hands.
I’ll keep my angels, thank you, and move my offerings
to someone who refuses to make insane promises,
to someone who has no idea I gave them anything.
I’ll keep my angels, I’ve known them too long now
to start new incidents and replacements for those who
have hung around long enough to put up with my
doubts, suspicions and desires to visit the donut shop.

So, here I stand, with messengers who have walked
with me through swamps and deserts, through inhibitions and
oppositions. But never did I ask them to become an enemy even
to my most ardent foe.