The Territory

The Territory

Uncertainty is the territory I’ve inhabited
for half a decade now. I love the Lover better,
(or should I say, to be true to the letter, I think
I do)
But have more questions in the face of so
many
who fancy themselves arbiters of answers.

If a salary was assured me, I would lock myself in a room
overlooking the River,
and half the day read and write, or write, or read,
or talk on the phone to friends long in my heart
and far too far away. Their territories are separated
by years of success and certainty; promises kept longer;
homesteaded sojourns of generations.

I would spend the other half
wandering the River, while talking on the phone
to everyone I’ve ever offended, one more time,
to be sure my amends are certain.
Then I would do what I have never done,
and call the ones who offended me. I would make
certain they understood, and, without threat of
salary’s loss, I could speak freely until the moment
when the light went on, without the urge to hide
getting the best of me. And, for the one who said
I want grace for me and judgment for the other,
he would finally see, if he apologized to me,
how much grace I truly yearn to offer.

Uncertainty is my zip code, if you desire to visit me,
take off your self-assurances and tell me you’ve struggled
lately in life
a lot like me.

The Cold

The Cold

(“He loosens the bonds made by kings and binds a waistcloth about their loins.” Job 12:18)

Here we are upon the Columbia shore,
cold gripping our breath, quiet settling like
frost upon our hearing. Days and years pass
along with memories of rebukes once lasting
past the seasons of snow.

It was your words once bound my head with a
cheesecake shell tightened like lug nuts.
It was your face asking questions out of place
in public where everyone could hear.

I remember it well, and sometimes my gut
recalls what I have forgotten. But the
cold is quiet today, and the frost is likely to
stay just a few days longer.

My sins may circulate in the wind, if not the papers,
and I have read them well, signed them, and bound them
over for your consideration.

I never requested teeth for teeth, just a hand raised
when I asked if you would like to rephrase your questions.

Your sins circulate as well as mine, but there is no
autograph accompanying the crime.

But today, for once, the quietness is no intrusion,
the cold holds no foreboding. Just a silence showing me
my hands are uncuffed,
and a shiver that says I am only shaking because it is
winter.

Reconciliation

“And the seven years of famine began, just as Joseph had said. There was not enough food in other countries, but all over Egypt there was plenty.” Genesis 41:54

Joseph had interpreted two dreams for Pharaoh. Both told of seven years of bumper crops followed by seven years of famine. God used Joseph to tell Pharaoh to save up the excess during the good years, store them, and use them during the years of famine.

Let the Glory Show

“Smoke from God’s glory and power poured out of the Temple. No one was permitted to enter the Temple until the seven disasters of the Seven Angels were finished.” Revelation 15:8 (The Message)

I am the first to admit that the book of Revelation can be like walking through a bog with a heavy mist falling. Beasts and dragons, flying horses and bowls full of judgment whirl through its pages like an Arthurian legend. One thing is sure, though; this book is about Jesus.

Look at Me!

“But now, if you’re willing, look at me. I won’t lie to your face.” Job 6:28

“Look at me,” Job cries out to his friends. “If you’re willing.” It is said the eyes are the windows to the soul. I wonder if his friends had actually avoided eye contact with Job as they tried to “comfort” him with their black-and-white theology that had an answer for every ailment. Their theology was sterile, without the human touch that fleshes out mere theories of the Eternal.

Short Sale

Short Sale

(“Judah said, ‘Brothers, what are we going to get out of killing our brother and concealing the evidence? Let’s sell him…’” Genesis 37:26, 27a)

Cash or credit,
credit or debit,
loan or purchase,
wallets and purses,
merchandise, to be
precise,
humans hanging by
shoe size along the
avenue.

Coats like tapestry,
swatches like elbow patches,
rainbow halos and
dad’s favorite boy.

How can we kill
flesh and blood?
We would rather sell
and get some good

Profit for our return.

Merchandise,
pay the price
for modern slaves
(far less graves)
sold for jealousy or
pleasure.

It does not matter,
haberdasher or tailor,
we market our brothers,
our sisters
like meat pies,
a thick slice of human dignity
lying in the pit waiting
another merchant with money to pay
our way; we pray we are not
misunderstood again.

II.

The sun sets across the bony landscape,
the fever of afternoon breaks with the sweaty evening breeze.
The tunes and wind-chimes whistle the sandstone
and we stand up to hear the next bid for our soul.

III.

You sold out too cheap as if the fashion had passed
and the next season’s garments could not fill the racks fast
enough. Blacks are in; relax, pay the tax and take it home.

Reds are passé, blues retrograde, with green in between
sawdust and the moon.

When the priceless are bought for an ad jingle’s song
the rest are marked down to sell before the doors close again.

IV.

Sizes vary, try them on to see. Colors fade, match in the mirror
before you lay the cash upon the table. Created with delicacy,
hand-made, hand-blown upon the morning sky, crowns replace fedoras,
rubies replace the replicas of dyed-in-the wool jewelry passed off as
one of a kind.

We are hand-made; may I remind you? We are the Master’s Mark,

Meant for celebrations on the meadows, not sale barns full of
auctioneers making a buck off another’s creation. We are poetry

Filling the aisles. We are portraits

Faced upon endgames. We are sonatas

Piped into the space-time-continuum. We are theater

Absurdly loved by the Author, Producer, Director;
wardrobe laid out by the Father

Who decreed His favorites must never be put up for sale.

Prayers are Echoing

"Prayers are Echoing"

The air hums like the rattle around
high voltage wires. Each cubic inch must be filled with
flights of angels passing through this protected space.

Deliveries and consolations, announcements like
fireweed unmistakably framed.

Lift me from this tiny occupation, my linoleum tile
upon which I dwell. I am not well, though I am
painfully in love with everything You say.

Friends want to heal me, doctors ignore my calls

Sometimes

And prayers are echoing off the angels’ wings
like flowers in a toddler’s grasp.

I know He has answered; I know it though pain
wraps my head and rings it like a tornado siren.

I can live with the pain, but can I perform my obligations,
fulfill my occupation, earn an honest dollar?

I long to step back into the darkness alone,
or at the coast somehow for a week out of every 7 days

And cry myself to sleep, and awake to the ocean breeze,
and cry myself to sleep again before lunch is served.
I cannot think for more than 2 hours at a time,
and do not know if it is a crime to take pay for so
little return; pennies on the dollar, a seedling from
an entire orchard’s produce.

The air is humming, the angels watch and attend,
sent by my Master’s hand. How then, can I complain

At the end of the day when friends want to pray

Away the pain

That remains after they have said “Amen”.